Lost and Found (8 page)

Right now he just wanted to savor the enormous relief that came with knowing she was safe and that she hadn’t tried to cross him.

The satisfaction he felt was out of all proportion to the situation. It was not the professional relief that should have accompanied the realization that he hadn’t made a major business miscalculation. Once again, he was reacting as if the whole damn thing had been personal. Hell, you’d think he’d just discovered that his lover hadn’t been cheating on him with another man.
That
kind of personal.

Definitely over the top, given that until tonight he’d spent less than an hour and a half in her company. That had been the meeting in Vegas, and it had been one-hundred-percent business.

An hour and a half spent together discussing a job hardly qualified as a personal relationship. Of course, there had been the phone calls during the past two months. But you couldn’t really count those.

All right, so I’m counting the phone calls. So sue me
.

Somewhere inside he was poised on the fine line between control and a testosterone-driven euphoria. On an intellectual level, he knew what was happening to him. The threat of danger and violence left a chemical aftermath as potent as sexual desire. Took a while to work it off. But he could deal with that angle. It was Cady who
complicated the mess. Every time he looked at her, the intellectual thing went out the window.

He had arrived here tonight in the grip of an icy rage that had been directed as much at himself as it was at Cady. The sight of her rental car parked outside the gate at the foot of the fog-bound drive had changed everything in an instant. Some part of him had known immediately that something was terribly wrong. That was when the fear kicked in.

“Incredible.” Ambrose studied the helmet Cady held. “Absolutely incredible. Hard to believe that all these years it was just stashed in a box in the back room of that little museum in Vegas.”

“Ignorance was bliss in this case.” Cady examined the engraved steel piece with an expression of reluctant appreciation. “Just look at the workmanship on this helmet. The shape is so elegant. The gilding on the tracery motifs is exquisite. See how it makes the design stand out against the background? Imagine spending so much time and artistic vision on an object made for the practice of warfare.”

“Cool, huh?” Ambrose said cheerfully. “Wonder how it ended up in the Military World collection.”

“I found a record of it in an early twentieth-century military museum catalog. There was a note that it had been removed to be sold at auction in New York in 1925. No record of the buyer, however. It simply disappeared.”

“Maybe that guy Belford, the one you said opened Military World, bought it and just kept it in storage all those years.”

Cady shrugged. “Possible. We’ll probably never know for sure. How did it get into your collection, Ambrose?”

The inquiry attracted Mack’s attention. He roused himself from his reverie long enough to look at Ambrose. “Good question. How did you get it, Vandyke? I’ve got a
program that, among other things, tracks on-line auctions and sales, public and private, legal and not-so-legal. I didn’t see any trace of that helmet.”

“Which is why he called me in to consult,” Cady explained. “I specialize in the rumor mills of the art world, the kind his program can’t track. Given your background in the software business, I’d expect you to be an on-line kind of collector, Ambrose.”

“I didn’t locate the helmet through an on-line contact,” he said. “I was approached by a private dealer who told me he knew someone who wanted to broker a very quiet sale. I told him I was interested. He brought the helmet here and I paid for it in cash.”

“You didn’t question the provenance?” Mack asked.

Ambrose looked abashed. “I admit that I didn’t ask too many questions.”

“Right,” Mack said. “And now we know where that gets you.”

Ambrose turned red. “Okay, okay. But as it happened, the paperwork that I did see actually looked clean.”

“Aside from the fact that the auction receipts were phony,” Cady murmured.

“Yeah.” Ambrose made a face. “Aside from that. But how was I to know the papers were fake?”

“You should have checked with Tim or someone else who knows arms and armor before you acquired the piece,” Cady said.

“You’re right.” He gazed sadly at the helmet. “But I wanted it really bad and I didn’t want there to be a problem, if you know what I mean.”

Mack was surprised to feel a pang of genuine sympathy for Ambrose. Vandyke might be a retired software multimillionaire, but he was only twenty-three years old.

“Speaking of problems,” Mack said, “how did you meet that pair that you ended up entertaining here tonight?”

“They just appeared on my doorstep. I don’t know how they found out that I had the helmet.”

“You were probably set up the day you bought the piece,” Mack said. “I think it’s a safe bet that those two were working with the so-called art consultant who arranged for the theft of the helmet and then sold it to you. When I get back to my computer, I may be able to pull up some names for the cops.”

“I don’t get it. Why sell the helmet to me and then steal it?”

Mack smiled humorlessly. “So that they can resell it to another collector. And steal it from him and sell it again. And again.”

“You’ve got to hand it to them,” Cady said. “It’s certainly a creative way to ensure repeat business.”

Mack flexed the fingers of one hand, remembering the feel of the old sword in his palm. “Like you said, collectors are paying sky-high prices for armor at the moment. Whenever one area of the art market gets hot, there’s a rise in art theft in that area. The old law of supply and demand.”

“Yeah, I know all about that law.” Ambrose studied the helmet for a long moment. Then he raised earnest, remorseful eyes to Cady. “I’m really sorry about all this.”

“I figure it’s sort of like a plane crash,” Cady said. “Could have been worse. We got lucky and walked away from it, thanks to Mack.”

She smiled at him with serious, intent eyes. He realized that she considered him a hero for the moment. He wondered how long that would last.

“She’s right,” Ambrose said. “Man, I really owe you. If there’s ever anything I can do to repay you—”

“I’ll let you know,” Mack said.

“I mean it,” Ambrose insisted.

Mack raised a brow. “So do I.”

Ambrose got to his feet. “What’s this program you
use? The one you said allows you to follow private art auctions on-line?”

“A friend designed it for me a couple of years ago.” Mack turned back to the fire. “It allows me to retrieve information related to the movement of art and antiquities in the underground markets. Sales, thefts, private auctions. I’m building a specialized database that tracks a lot of the regular players who do business in those markets, good guys and bad guys. It stores the names of known forgers, dealer habits, methods of operation. Trends and patterns.”

Ambrose frowned with professional concern. “Must take constant updating.”

“Yes.” Mack moved his shoulders slightly to loosen the prowling tension. “Unfortunately, the friend who designed it for me has set up his own on-line business and no longer has time to work on my program. There are still a lot of holes in my database.”

“What kind of holes?”

Mack regarded him thoughtfully. “Do you really want to talk about this or are you just curious?”

“Are you kidding? I’ve got a very personal interest here. I am now officially the victim of attempted art theft. Tell me about the holes in your program, Mack.”

Mack glanced at Cady. The strain of the evening showed in her eyes. “It’s a little late to go into detail, but maybe we can discuss it some other time.”

“Anytime, man. Anytime. After what you did for me, I am like totally at your service. Besides, this art tracing stuff sounds kind of intriguing.”

“I’ll call you.” He made a mental note to give the idea some serious consideration. It wasn’t often that he got the opportunity to pick up a freelance consultant with Ambrose Vandyke’s unique skills. He glanced at his watch. “Cady, we’d better get out of here. We need to find a motel. Neither one of us is in any shape to drive far tonight.”

“You’re welcome to stay here,” Ambrose said quickly. “I know it’s a little grotty, but I think I can find some clean towels.”

“Thanks,” Cady said. “But I think a motel would simplify everyone’s life. Where’s the nearest one? Santa Cruz?”

“Nah, you don’t have to go that far. There’s a little lodge less than a mile from here. Dude who runs it is a friend of mine.” Ambrose reached for the phone. “I’ll give him a call and set things up for you.”

“That sounds great.” Cady picked up the helmet and got to her feet. “By the way—”

Ambrose slanted her a speculative gaze as he held the phone to his ear. “Yeah?”

“I know you’ve already paid once for this piece and there’s a good chance you’ll never recover the money. But if you decide that you really do want it, I believe Mack’s clients would be interested in talking to you. Right, Mack?”

He smiled wryly. “I don’t think there’s much doubt about it. My clients view that helmet as the equivalent of a winning lottery ticket. They can’t wait to cash in on it.”

“It’s a deal,” Ambrose said immediately.

“You haven’t heard the price yet,” Mack said.

Ambrose grinned good-naturedly. “I think I can afford it.”

“In addition to buying the helmet, you may want to invest in a good security system for your expanding collection.”

“You know, that thought crossed my mind more than once tonight while I watched those two dudes load my stuff into that van.”

He turned back to his phone call and spoke rapidly to someone on the other end.

Mack glanced at Cady and saw that she was watching him. He could almost read the words “My Hero”
scrawled in glowing neon letters in her eyes. It was getting harder and harder to ignore the deep, heavy tug of desire. He wondered if nature had arranged things so that the male stopped thinking clearly when the female smiled the way Cady was smiling now. As a method of ensuring the reproduction and continuation of the species, it had a lot going for it.

He reminded himself that he had already reproduced once in this lifetime. He had the college tuition bills to prove it. At his age a man was supposed to start thinking of long-range retirement plans.

A
N
hour later Cady turned onto her back, folded her arms behind her head and stared up at the low-beamed ceiling. She was exhausted, but sleep was proving impossible. She was on edge and overstimulated. Not surprising given the events of the evening, she decided.

She concentrated, trying to sort out impressions. She had every reason to be teetering on the precipice of a panic attack, but this didn’t feel like the onset of one. She knew what that felt like and this wasn’t it.

Nevertheless, her nerve endings were pulsing with enough bio-electricity to power a small town.

She turned her head on the pillow to look at the clock. Three in the morning. Unfortunately, it would be quite a while yet before she could legitimately abandon the attempt to sleep and go out for breakfast.

She shoved aside the covers, got to her feet and went to the sliding glass door that opened onto the narrow balcony that wrapped around the second story of the small lodge. The darkness outside was absolute. The trees loomed over the peaked roof. It had started to rain in a serious
fashion an hour ago. The overhanging eaves dripped steadily.

The need for fresh air, even if it was damp and chilly, was suddenly overwhelming. She turned and scooped up the light dressing gown she had left on the foot of the bed. It was a good thing that she had taken the precaution of packing for an overnight stay, she mused. The thought of facing Mack tomorrow morning with unbrushed teeth was not to be borne. She cinched the sash of the dressing gown, slid her bare feet into the loafers she had worn earlier and unlocked the glass slider.

Damp, bracing night air heavy with the scent of the woods enveloped her. She stepped outside and went to stand at the balcony railing. Shoulder-high wooden partitions separated her from the rooms on either side, but she could see that no light came from either of them. Apparently Mack was not having any trouble sleeping.

Lucky Mack.

Or was he lying awake in bed, staring at the ceiling as she had been doing until a short time ago?

Don’t think about Fantasy Man in bed. Your nerves can’t take the additional stimulation
.

She touched the wet railing with the tip of one finger. It was so quiet here in the rain-drenched redwoods. Hard to believe that the high-tech commercial wonderland that was Silicon Valley lay within commuting distance, assuming that one was prepared to commute on narrow mountain roads.

A shiver of awareness went through her. She sensed Mack’s presence just before he spoke out of the darkness to her left.

“What’s the matter?” he said. “Couldn’t sleep?”

His question settled one issue—Mack was not in bed. He was standing in the dense shadow on the other side of the partition. She wondered how long he had been out here gazing into the wet night.

His hands were thrust deep into the pockets of a black windbreaker. He was a compelling if enigmatic figure, his expression unreadable in the darkness. Awareness went through her in a flash of invisible lightning that left her strangely breathless. It was as if she found herself poised at the top of a very high Ferris wheel.

She clutched the robe more securely at her throat and tried not to think in terms of fantasy and gender. They were business associates. He was her employer. There were rules of engagement to be observed, especially in view of the fact that she wanted to work for him again in the future. As often as possible.

“You okay?” he asked.

She could hear the genuine concern in his voice. She realized she had not answered his question.

“Fine. Great. No problem,” she said quickly, trying to sound casual. What was a little danger, mayhem and a near-death experience on the job? All in a day’s work in the art consulting business. She was a professional. “Just having a little trouble getting to sleep. Thought some night air might help.”