She crossed her long legs the other direction, black leather pants creaking with the motion. All five-foot-nine of her was in black: black leather, a black turtleneck cashmere sweater under the jacket, black boots. She’d secured her long, dark-red hair in a French braid at the back of her head, pulling it severely away from her face and slicking her bangs away from her forehead. No gentle femininity when dealing with thieves.
Art thieves as a rule didn’t engage in violence. She didn’t anticipate any problems today, but an unbreakable rule was to show strength—and be prepared for anything. More than once, a seller had tried to double-cross her, taking the money and then attempting to flee with the art. Instant wire transfers were not as common even five years ago and unmarked cash was a terrible temptation. Twice she had barely escaped from attempts by third parties to kill both her and the seller and steal the art. You just never knew. She worked carefully. She did not take unnecessary risks.
12:58. She watched the traffic streaming past the museum, the tourists strolling in and out, and finished off her water. Some of Lindsey’s own handiwork could be seen in the museum, which gave her a thrill. Between her junior and senior years at the Athena Academy, she had volunteered as a gofer and assistant for an art restorer in Pompeii, and two pieces Lindsey had researched and assisted in restoring were displayed right across the street. How cool was that!
Athena Academy. Memories rushed her. The Dianas. The painful shame of losing the senior triathlon. The Dianas had, of course, eventually forgiven her for that awful blunder. She’d even been reinstated as “head daredevil.” But her ten-year reunion was this year, and part of her dreaded going, knowing she’d take terrible teasing. Oh, Lindsey, I’ll never forget how you looked with all that glow-in-the-dark paint splattered over your head. Ha-ha-ha.
She shook her head. Was it ever possible to fully escape shames of the past?
Time? 1:02.
A motorcycle zipped into a spot two doors down from the restaurant. A man she judged to be a couple of years older than she, shut it off and dismounted. He looked toward the restaurant, and Lindsey figured he had to be Marko Savin. She’d not only picked this time and place, she’d told her dad that she wanted Savin to rent a motorcycle, not a car. “I drive a car,” she had explained to K-bar. “Tito is always on a bike.”
Good-looking, she thought as Savin strode toward her. Confident. Maybe even cocky. That could also mean excessive risk-taker, but she would keep an open mind.
He walked straight to her, pulled out the chair opposite, and sat.
“You’re late,” she said before she could stop herself. Now why had that popped out? She hadn’t meant to launch their day with criticism.
“No, I’m not,” he countered, grinning.
Maybe she’d been thrown off stride by his looks. She took in the short-cropped dark brown hair, deep blue eyes, ever-so-male five o’clock shadow and an intriguing scar under his left eye that she immediately wanted to touch, if not kiss.
I’ve been without sex way too long.
She stuck out her wrist, displaying her black watch’s neon-blue time display, at the same moment he stuck out his wrist, displaying his silver watch’s black numerals. They both checked the time, and laughed. His watch said 1:00, hers, 1:02.
“It’s nice we’re both right,” she said, happy for a chance to get back on a positive track.
The waiter arrived. “I’m not ordering,” Marko Savin said. He had one of the most beautiful baritone voices she’d ever heard. His English had a mild Italian accent. K-bar had explained that Savin was born and raised in Venice but had traveled widely.
“We don’t have a lot of time,” she hurried on as the waiter sauntered away. “I appreciate your stepping in at the last moment.”
“When your father calls, I come. I owe him a great deal.”
“He said he found you serving in Kosovo, in the French Foreign Legion.”
He nodded. “The Legion taught me a lot, but it’s a rough crew. Working for your father’s security business is more to my taste. And it let me return to Italy.”
“What we’re doing today should be an easy job. I don’t know if Dad told you what I do as a side venture, when I’m not selling for and promoting NSI business.”
Marko Savin angled the free chair at their table and propped one booted foot on it. He wore a black leather jacket with black jeans. “He says you buy back stolen goods for their rightful owners.”
“Correct. Today I’m purchasing a painting for a million and a half American dollars.” While thinking again how wonderfully deep blue his eyes were, she nodded to the bulky white cotton satchel at her feet. It held a four-foot-long tube which, in turn, held a quality reproduction of the painting. “I’ll trade the tube in this satchel for the tube that has the original. There’s a minor difference in their labels that only I would notice.” On at least four occasions this little bit of confused identification between the original and the copy had worked to good effect for her. A way for her “steal” the painting back if the deal went bad. It might not be needed, but again, better to be prepared for all eventualities than sorry for assuming all would go well.
She explained the history of the Nazi theft of the painting.
Savin frowned. “I don’t get it. You’re paying off a thief, an ex-Nazi, for a painting he stole. Owners shouldn’t have to buy back their own stuff.”
“The owners just want their painting back.”
“Seems to me that’s a job for the authorities. They catch the bad guys, retrieve the art, return it, and punish the crooks.”
“I’m hired when owners discover that the authorities aren’t going to be able to retrieve something the owners very much want returned.”
“Isn’t that sort of interfering with a criminal investigation—for money?”
His questions were starting to annoy her. “When the authorities can’t deliver, people hire me. They’re willing to pay a substantial retrieval fee. The fee is, of course, gratifying, but the real satisfaction—the reason I take the risks—is because I get to see the joy on my client’s faces when I return what they loved and thought they had lost forever. I can assure you that I only work for legitimate owners or their representatives.”
“You said the guy is a Nazi! Pretty much scum.”
She glared at him. “The seller isn’t a Nazi. His grandfather was. But, yeah, I’d deal with a Nazi. I deal with whoever has what owners want returned. And that’s why you’re here. Sometimes things can go sour. So, you in or no?”
Savin stared right back, then shrugged. “Sure.”
“Okay. Here’s the action,” she continued. “You and I go to the meet, you on the bike, me in my rental car. We arrive a minute apart—you first—and we make no connection. They aren’t to know I have muscle behind me. I’ve made my reputation—I am the best and intend to stay that way—by never coming armed and making certain that buyers and sellers get what they expect. I presume you’re carrying.”
He patted his chest where under the leather jacket she assumed he had a gun. She’d already figured out from the bulge on the calf of the leg propped on the chair that he carried a knife.
“That’s fine,” she continued. “But there’s to be no use of weapons unless it looks like someone is going to kill me. Okay?”
“Got it.”
“What I do, and my reputation, depends on being clever, not violent, but I will get the painting back, and I will not get killed doing it.”
He smiled. It made