Reclaiming His Pregnant Widow (13 page)

“But…” Clea's voice faded. “I don't understand.”

Nor did he. Yet. Clearly the conversation was upsetting her, but he needed details if he was ever to make sense of the events that had devastated his—their—lives. He changed tack. “Didn't it occur to you that I might not have been in the vehicle at the time?”

“Of course! I asked for proof. I was told that your burned remains had been buried in a mass grave. That what was left of you couldn't be located to ship home.”

The horror in her voice was unfeigned. Brand steeled himself not to be swayed by it. “That information was clearly wrong.”

Her breathing was ragged beside him, her distress palpable. She touched his forearm, and he noticed that her fingers were trembling.

“I know that…now. I wouldn't have had you declared dead on that basis alone—at first I refused to accept that you were dead. But the ring changed everything. I knew you must be dead.” The pain in her eyes hurt him.

“You didn't consider that I might've taken my ring off and disposed of it for cash?”

She shook her head, her expression fierce. “Never. Everyone tried to tell me you'd walked out on our marriage—I refused to believe it. Even when I was shown photos of you at a café in Athens with Anita and told you'd been sighted with her in Baghdad, too, I trusted you.”

“I'd hired Anita as a consultant to check into artifacts I was interested in.”

“I
told
Harry—Dad—everyone—that she was a colleague…not your lover. That she must've been helping you establish whether a prospective purchase was fake—or checking out its provenance.”

He hadn't retained Anita to research an artifact he planned to buy, but that was not relevant now. It sank in
that Clea had been through living hell, and through it all she'd believed in him. She'd been loyal…faithful.

Yet he'd doubted her on his first night back. His own hurt and the overpowering sense of betrayal over her pregnancy had caused him to stonewall her demands for an explanation of where he'd been. And why. Then the puzzle of why he'd been kidnapped had taken over; and discussing his sinister theories with her had been out of the question.

Now discomfort settled heavily in his belly. Perhaps Clea was right. Blind faith had never been his style. His special forces training had only reinforced the idea that trust was the currency of the weak and gullible. Over the years skepticism and distrust had become second nature to him, creating a cool distance that allowed him to calculate…then act with greater effectiveness.

Trust was far from easy…and Clea was far better at it than he. His distrust was still alive and kicking. Brand weighed how the ring had gotten from Akam to a moneylender many miles away. And who might have photographed him and Anita together…for what purpose…and whether there had ever been a wreck in the desert as Clea so clearly believed. Or whether paranoia had finally set in for good.

Through it all, Akam's claim that he'd been hired to kill Brand rang through his head, adding to his growing disquiet.

“Then, if you weren't captured after the crash, what happened?” Clea's question broke his focus. “How did you come to be imprisoned?”

Keeping all emotion out his voice, Brand said, “I was kidnapped off the streets of Baghdad, nowhere near the desert, early one evening.”

“Kidnapped in the city?” Clea gripped his upper
arms. “That doesn't sound random—it suggests you were targeted”

“So it would appear.” That was the riddle that plagued him in the darkest night. The question he had never wanted to answer. Unfolding his arms, he hooked them around her shoulders and drew her to his chest. It was easier not to look at her. To stroke her back, feel the warm softness of her body pressed against his. “But my captors were smugglers—no less dangerous, but not your typical hired guns. Later I was told they'd had orders to kill me.” Despite the sound of Clea's sharp indrawn breath, he plowed on. “But Akam, the leader of the group, is a distrustful bastard. He decided to keep me alive as insurance…he was paranoid about being double-crossed. From some of the dissension that followed, I gathered that payment had become a problem. I suspect Akam thought I might be worth more to him as a ransom victim, but as time passed, that proved to have been a risky error in judgment. A price had been put on his own head, so saving his skin and keeping out of sight became more of a priority than ransoming me. In the end, as I told you before, it was Akam who let me go and arranged for me to get out of Iraq—for a tidy sum, of course, which I have now paid. But worth every cent.”

Within the circle of his arms, Clea was trembling. Brand tightened his hold, then let his arms fall away as she shifted restlessly.

She leaned back and inspected his face. “So who wanted you dead?”

“I don't know yet,” said Brand grimly, though he had his suspicions. “But I will find out.”

Clea had taken his hand, was holding onto it, as though she would never let go. “The investigators even had a photo
of a mangled wreck in your file—it made me die a little inside every time I looked at it.”

Brand clasped his free hand over their joined hands in comfort. “I'm here.”

“Was it totally fake? Or
did
a man and woman die out there in the desert?”

That surprised him. “A man and a
woman?
”

“Supposedly you and Anita.”

Brand fell silent.

“Have you been in touch with Anita since your return?”

Brand sensed her tension as she waited for his answer. “No. Maybe it's time I talked to your investigators. How did you find them?”

“My father. He knew of them from Harry, who'd used them in the course of his import-export business.” Her eyes widened. “You don't really think that Anita might have…?” The question trailed away and her grip on his hand tightened convulsively.

“I don't know.” But he couldn't stop the fury that ignited at Hall-Lewis's involvement. Again. “After I've spoken to those investigators, I suspect I'll have to go away for a few days to do some checking.”

“You're going back to Baghdad?”

There was naked fear in her eyes.

“It may not come to that.” He kissed the top of her head, then freed his hand from her hold and cupped her stomach. “You need to look after junior. I'll be gone for a week at most—I'll make sure I'm back for the Museum Mile Festival. And this time, my ring will not leave my hand. I promise.”

 

Clea couldn't halt the creep of dread that suffused her after Brand's departure. Even though he spoke to her each night, she longed for him to put the past behind him. She
worried, too, about the burgeoning fear that Harry had played a part in his disappearance. It would be another betrayal by the man she'd considered her best friend for so long. And it would forever change her life.

Despite Brand's promise that he would return, she couldn't contain the writhing fear that this time he might not come back.

At least there was plenty to keep her busy as the final preparations for the Museum Mile Festival got underway. Determined to continue with her day-to-day life, Clea shopped for a birthday present for her dad, and, in an instant of impulsivity, she got a book on parenting for Brand. A visit to her doctor for a checkup reassured her that the baby was progressing well—and in her spare moments she continued decorating the nursery.

Before Brand left, he'd told her that he'd learned little of significance from the investigators, but he had confirmed through other contacts that Anita had disappeared around the same time he had. Did his departure indicate more than concern for a missing colleague? She forced herself to dismiss the little green monster whispering in her ear.

She was no longer the same naive, newly married young bride he'd left behind four years ago. This time she was a woman. A woman who had experienced loss…and betrayal.

This time it was not easy to ignore her misgivings.

But she loved Brand, and he'd vowed to return. She had to trust him to do so because, without trust, her love was nothing but an empty promise.

T
he Museum Mile Festival was in full swing by the time Clea received Brand's call to let her know he was back. It was already past noon, and she'd just been starting to think he wouldn't make it.

Her heart soared.

All the way along Fifth Avenue, the crowds were in a celebratory mood. With the road blocked off and bands playing in the street, Clea found the Mardi Gras atmosphere contagious. So when she saw Brand get out of a cab and eye the long queue still waiting to enter the museum, she hurried out to intercept him.

In his dark Italian suit with a beautifully knotted tie he looked smoothly handsome and urbane. He'd shaved, too, she noticed.

“You've already been home.”

“To wash off the travel dust.” He swept her up and swung her around, then planted a kiss on her lips. “I missed you,” he said after a long moment.

Breathlessness filled her. “I should've given you a gate pass,” she managed.

He set her down, and she gave him a close look. “Are you okay?”

He nodded. “I'm ready to talk. But first, I want to see what you've done with the Museum Mile Festival.”

Her enthusiasm brimmed over. “It's been a fantastic day!” Taking his hand she led him past the line of waiting people, up the stairs to the second floor to the large and airy west wing gallery.

A crowd had formed.

Doing her best to ignore the sizzle that shot up her arm from their intertwined fingers, she said, “Come, there's something I want to show you.”

But Brand had stopped to examine a Sumerian clay tablet in a glass case where two young boys were reading the display label. Clea suppressed a smile. Brand had bought the tablet five years ago after a huge amount of work to establish its provenance and ensure that it hadn't been stolen or illegally removed from a dig. It was his reputation for cutting a shrewd deal after exacting scrutiny that had made him one of the most highly paid antiquities importers in the world, and had guaranteed him his first million.

It had taken all Clea's powers of persuasion to convince him that the tablet belonged in a museum. And not just any museum—
this
museum. But Brand had known that by virtue of their marital relationship Clea's integrity would be at risk if he sold the piece to the museum. Instead he'd decided to donate the artifact. His scruples had cost him a tidy sum, but Brand had always said it had been worth it to see the joy on her face.

Dragging Brand away from the tablet, Clea led him to the main display case, and the glorious marble mask inside
became visible, and Brand halted. “Where did that come from?”

“The same collection as the vase at the back of the gallery. I call the mask the Lady of the Temple. I suspect she must have come from one of Inanna's temples.”

“Your father's old friend sold it to the museum?”

A note in Brand's voice made Clea give him a sharp glance. Keeping her tone easy, she said, “That's right.”

“I have sometimes thought—rather radically—that all antiquities should stay in the country of their origin. It would make everything far more cut-and-dried.”

Clea swung around to face him. “Using that reasoning, the Elgin Marbles should go back to Athens.”

He shrugged. “Perhaps they should.”

“Brand!”

“It's not heresy.” He defended his position. “The Greeks have been after their return forever—just as the Egyptians have sought to recover the Rosetta Stone.”

The curator in her said with feeling, “It leaves a huge hole in those collections to have to return such popular artifacts…and think about all the members of the public who would miss out on being inspired to learn more about foreign cultures. Hey, who knows how many museum artifacts have led to visits to other lands?”

“The objects belong in their own countries and their own cultures.”

“But there are times when we need to guard treasures for other cultures—treasures that are important for all humanity.”

“Guard…not steal,” said Brand in a low voice.

“What do you mean by that?”

He raised a dark eyebrow. “You don't know?”

“Stop talking in riddles.”

Brand held her gaze for a long, charged moment.
“Either you've become an accomplished liar—which I don't believe—or you're still too naive to be let out on your own.”

“I've grown up.”

That caused Brand's face to break into a smile, lightening his grave expression. “Don't grow up too much. The wide-eyed ingenue is part of your charm.”

Clea didn't know whether to be amused or offended. In the end she chose to persist in trying to get to the bottom of Brand's oblique comment.

“What do you think I'm too naive to grasp?”

Brad was watching her through narrowed eyes. “You don't think it's curious that one collector has so many prize pieces that are undocumented?”

Relief—mixed with rising irritation—swept through her. “They are well-documented and the provenance can be traced back prior to the 1970s. Since when did a legitimately acquired antiquity become theft, Brand?” She gave a snort of impatience. “And where does that leave you? You spent a decade amassing considerable wealth trading antiquities. Would you call every one of those transactions thefts?”

“I worked exceptionally hard to ensure that I never dealt in stolen artifacts and black-market goods, to build a reputation that would withstand scrutiny. You of all people know that. Sure, it made it tough to find legitimate stock, but, as I told you all those years ago when I bought that tablet—” he jerked his thumb in the direction of the display “—it was important to me.”

She'd loved his integrity then, but she still couldn't shake the sense that he was accusing her of something. “What are you implying?”

“Ten years ago, when I was on a tour of duty with the SAS, I attended a viewing of never-before-exhibited
artifacts in Istanbul. I already knew Anita—she got me an invitation. Some of the items had been sent by the Iraq Museum. There was a truly unique marble mask the likes of which I have never seen before or since—yet now I find the identical twin of that piece here.”

It dawned on Clea that Brand was speaking of her Lady of the Temple.

“That's impossible.” But her heart was racing. “According to the documentation, the mask has been in the United States for over fifty years.”

Foreboding stirred. Brand didn't lie. His reputation was built on knowledge and integrity. And to suggest that the piece was a twin would be ludicrous—especially given the similar situation with the vase that resembled the Vessel of Inanna. Apprehension settled firmly into the pit of her stomach.

“Are you claiming that we bought a stolen artifact? That they were never purchased from my father's friend?” Her hands were clammy against on the fabric of her skirt. “That's a very serious charge to level at the museum.” At Alan…and her father.

“Four years ago, Anita and I applied to the Iraq Museum for permission to photograph that mask—and a number of pieces in the same collection. My request was not-so-politely refused.” He raised an eyebrow. “Coincidence? I think not.”

“Four years ago.” Her eyes went wide. “But that's…”

He nodded. “I became curious. I started asking questions. I'd already hired Anita to do some research for me—about a small tablet I'd seen in this museum, which Alan had assured me had sound provenance. It reminded me remarkably of a tablet I'd seen in Istanbul, and that bothered me. The deeper I dug, the more I doubted that
the mask had also ever made it back to the Iraq Museum from Istanbul.”

Clea was conscious of the weight of his gaze. “Could you confirm whether either the tablet or the mask were ever reported stolen?”

Brand shook his head. “But someone evidently knew I had shown interest in that piece. Someone who knew of the thefts. And that someone meant business.”

“What do you mean?” Clea's heart stopped in shock.

“Anita has not been seen since—I suspect she's dead.” Brand was speaking softly, his eyes rapidly scanning the gallery as if he feared they might be overheard. “We can discuss this further tonight—after the festivities are over.”

“No.” Clea tossed her head. She wanted to get to the bottom of this disturbing revelation. “This is too important to delay. Let's go to my office.”

Once they were inside her office, Brand closed the door behind them.

Clea crossed to the window where the courtyard teemed with people below. At last, she swung back around to Brand, her face filled with confusion.

Before she could ask the questions that threatened to tumble out, Brand began to talk. “Ever since you mentioned that you were given my ring that's troubled me.”

Clea's brow wrinkled into a frown.

“It was a little too convenient, the way in which it turned up as proof when you refused to accept any other explanation.” Brand watched her through narrowed eyes. “I was kidnapped almost four years ago. But that ring was forced off my finger only last August.”

Gooseflesh broke over her skin. “That would mean…” Her voice trailed away.

“It would mean that all the time someone who could get
that ring into your hands knew what had really happened to me. Certainly someone knew Akam held me captive—it was enough to make him extremely jumpy. It's why he kept me alive, instead of killing me, as he'd been ordered.”

“What you're suggesting is impossible,” said Clea, aghast.

“Diabolical, yes. Impossible? I'm not so sure.” Brand raised his shoulders and let them fall. “But I hope you're right.”

Clea tried to speak. Her voice emerged in a shaky croak. “You believe Harry arranged for you to be killed?”

Brand shook his head. “That's what I'd hoped. But when I look at who stands to gain the most, I don't think it's Harry.”

“Then who?”

“Your father.”

 

The festival was over.

Brand had left earlier and Clea had convinced herself that he must have it wrong. He'd made a mistake. Her father was not a murderer. Yet doubt lingered. Brand had never lied to her…and he seemed so sure.

The uncertainty was driving her crazy.

When she could bear no more, she called Brand to let him know that she'd be leaving shortly. It took her only a few minutes to unlock the wall safe in her office, and retrieve what she was seeking.

Then she left, locking the door behind her, and made for the underground garage to fetch her car.

The surprise on her father's face twenty minutes later when Clea stepped out of the private elevator into his penthouse apartment was genuine.

“I thought you'd be on your way home, Clea?”

She crossed the exquisite Bokhara rug into the
gadget-filled TV area where her father spent most of his time. He followed, hard on her heels.

“Sit down, I'll pour us each a glass of wine.”

“Not for me, thanks.” Clea patted her tummy with one hand. “I can't stay long. Dad, where did the investigators find this?”

Donald Tomlinson's expression hardened as she drew a sheaf of photos from the file tucked under her arm and showed him the top one: an image of Brand's wedding ring.

He blustered. “You know the answer to that! A moneylender responded to the Wanted notices we circulated in hopes of locating some of Brand's personal effects.”

She drew out a photo of the wreck. “This gave me nightmares for months…years.”

Sinking down on the edge of the deep-red leather sofa, her father said, “But we already knew about the car wreck—”

“Brand was never in that crash—and the ring was taken from him a long time later by men who had kidnapped him. Just when I was demanding proof of his death. Isn't that a little coincidental?” Clea started to pray.
Please, God. Let Brand be wrong about her father's involvement.

Her father didn't respond. His face had turned wooden.

“Dad, you need to tell me. Brand believes you planned to have him killed.”

“That's a goddamn lie!”

“Dad!” Her father never swore in the company of women. She retreated a step, the file clutched in front of her.

Donald Tomlinson was on his feet. “Don't back away from me like that. You don't believe it, do you?”

“I…I don't know,” she stuttered.

Her father's nostrils flared. “You're not sure? You'd believe him over me?”

Sharp pains splintered through her. Still clutching the file, Clea cradled her belly. “I don't know what—who—to believe anymore. Oh, Daddy, I'm so confused.” A sob stuck in her throat.

When he opened his arms, Clea hesitated. He let them drop slowly to his sides. “You believe him.”

“Convince me that it's a lie,” she begged.

“
Convince
you? I'm your father. Where's your loyalty? Who brought you up? Who was both father and mother to you after that bitch deserted us for another man and his children?”

It was Clea's turn to stare. She'd never seen this bitter, poisonous side of her father.

After a long silence, she mustered every last shred of dignity she possessed. “You've always had my un-questioning loyalty.”

Until now.

With every passing moment her unshakable confidence in her father was eroding. “Harry says—”

“What?”

The whiplash question made Clea jump. She swallowed nervously. “Harry told me you knew that the only reason he wanted to marry me was because he's broke.”

“That's not true!” Sticking his jaw out, her father said, “Harry has always wanted to marry you—he would've made the perfect husband if that other bastard hadn't interfered.”

“I fell in love with Brand.”

“Love!”

“At least Brand didn't have to be bribed to marry me.” At her father's stunned expression, Clea said recklessly, “Yes, Harry told me you'd offered him a sweetener.”