Swept Away (52 page)

And what was he going to do now? Send her beloved father to prison. She’d really be crazy about him then.

But he had no choice. He still didn’t know all the whys and hows of it, but Spencer was undoubtedly a criminal. And Brock’s job was to bring criminals to justice, make them pay.

Hell, even if justice wasn’t important to him—and it was—and even if his professional pride wasn’t important to him—and that was, too—he couldn’t deny that putting Clark Spencer
behind bars was going to deliver a ton of satisfaction. The vindictive kind. He wasn’t
necessarily proud of that, but he wanted to be there, wanted to see the look on Spencer’s face
when none other than wrong-side-of-the-tracks Brock Denton brought him down.

It would kill Kat. He’d known that from the moment he’d found the artifacts. But he was an
FBI agent—he’d learned a long time ago to block out that kind of emotion when it came to his
job. Maybe he hadn’t always done a great job of blocking it out on the island, but this was
different—it had to be. It wasn’t his fault the guy was breaking the law. Brock was just doing
his job.

Kat’s heart be damned. Unfortunately.

He let out a sigh. Everything else aside, he still remained so very proud of her. He could still
hear the minister asking her today if she took Ian Zeller to be her husband. And that long,
blissful hesitation that had filled him with hope—then the blessed refusal.

Something caught in his mind then. Zeller. Ian Zeller.
The last letter of the alphabet.

Just like Omega was the last letter of the Greek alphabet.

Chapter Nineteen

Kat hit the power button on the remote, darkening the TV screen. They’d watched Thelma and
Louise over pizza, then quite appropriately watched
Chocolat
during dessert. Nina had brought
their old favorite, Ben & Jerry’s Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough, for that portion of the evening.

“Feeling more like yourself? Back to normal?” Nina asked.

Kat shoved the very last spoonful of ice cream in her mouth as she glanced over. “Yes. No. I
don’t know. It’s been a whirlwind of a week.”

Nina’s mouth curved into a small smile. “That’s not exactly what I meant. I was thinking that
you really haven’t seemed quite like you since you got engaged to that bozo at Christmas.”

“Oh.” Hmm. “Maybe not.” True enough, the whole pastel-beach-mom thing had nearly taken
her over, and it just really wasn’t her—or at least not yet.

“I figured that was why we were watching movies about defiant women—to get you back in
your groove.”

Until that moment, Kat hadn’t realized that, automatically, she’d requested movies that fit that
description. She’d mainly been thinking about a young Brad Pitt in a cowboy hat and a sexy
Johnny Depp in a ponytail. And even now, realizing Nina was right, she still argued. “Strong
women. I’d prefer to think of them simply as strong.”

Nina rolled her eyes. “Whatever.” And Kat knew the pampering period was officially over,
which suited her just fine. Nina wasn’t quite Nina without the occasional eye roll. “You know what you have to do now, don’t you? You have to celebrate your new independence by doing
something really defiant, something Crazy-Kat-like.”

“I thought I already did. A few hours ago? At the church? Think back and it’ll come to you.”

But Nina was shaking her head. “That’s not what I mean. That took strength, sure, and was pretty defiant, but it was also about self-preservation. Which, incidentally, I’m glad finally kicked in. But what I’m talking about is doing something totally for you, without giving a
damn what anyone else thinks. Think like Crazy Kat.”

“I’m not sure I am Crazy Kat anymore. Honestly, I’m not sure I ever was.”

Nina raised her eyebrows in rank skepticism. “Oh, come on, sure you are. At least a little. I
know you too well. Now, what are you going to do to remind yourself exactly who you are?”

Maybe Nina was right. Though she suspected this whole ordeal had forced her to grow up in a
way she hadn’t before, maybe she truly did have a wild side—under the right circumstances.
And as Nina headed to the kitchen for another bottle of wine, Kat knew exactly what she
would do to express it. It might be a little like tossing her bikini top off on a deserted beach where no one could see, but as long as she knew, that was all that mattered.

Keith Nichols was an FBI agent of twenty-three who looked even younger, like the
quintessential beach boy, and when Brock had first found out he was the guy assigned to the
artifact case, he’d been pissed. Nichols’s inexperience could blow the whole thing.

His irritation had quickly subsided, though, when he recalled that he’d managed to blow it once
already with tons of experience behind him. And actually, he liked Nichols—they got along
well, and the young guy looked up to him.

And fortunately, Nichols had been smart enough to call Brock as soon as he arrived in Naples
a few days after Brock had officially been taken off the case. Which was helpful, since it kept
Brock from having to track him down.

In a coffee shop, Brock had told him everything there was to tell, leading right up to the
Spencer connection, and further, to the possible Ian Zeller connection—something that had felt like a light bulb clicking on above Brock’s head. “I’m telling you, man, I really think he’s the
kingpin.” Despite not being at the top of his game lately, Brock felt this one in his gut.

Nichols had—ironically—gotten Clark Spencer to hire him to work in the gallery’s warehouse
and run errands, the same job Brock had held ten years ago. Nichols had claimed to be a
college kid, home for the summer. Given it was almost June, it fit.

But now Brock had talked Nichols into taking a completely different strategy—risky maybe,
yet it would cut to the heart of the matter. Thankfully, Nichols trusted him—otherwise, no
longer being on the case, Brock’s hands would have been tied. As it was, the young agent was being man enough to let Brock sit in the unofficial driver’s seat and call most of the shots—and
as long as Nichols kept quiet, Brock’s superior would never know he’d broken an order by
getting involved again.

The two men walked down pristine Fifth Avenue South, flanked by flower boxes and tidy
sidewalks, toward The Spencer Gallery. It was after hours, so there wouldn’t be any customers and hopefully no Kat. His bones ached at the very thought of seeing her, but not now, like this.
Her father was going to jail, and the fact that it would devastate her had been playing over and
over in Brock’s mind—she certainly didn’t need to see him be taken down.

Of course, something ate at him as they walked past the other ritzy neighborhood galleries and
cafes. That same thing that had been eating at him for a day or two now. The idea that maybe he
possessed the power to keep Spencer from going down.

If Spencer’s answers were the right ones. And if he could bear to do it.

After all, it seemed more than a little insane for him to even think about letting this guy off the
hook. This guy who’d bribed and blackmailed him out of his own life ten years ago. This guy who was willing to let his daughter marry for money in order to save his own ass. This guy
who seemed pretty damn deep into smuggling illegal goods into the country.

Although if his hunch was correct and Ian was Omega Man, there was a lot more to the story
than Brock knew right now. All he knew for sure was that Ian had “investments” that resulted

in a lot of cash, and that—according to Kat—he’d been spending a lot of time with Spencer
these past months. And when the “rescue boat” had arrived at the island, Ian had seemed a lot
more frantic about Kat’s safety than Spencer had—like he knew she might have been in
danger. And via Spencer or some other route, how hard would it be for Ian to have access to
that island bungalow? In fact, it suddenly seemed like the perfect drop-off point for someone who wouldn’t be at the direct end of a pointing finger if the location were discovered. Perfect,
that is, if Ian forgot to take into consideration that Spencer might lead authorities to him.

What it all came down to, though, was this. Whether or not Ian was Omega, Brock could nail Clark Spencer to the wall. Given the goods found on that island and Spencer’s history with Mayan artifacts, it was almost a done deal. This was the first time a case had ever overlapped with his personal life, and he still suffered the intense need to make Spencer pay—for all his
crimes, against the Guatemalan government, against Brock, against Kat.

Unless he found it in his heart to cut him loose.

In one way, that was damn hard to imagine. He finally had a legal reason to punish Spencer, to
ruin his life the way he’d once ruined Brock’s, to keep Spencer from hurting anyone else.

But then he thought of Kat. She might be angry at her dad right now, but if he went to prison, it
would tear her apart. And that was almost enough to make Brock’ s very hardened heart
crumble to pieces in his chest.

“Ready?” Nichols asked, and Brock realized they stood in front of the gallery he’d last set foot in ten years earlier.

He wasn’t sure yet what would happen here, but it was high time to bring all of this to an end.
“Damn straight.”

Nichols gave a brief nod. “Let’s go.”

The dim lighting illuminating the interior of the gallery indicated it was closed. But Nichols had
a key, so he let them in. Both men felt sure Spencer would be working in his office—it was
just after six, so even on an early night, he’d still be here.

Having heard the door, Clark Spencer appeared from the back, standing beneath a spotlight that
made him look a bit spectral. He spotted Nichols first. “Forget something, Keith?” Then his
eyes shifted to Brock. “Denton?”

“We need to have a talk, Clark,” Nichols said.

The man looked understandably confused. “What kind of talk?”

“It would be best done in your office so no one passing by can see.”
Spencer blinked, looking even more wary. “I don’t understand.”

At this, Nichols reached in his back pocket and whipped out a badge, which he flashed in
Spencer’s direction. “We’re FBI, Clark.”

Another blink, this one more startled. “Both of you?”

“Surprise,” Brock said dryly, then flipped open a leather case revealing his own federal ID.
“Shit.”

“You’re waist deep in it,” Brock informed him.

“Why don’t we step into your office,” Nichols suggested again.

Spencer silently turned to head in that direction, the other two men following. When Brock
took a seat in one of the chairs across from Spencer’s desk, a hint of djà vu washed over him.
But that changed when he realized Spencer was sweating bullets.

“Just so you know,” Brock said to him, “I’m not officially on this case any longer, but I wasn’t
on the island by accident. And it was a damn good thing I was there when those two thugs
showed up or else your daughter would probably be dead now.”