Heart Wounds (A Miranda and Parker Mystery) (3 page)

“I was just about to call you,” he said in his low, aristocratic southern accent that was as rich as his bank account. “You left work early.”

“I went to the skating rink.”

“I thought as much.” He could always guess what she was up to.

He reached her, took her in his strong arms.

Relishing the comfort of his embrace, she leaned her forehead against his shoulder and ran her hands up his biceps, drinking in the feel of the expensive fabric of his suit jacket and the well-formed muscles beneath it.

He lifted her chin with a finger and kissed her lips.

She reveled in the touch of his mouth, his heady, masculine scent. An image flashed through her mind of tearing each other’s clothes of and getting it on right there on the marble floor under the bold light of the chandeliers, until he pulled away.

“Are you all right?” His handsome face was creased with concern.
He was reading her mind again.

She opened her mouth.

She couldn’t tell him about what Mackenzie had asked her to do. He’d only worry about her and he’d done enough of that lately.

She
just shrugged. “You know how teenage girls are.”

The c
oncern on his face relaxed into a smile. “I do.” He’d raised one himself. Or he and his wife had. The wife he’d lost three years before Miranda came along. She knew that loss had almost been the end of him. “I have something to discuss with you.”

“Oh?”

“Let’s talk over dinner.” He took her hand and ushered her toward the hall that led to the kitchen.

“Without even changing?”

He shook his head as his pace picked up. “There won’t be time.”

They ate in the kitchen at a small round oak table tucked away in the alcove, which they’d been using for awhile instead of the fancy one in the dining room.

Eating here suited them both, and Miranda was glad for the homemade chicken pot pie
their cook, Emily, had left them.

Comfort food. Just what she needed tonight.

“So what do you want to talk about?” she asked after downing a savory forkful of the gooey concoction.

Parker took a sip of the coffee he’d opted for over beer or wine as his expression turned pensive. “
Late this afternoon I received a call from an old friend of my father’s.”

“Oh?” She wondered what that had to do with them.

“It seems he’s had some serious trouble.”

She reached for her own cup
and eyed the dark liquid that smelled as rich as Parker himself. Of course it was that expensive brew he always had imported from St. Helena. She didn’t want to admit she was getting hooked on it. “Go on.”

“He’s the director of a museum and one of its recent acquisitions has been stolen.”

Acquisitions? “Okay.”

“He’d like us to investigate.”

She put her cup down without taking a sip, despite how good it smelled. “A museum case?”

“A friend’s case.”

Uh huh. They’d just started a new venture together, which they’d decided to call simply Parker and Steele Consulting. As an adjunct to the already thriving Parker Investigative Agency, they planned to take on cases anywhere in the world from anyone who’d ask for help. They were supposed to be difficult cases. Cases that had stumped the locals, the cops or even the FBI.

So far they’d only had one case. And just because things got a little dicey at the end, Parker had wanted to put restrictions on the operation.

They’d been arguing about it since they’d gotten back from Vegas. Parker kept using words like “safety” and “precautions” and “defensive measures.” Miranda had interpreted those words as “repression” and “smothering” and “paranoia.”

Okay.
She understood where he was coming from, how he felt. He’d suffered losses. Terrible, painful, crushing losses that would bring most men to their knees. He didn’t want to lose her, so he didn’t want her taking “unnecessary risks,” as he called them.

But what was she supposed to do? Stuff herself in
a straitjacket and lock herself in a closet?

And w
hat about that dream or vision or whatever it was she’d had in the hospital? She’d seen her life flashing before her, as they say, and her dead brother told her she had a destiny to fulfill.

So
now Parker wasn’t going to take on a challenging case that might pose some danger? No, he was going to play it safe and have them hunting down some stupid museum piece.

“
Sounds pretty boring,” she said flatly and watched his gray eyes turn dark with flame.

Parker’s grip tightened on the porcelain coffee cup in his hand as he fought back his temper
and studied his stubborn wife’s face. The lines in her brow were twisted into knots of anger and her deep blue eyes with their fringe of long black lashes glowed with defiance and seemed to accuse him of being too obtuse for words.

She gave her wild dark hair an irritated flip over her shoulder and d
espite her attitude, the movement tinged his mood with arousal. Her feistiness always aroused him as much as it infuriated him.

She wore a
simple blouse in the dark colors she preferred trimmed with a deep red piping that reflected her bold spirit. The spirit he adored. The spirit he could not live without.

He eyed the spot near her heart where the bullet of a madman had pierced her flesh over eighteen months ago. She was well and strong now. Or so she claimed. But he had almost lost her. He would never take that risk again.

Calmer now, he sat back with a casual air. “Boredom is often in the eye of the beholder.”

Ha. Miranda gritted her teeth and met Parker’s steady, penetrating gaze. Did he think he could pull those suave tricks of persuasion on her? “So what would we be looking for? Some ancient statue of King Tut? Or a painting? Maybe a nude?”

He smiled as if he thought he was making progress. “It’s a dagger.”

Miranda’s brows rose. “You mean something you stab people with?”

“That was its intended use. It’s an ancient Egyptian dagger.”

She ran her tongue over her teeth.
“Why would anybody want to steal that?”

“
It’s priceless. It was found in Cleopatra’s tomb, which was discovered a few years ago. It’s supposed to be the instrument Marc Antony committed suicide with. You remember the story.”

Antony and Cleopatra? She remembered the movie with Liz Taylor and Richard Burton.
She’d seen it on The Late Show at a friend’s house when she was a kid. “Wasn’t Cleopatra the one who killed herself with a snake?”

“An asp, so the legend goes. Her army was defeated by the Romans and she had no other choice.”

What a wimp. Miranda pushed her plate away. “So how would a thief fence a thing like that?”

“Many ways. Black market, Asia, the Middle East.”

It could already be gone without a trace. But criminals always left clues behind. Even the good ones. Maybe this would be a challenging case. Wait a minute. She drummed her fingers on the table. “Where exactly is this museum?”

Parker gave her an I-thought-you’d-never-ask look of triumph. “London.”

She bit back her surprise. “As in London, England?”

“I don’t believe they have a museum with ancient artifacts in London, Minnesota.
You have updated your passport, haven’t you?”

She had to think a minute.
She vaguely recalled filling out the forms, taking the photos and going to the post office with her friends Coco and Fanuzzi, who were dying of curiosity to know where Parker was taking her. When she told them it was just business, they didn’t buy it. That was a few months ago.

“Yeah, I think everything’s kosher.”

Parker got to his feet and reached for the dishes. “That’s good because I’ve booked us a late flight.”

“We’re leaving tonight?”

“Unless you still think it’s too boring a case and want to stay home.”

She rose, picked up the remainder of the pot pie and strolled over to the counter with it, tempted to toss it in Parker’s face for stringing her along.
But he was too dignified for that and besides, she’d only end up licking it off and they’d miss their flight.

She cocked her head thoughtfully. “Well, tracking down a blood-thirsty dagger thief doesn’t sound as exciting
as tracking down as a blood-thirsty killer…” she paused to let him stew a bit. “But I supposed I can tag along.”

Pa
rker set the dishes in the sink and stepped up behind her. He pulled back her hair and planted a deep kiss against her neck. “I was hoping you’d see it that way.”

Just as she was sucking in her breath and closing her eyes, he added. “And by the way
. This time, I’m in charge.”

Okay, it was the agreement.

They’d each take turns being in charge and last time she
had been lead. If you didn’t count Parker’s pulling rank at the end.

She got it
. It was fair. But Parker’s glib announcement still made her grumpy. By the time they’d packed, hurried to the airport, and caught the ten-hour flight to Heathrow, she was in a foul mood.

Dressed ready to go to work as soon as they landed in her dark slacks and jacket, s
he tossed and turned, if that’s what you called it when you were trying to sleep half-sitting up in an airline seat. The fact that it was first class and reclined a bit didn’t help much, and she ended up with only about three hours of shut-eye.

It seemed more like ten minutes when
Miranda felt Parker shift beside her and opened her eyes to discover they were landing—and that she had a massive headache.

“Jet lag?”
he asked, gentle concern in his voice.

“Uh,” she grunted
as she finger combed her hair and eyed him up and down.

In his
unwrinkled traveling suit, he seemed rested. And he must have snuck off to the restroom already. He was shaved and groomed and as handsome as ever.

How did he get off looking so good? He couldn’t have slept more than she had.

A delicious smell teased her nostrils and a flight attendant handed them both coffee. Miranda grabbed her paper cup and slurped down half of the rich, delicious liquid in one gulp. She was feeling almost human again when she noticed Parker watching her, amusement in his eyes.

“Hmpf.”
She turned away with a half smirk and used a finger to lift the blind on the window, feeling a bit like a vampire avoiding the sun. She peered out.

No sun.
All she could see was clouds. “Is that real London fog?”

“
The genuine article,” Parker grinned.

And they were supposed to slog through that
vapor in search of a missing dagger like Sherlock Holmes? A bell dinged and the pilot announced they were on approach for landing.

Miranda buckled her seatbelt.
“Who is this client, anyway?”

“Sir Neville Ravensdale.”

“He’s a knight?”

Parker nodded. “He was bestowed the honor a few years ago for his museum work. Cultural advancement.”

She should have known he wouldn’t be a chimneysweep. “And here I thought they only did that for men who slew dragons.”

Parker indulged her with a sm
ile.

“
How does Mr. P know him?” Mr. P was Miranda’s nickname for Parker’s father.

“They met decades ago at a London auction. I believe my father was thinking of investing in l
and here. We sent Sir Neville and his wife an invitation to our wedding.”

“We did?” Parker’s daughter, Gen had handled the guest list.

“He wasn’t able to come. I’m sure he’ll be happy to meet you now.”

“So he
already knows we’re married.”

“Yes. Is that a problem?”

Letting a client know they were a husband-and-wife team had been a sore spot on their first case. They’d decided not to reveal their marital status to clients in the future. It provoked too many personal questions. But it was too late in this case.

“G
uess I’ll just have to deal with it this time.” As well as prove she was an investigator in her own right, and not just tagging along with hubby for the fun of it.

###

The plane landed and they disembarked, waded through customs and caught a black square-shaped taxi into town.

Miranda bolted upright when the driver swung into the lane and was about to shout, “Look out!” until she remembered they drove on the left side here.

Wait, he was also sitting on the right side of the front seat. That jet lag had really done a number on her. Scowling at Parker’s amused look, she settled back in the seat.

It was raining, as the
view from the plane had indicated, and the windshield wipers swooshed back and forth monotonously while music and strange ads played softly on the radio.