DEADLY CONSPIRACY

Talia Morello moved to Rome for a fresh start—but instead finds herself at the center of a deadly art smuggling ring with everything to lose, including her life. Someone’s dead set on retrieving three priceless paintings believed to have been stolen by Talia’s late husband. And when his unsolved murder is linked to the bullet that killed FBI agent Joe Bryant’s brother during a museum heist, Joe is determined to find out all of Talia’s secrets. When she denies any involvement, Joe’s gut and heart tell him to trust her. But with the target on Talia’s back only growing, there may not be time to uncover the whole truth and save the woman he’s falling for...

“The man gave me seventy-two hours to come up with the paintings.”

“And if you can’t?” Joe asked.

“I don’t know, but they’re clearly not playing games.” Talia glanced back at the photos. “I also called Thomas’s mother. I described the paintings and she thinks she remembers seeing them. If she does still have them, they’re probably somewhere in their apartment.”

Joe started to touch her arm, then pulled back from the too intimate gesture, wishing Talia didn’t look so vulnerable. He knew what it was like to have the life of a sibling threatened. Knew what it was like to lose a brother. And personal or not, he would see that neither she nor her sister were hurt.

“I’m going to make sure we find those paintings, and that nothing happens to either one of you in the meantime.”

“You can’t guarantee that.”

“Maybe not.” He pulled out his phone, hating the fact that she was right. “But I can promise I’ll do everything in my power to stop whoever’s behind this.”

LISA HARRIS is a Christy Award winner and winner of the Best Inspirational Suspense Novel for 2011 from RT Book Reviews. She and her family are missionaries in southern Africa. When she’s not working she loves hanging out with her family, cooking different ethnic dishes, photography and heading into the African bush on safari. For more information about her books and life in Africa, visit her website at lisaharriswrites.com.

Fatal Cover-Up

Lisa Harris

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For He gives His sunlight to both the evil and the good, and He sends rain on the just and the unjust alike.

—Matthew 5:45

To my kids. I’ll never forget our own Italian adventure. Famous landmarks, cross-country train rides, gelato, scorching heat, more gelato...

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

About the Author

Title Page

Bible Verse

Dedication

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN

SEVENTEEN

EIGHTEEN

Dear Reader

Extract

Copyright

ONE

Talia Morello stared out across Rome’s ancient Colosseum, unable to shake the uneasiness she’d felt all afternoon. Someone was watching her. The hairs on the back of her neck stood up as she glanced around the massive stone amphitheater with its iconic vaulted arches. Drawing in a steadying breath, she told herself she was simply being paranoid. But no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t shake the eerie feeling.

She wiped off a row of sweat from her forehead. Of course, it was impossible to know for certain if someone really was watching her. Four million tourists visited this historical monument every year, and today, even with the steamy July heat, the Colosseum seemed busier than normal, with its never-ending lines snaking around the outside of the monument.

She lifted the bright orange flag she was carrying a few inches higher to ensure the fifteen enthusiastic tourists who had shown up in the heart of Rome to visit the famous site didn’t get separated from her in the crowd. It was her job to see that they left having experienced the best tour of the ruins—even if dismissing the feeling that someone was watching her was proving impossible.

She studied the crowd as she led them toward the last stop of the tour. Someone from a group of Japanese tourists was holding up a selfie stick for a photo. A small crowd clustered together at one of the open spaces overlooking the floor of the Colosseum. Her attention shifted to a man standing against one of the stone walls to the left. He wasn’t a part of the group, and didn’t seem to be paying attention to his surroundings. Had she seen him before today? Normally, she wouldn’t have given him more than a passing glance, but while most of the tourists had cameras or cell phones to take photos, he didn’t. A second later he smiled and hurried toward to a woman holding on to two little girls.

Talia swallowed hard. She was just being paranoid. The text she’d received last night was nothing more than a coincidence. A wrong number.

Except she knew that wasn’t true.

I know you have the paintings. Meet me at the Spanish Steps when you get off work. I know who murdered your husband. You don’t want to be next.

Her heart pounded. While she didn’t know about any paintings, the mention of her husband’s murder proved this was no coincidence.

“Were all the gladiators slaves?” A twelve-year-old wearing a baseball cap and a New York Yankees shirt pressed in beside her.

“Slaves?” she asked. The boy’s question yanked her away from Thomas’s death and back to the present. She pasted on a smile as the group kept walking. “No. Actually, some of them were ex-fighters, knights, or they could be anyone drawn in by the roaring approval of the crowd and the hopes of winning. And no,” she said before he had a chance to pose the frequently asked question, “they didn’t always fight to the death.”

Talia shifted the strap of her bag higher on her shoulder, then proceeded to answer another dozen questions as they walked through the amphitheater that had once held seating for the more than 50,000 spectators. Centuries ago, it would have been tightly packed, much like today, as spectators flocked to watch gladiatorial combats, hunts and wild animal fights, and at times even mock naval battle. But focusing on the Colosseum’s rich history was proving impossible.

She glanced at her watch. Another five minutes and she’d be done for the day. On a normal Monday, she might have plans to meet a friend for dinner. Today, all she wanted to do was escape back to her apartment and forget about the sinister message. Except she knew she wasn’t going to be able to dismiss it that easily.

I know who murdered your husband.

The words played over again through her mind. But it was more than Thomas’s unsolved death that haunted her. He’d been shot during a drug raid, with stolen goods found in his possession. He’d been buried three days later in disgrace. And Talia had been left feeling betrayed by the man she loved. They’d promised to love and honor each other, and she’d meant every word of her vows. But instead he’d dishonored her with his crimes.

As soon as the last question from one of the tourists had been answered and she’d thanked them for coming, she let out a sigh of relief and headed for the exit. She drew in a deep breath, trying to calm her nerves. Normally she loved exploring the history of Rome’s landmarks, but not today. Today, the thick walls seemed to close in on her as she pressed through the crowded walkways.

And she still had yet to decide her next move.

She slipped on her sunglasses and hesitated outside the exit, knowing she had three choices. She could go to the police, but what could they do? It wasn’t as if an actual crime had been committed. Not yet. And on top of that, she’d found out the hard way that you couldn’t always trust those sworn to protect.

Her second option was to follow the demands of the message and head toward the Spanish Steps, an option that made her even more nervous than going to the authorities. What happened when they realized she didn’t have what they wanted? That was why her best choice seemed to be to ignore the message and go home. She started walking again. In less than five minutes she could be sitting on the subway. In another fifteen she could be in her apartment, lost in a good book on her balcony while trying to forget everything she’d left behind three years ago.

Talia stepped over a crack in the cobblestone walkway as waves of memories flooded through her. As much as she wanted to simply hide, she knew she’d never be able to just ignore the message. The local police department back in the States had never found Thomas’s killer, but neither had she ever heard of any paintings involved in his case. What was the connection of these art pieces to Thomas’s death? How had they found her, and why, after all these years, did someone think she had them? And how was it possible for whoever sent the message to know something the police had never discovered?

The string of questions unnerved her. She glanced toward the subway station that would take her to the Spanish Steps and hesitated again. She had the private numbers for both the detective who’d led the investigation into Thomas’s death as well as the chief of police he’d worked for. It was still morning in south Texas, so before she contacted the Italian authorities or met with whoever had sent the message, it made sense to talk to the Americans. Decision made, she pressed through the throng of tourists coming and going from the Colosseum toward the subway and home.

A second later, she felt someone rip her bag from her shoulder, then push her down onto the ground. A sharp pain shot up her knee on impact as a man wearing a hooded long-sleeved T-shirt took off down the uneven pathway with her bag. Before she could get up, a second man shouted and took off after the thief.

Someone helped her to her feet. Another person handed her her sunglasses, which had fallen off. She thanked them both as she steadied herself. Her legs felt as if they were about to collapse beneath her. The fear pounding through her wasn’t just because she felt violated and vulnerable. Could this incident somehow be related to Thomas’s death and the threat she’d received? She managed a breath, then started back down the road, weaving her way once again through the crowd. About a minute later, the man who’d taken off after the thief ran back toward her, carrying her bag.

“Thought you might want this,” he said out of breath as he handed over the purse.

“Wow. I can’t believe you got it.” Her hand shook as she took it from him. “It all happened so fast.”

He shot her a smile. “I just happened to be in the right place at the right time.”

“And normally I’m the one who tells tourists how to avoid getting robbed.”

Except today she’d been the one lost in thought and had become an easy target. “So you’re a tour guide.” It was more of a statement than a question,

“Yeah,” she said. “I guess I was distracted today.”

She clutched the strap of the bag tighter, distracted by threatening messages and the reminder of her husband’s murder. It was no wonder she hadn’t even noticed the man.

“Unfortunately the guy who snatched it got away,” the man said, “but I saw a couple police officers not too far ahead. If we could come up with a description—”

“No...it’s okay.” The last thing she wanted to do right now was talk to the police. “Petty theft is an everyday occurrence, and besides, the guy’s long gone by now. I’m just thankful to have my bag. Replacing my ID would have been a nightmare.”

He shoved his hands into the pockets of his shorts and shrugged. “I’m just happy I could help.”

She knew he was American from his accent. Just over six feet tall, he was dressed casually in gray chino shorts, a black T-shirt and a black baseball cap. Dark brown hair, brown eyes and good-looking... Okay, very good-looking. Not that it mattered.

“Are you all right?” His gaze dropped to her knee.

“I think so.” She glanced down at the trail of blood on her leg just below the hem of her dress, where she’d scraped it on the rough pavement. “It’s nothing. But thank you again. I’m not sure how you were able to get it back, but you really did save me a lot of hassle.”

“Not a problem, but hey...” He caught her eyes as she looked up. “Why don’t you let me buy you a cup of coffee? It will give you a few minutes to catch your breath and clean up your knee.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“I know I don’t have to, but I’d like to.”

She hesitated. Maybe a cup of coffee wouldn’t hurt. The diversion would help calm her nerves and right now she definitely needed to calm down.

“I saw a little café just around the corner,” he continued, glancing back down the street. “What do you say?”

“Okay.” She answered before she’d had a chance to really think about it, then immediately questioned her decision. She’d gone out with a few men since moving here, but never more than once or twice, and certainly not with a stranger. She pushed away the concern. It wasn’t like this was a date. He was just a friendly American who’d come to her rescue.

“I never got your name,” she said as they sat down at one of the small outside tables at the busy café a minute later. She signaled to the waiter and ordered two espressos in Italian, then pulled out a package of tissues from her bag and started dabbing at her knee.

“Joe Bryant,” he said, settling into his chair. “From Virginia.”

“Talia Morello, born and raised in Texas, actually,” she said.

“For a Texan your Italian is flawless.”

“My father was Italian and has family here, so I ended up spending most summers in Italy while I was growing up. What about you, though?” she asked, wanting to shift the conversation away from herself. There were things—personal things—he didn’t need to know about her. “Are you here on holiday?”

“The trip’s work-related, actually.” He pressed his fingers against the table, then pulled out his badge. “I went for the tourist look today, but I actually work for the FBI’s art crime team.”

“Art crime team?” She glanced at the badge, panic settling in as she repeated his words. This couldn’t be another coincidence. She received a message demanding some artwork and now the FBI’s art division was here? She searched her brain for a connection, but nothing made sense.

“Listen, I know this is going to sound crazy,” he said, breaking into her thoughts, “but I know who you are. I’m actually here because I was hoping for a chance to ask you a few questions about your husband.”

The familiar scenery around her began to blur. The line of shops down the avenue sprinkled with tourists, the smell of pizza baking, purple and red flowers wilting in the afternoon sun...

She’d moved to Italy to escape the questions.

“I know he was a police officer,” he continued. “I know he was accused of stealing from a number of police raids, that he was murdered and that the murderer was never caught. I know you were even questioned once as to whether or not you were involved—”

“I was cleared of any charges—”

“I know, and I’m not here to accuse you of anything. I’ve gone through the reports and they clearly show that no evidence ever led back to you.”

Not that that fact had stopped the accusations. She bit the inside of her cheek. She’d worked so hard to put Thomas and his murder behind her, along with the shame in discovering he’d been involved in something illegal. And now everything about today was forcing her to dredge it all up again.

“Listen,” he said, as the waiter slid two espressos in front of them. “This isn’t how I planned to approach you, but it is very important that we talk.”

“Agent Bryant—”

“Please...you can call me Joe,” he said, handing her a business card with the FBI logo on it along with his name. “I know this isn’t easy for you.”

“Joe... Thomas died a long time ago.” She ran her finger over the card before looking back up at him. “And even though his killer was never found, his case was eventually closed. So unless you have the name of his murderer, I don’t know what you could tell me that would matter at this point.”

“I don’t have that, but what if I told you that some new evidence has surfaced regarding his case?”

New evidence? Was that what all of this was about? A wave of nausea swept through her. There had to be a connection between Agent Bryant—Joe—this recently surfaced information and whoever had sent her that threatening text message.

“What did you discover?” she asked. “More evidence of his guilt?”

If that was what he was talking about, she didn’t want to know. Not after all this time. Not after moving to Italy to start a new life, a life without the stigma of his murder and his betrayal. She and Thomas had just celebrated their six-month anniversary days before he’d been murdered. The chief had come to her house personally to tell her what had happened.

“I’m sorry to have to tell you this,” he’d said, “but Thomas was shot tonight after a drug bust gone wrong.” He’d hesitated from where he’d sat across from her in their living room. “And unfortunately, we have solid proof pointing to the fact that he was involved—possibly for quite some time—in stealing evidence, both money and drugs, from a number of raids.”

At that moment, everything she knew and believed about the man she’d fallen in love with had been completely shattered.

“Not more evidence of his guilt,” Joe said, adding a packet of sugar to his drink. “But we have found a lead to the person who murdered him.”

“I don’t understand.” Her hands shook as she took a sip of her espresso. “How is the FBI’s art crime division connected to Thomas’s murder?”

She needed to know. Because if there was new information on the case, she’d have expected to hear the update from Thomas’s department. Not the FBI. And while she might want to forget the past, a part of her also needed closure. Which was why as much as she wanted to stand up and walk away, she knew she wouldn’t be able to until she heard what he had to say.

* * *

Joe took a sip of his espresso before answering her question, knowing that what he needed to tell her was going to be difficult for her to hear. Two days ago, he’d flown across the Atlantic, following a lead, in order to talk with her in person. And yet since his arrival there hadn’t seemed to be a right moment or a right way to approach her.

“Three months ago a young man was killed during a museum heist,” he began.

She shook her head. “Okay, but what does that have to do with Thomas?”

“Forensics was able to match the bullet that killed him to another murder where the same gun was used. It was the same gun that killed your husband.”

He caught the pain in her eyes and took a moment to study her reaction while giving her the time she needed to digest the information he’d just given her. He’d done his homework before catching the flight to Rome, but she looked younger than he’d expected. From her file he’d learned she was twenty-seven. She had a large family on her father’s side, but only one sibling, a sister named Shelby who lived in Dallas. Her parents were both deceased.

Today, her dark hair was pulled back in a ponytail with loose wisps around her face. She was pretty in that classic sense, and fit in perfectly as an Italian in her black-and-white dress and wedge sandals. And from what he knew about her so far, she was the kind of woman he’d like to get to know better. Not that he would. He’d gotten involved with a woman once before while working a case, and he’d learned quickly to never mix FBI business with personal relationships.

“Are you okay?” he asked, when she didn’t respond.

“I don’t know.” She stared at her cup. “This was just the last thing I was expecting to hear today.”

“So you believe me?” He couldn’t exactly blame her hesitation. A complete stranger had walked up to her off the street and started talking to her about her husband’s murder.

“Enough to hear you out,” she said finally.

He glanced around the crowded café, wishing they were somewhere more private. But at least with the chatter of customers and the sound of cups clinking, no one would be able to listen in on their conversation.

“Okay,” he began, “during the recent heist, two paintings worth over two million dollars were stolen. It was the fourth time in the past several years where thieves used a similar pattern. All the works were stolen during the day while the museum was open. And each time they strategically took small pieces of art with high price tags. The difference this time was that one of the guards was killed trying to stop them.”

Talia shook her head. “I’m sorry someone was killed, but I still don’t understand what this has to do with me or with Thomas. He didn’t steal art. He stole drug money and cocaine.”

He caught another flicker of pain when she spoke and regretted having her dredge up so much from her past. “When Forensics came up with a match, I went to your husband’s department and got your husband’s file. Among the case notes, there were three postcard-sized paintings by nineteenth-century Italian artist Augusto Li Fonti logged as a part of Thomas’s personal belongings, but they’re never mentioned again.”

“Three postcards?” Her eyes narrowed as she took a sip of her espresso. “I don’t remember any mention of postcards, or understand why that would be significant.”

“In the second museum heist we believe to be connected to the case I’m working on now,” he continued, “there were three paintings the size of postcards stolen. And because it’s not uncommon for the cartel to trade valuable artwork as collateral, it’s very possible for something like that to be found at a drug raid. I believe they were at the house where your husband was killed.”

She set down her cup. “And you think I have them?”

“You could have them without realizing how valuable they are.”

A shadow crossed her face. “There are still people who believe that I knew what my husband was up to. And possibly even helped him.”

“Did you?” he asked.

“No...” She hesitated, clearly unsure if she could trust him. “I need to tell you something.” It seemed she’d decided she didn’t have anyone else to turn to.

“Okay.” He waited for her to respond.

She paused one more time then pulled out her phone, clicked on a message and handed it to him. “I received a text message late last night. They told me to bring the three paintings to the Spanish Steps when I got off work. Apparently you’re not the only one who believes I have them.”

He quickly read through the message. “You were planning to meet them?”

“I can’t,” she said. “Because I don’t have what they want.”

“So you don’t remember any small paintings or drawings in your husband’s personal things?”

“Maybe... I don’t know.” She pushed a wisp of hair behind her ear. “After the investigation closed, the department gave me a box of his personal things. I spent days sorting through all his stuff. I ended up giving some of his personal things to my mother-in-law, then donated most of the rest.” She looked up and caught his gaze. “You have to understand I’d just found out that my husband was a dirty cop and skimming money from police raids. I didn’t exactly want to keep reminders of him around.”

He understood what she was saying, but now there was something else she needed to know. Someone else—perhaps someone with access to the information he had—had made the same connection to Talia that he’d made. And whoever was after the paintings had killed before. Which meant if that person believed she had them, then her life was in danger.

TWO

Joe watched as Talia rubbed the back of her neck with her fingertips. A part of him understood how she felt. Not only was there a strong possibility that her life was in danger, but she also had to be questioning her past decisions. And going through a long list of what-ifs. It was something he’d done far too much lately. But why wouldn’t she? The man she’d given her heart to had betrayed her, and now she was suddenly having to deal with what he’d done all over again.

“Tell me about the paintings they want,” she said, taking the last sip of her espresso.

“Do you want another espresso first?” he asked.

“No. I’m fine.”

“Okay.” He grabbed his phone and pulled up a photo of the three paintings the museum curator had given him, then handing the phone to her. “They were stolen from a museum in Boston four years ago. A trio of paintings worth somewhere around half a million each.”

“They’re beautiful,” she said, studying the seacoast scenes.

“Do you recognize them?”

She turned the phone sideways. “You said they’re small?”

“Yes.”

“Then maybe. I just never made the connection. When I received the text message, I imagined paintings that hung on the wall, but you said Thomas’s list of personal items returned to me included three postcards. It’s strange...he used to send me postcards when he traveled.”

“So you do remember them.”

“I think so, but like I said, I didn’t pay much attention at the time to what the department gave me. I just thought they were postcards from one of his trips.” She took one last look at the photos, then handed him back the phone. “And apparently whoever passed them on to me assumed the same thing, as well.”

“Do you know where they are now?”

“I only wish I did. Because then I’d be standing on the Spanish Steps right now, handing them over to whoever wants them and putting an end to all of this.” She shoved her empty cup toward the middle of the table. “You said they use art as collateral.”

“Art has the unique advantage of having an international value without the hassle of money laundering and currency conversion.”

Talia shook her head. “Meaning?”

“Over the past decade there has been a huge push to regulate money laundering. Organized crime has adapted by using artwork instead of cash, sometimes in everything from drug deals, to tobacco trafficking, to gunrunning. And while the value of a piece of art that is used as currency is far less than its estimated legitimate value, it can still be worth millions.”

“So I understand how they ended up in the middle of a cartel meth lab, but here’s something that doesn’t add up—why now? Why are these paintings being connected to me three years after Thomas’s death?”

“I’m not sure, but it seems to have happened after I started looking in to the connection with your husband’s case and started asking questions.”

“So what are you saying? Someone inside the department is involved in this? Another dirty cop like my husband?” Her eyes widened at the thought. “Maybe even someone who worked with my husband. I mean, who else would know the case has been reopened? Who else would be looking for those paintings?”

“All of that could be true,” he said, wishing he had more answers for her. “He might have been working with someone else, or had connections inside, someone who’s been waiting all this time for a lead that would uncover the location of the paintings.”

“But almost three years have passed.” She shook her head. “And you don’t know if the gun that killed my husband was sold or stolen.”

“True.” He hesitated, but he needed to know more from her perspective. “I know this is hard for you, but what do you know about that night? Were there any discrepancies that bothered you after his death?”

“Other than the fact that he was accused of stealing over two hundred thousand dollars in cash and drugs from previous drug raids?” She shook her head. “I never could justify that.”

“So you never suspected he was involved in something illegal?” he asked.

“Never. I’d noticed he was distracted, but he’d been working long hours on a couple of tough cases. What I never imagined was that he was stealing evidence. Thomas was good at his job, and I’d always believed he was an honest man, as well.” A shadow crossed her face. “But I quickly learned that even those closest to you can hide the darkest secrets.”

“So no other inconsistencies?” he asked, not missing the ache in her voice.

“I’m not sure. What are you looking for?”

Joe tapped his foot, knowing he needed to tread carefully. “I’m not sure, actually. I spoke to the chief of police and read the case file. There were things that didn’t add up. Holes in the case. And while there had been a number of other instances where drug money had gone missing over the previous year, they were never linked conclusively to Thomas. The only solid evidence against him was what was found on him that night and a bank account with ten thousand dollars in it.”

Which meant even though they only had circumstantial evidence, the previous thefts had also been pinned on her husband. How it all related now to his FBI case, he still wasn’t sure, but the more information he had, the better the chances of finding what he was looking for.

Talia ran her finger along the edge of the table. “The case was closed quickly. At the time I was grateful, but now...”

“It makes sense. The department would have wanted to keep an internal scandal quiet and make it go away as quickly as possible.”

“Are you implying there’s a chance Thomas might have been innocent?”

“I wouldn’t jump to any conclusions, and in all honesty, your husband’s death isn’t my case.” He tried to backtrack, but it was already too late. The seed had been planted in her mind. “My job is to find the stolen artwork, return it to the rightful owners and in the process help keep it out of the cartel’s hands.”

She leaned forward. “But from what you know—with the inconsistencies of the case—is it possible someone was covering something up and framed Thomas?”

“I can’t answer that.”

Joe finished the last sip of his espresso. He couldn’t blame her for grabbing on to the slightest thread of hope that her husband was innocent. That wasn’t why he was here. But still...

“Tell me what you were told about the day your husband was murdered.”

“His boss came to me the day after Thomas’s death with the details. He told me that Thomas and his partner had been called to check on a possible meth house with two other officers.” As she spoke, he caught the lack of emotion in her voice. It was as if she was simply a reporter spewing out the news. Not the grieving widow of the victim. “The officers swept the house. No one was there, but it was full of equipment for cooking meth along with a large amount of cash and other stolen goods. Apparently Thomas heard something in the back of the house while they were busy securing the property. The other officers heard a shot. Thomas was dead by the time they found his body. The bullet had gone through his temple, killing him instantly. The back door was open, but they never found who’d killed him. But they did find ten thousand dollars in cash stuffed under his bulletproof vest. Later they discovered other stolen evidence hidden in the trunk of his car, and a bank account that pointed to the fact that this hadn’t been the first time.”

“I can’t imagine what you went through,” he said, not missing the pain in her voice.

“They brought me in, wanting to prove I knew what he was doing, which I didn’t. They tore our apartment apart from top to bottom, but never found anything.”

“You said you gave some of your husband’s personal things to your mother-in-law?” If she’d seen the paintings, there had to be a way to trace where they’d gone.

“Yes.”

“Do you think she might have them?”

Talia shrugged. “I honestly don’t know. I never asked her what she did with his things. Thomas’s family lives in Venice, but his parents are out of the country on a cruise right now. I could try to get a hold of them and ask her if she remembers.”

He caught the doubt surfacing in her eyes, as if she was trying to decide if she could trust him. And he couldn’t blame her.

“Talia, I—”

Her phone went off. She pulled it out of her pocket and clicked on the incoming message. He watched her face go pale as she stared at the screen. She shoved the phone across the table for him to read.

You really should have done what you were told.

He read the message, then scrolled through the two photos that were attached. One was of Thomas’s body at the crime scene from the night he’d been murdered. The second was a photo of them sitting at the café.

Every fiber of his being was on alert as he glanced around the open café. But looking for someone with a camera was like looking for a specific piece of hay in a haystack. Almost everyone around them was a tourist with either a camera or a cell phone.

“Do you recognize anyone?” he asked. “Maybe the man who tried to swipe your bag.”

“I don’t know... I don’t think so.” She shoved back her chair, and slung her bag across her shoulder. “I’m sorry. I need to go.”

“Talia, please wait. You don’t understand what you’re up against—”

“I just need to go.”

A second later, she disappeared into the crowd. He grabbed a couple of bills from his wallet, dropped them onto the table and hurried after her.

* * *

Talia searched the narrow street as she hurried toward the subway past the row of shops and restaurants and apartment buildings. She shouldn’t have left the café, but she wasn’t sure she could trust Joe. She wanted to. He seemed an honest man. But so had Thomas until she’d found out the truth about him. Which was why for three years, she’d done everything she knew to put the past behind her and forget. But now suddenly, in the last twenty-four hours every memory and fear she’d had after his death was being dredged up.

I don’t want to go back there, God.

Not now. Not ever.

She’d accepted the fact that her husband had betrayed her trust. She’d even accepted his death. But it had completely changed her life, and the way people looked at her. There were those who thought there was no way she didn’t know what he’d been involved in. Others simply felt sorry for her. And even though she’d finally healed to the point that she was able to go on with her life, it didn’t mean that the familiar apprehensions didn’t sometimes rise to the surface.

She wove her way through a group of young people standing at the top of the stairs that led to the underground Metro. She needed to leave, and get away from Rome. But where would she go? She had friends, but she didn’t want to get them involved. And the only person here who knew what was going on was Joe Bryant.

But could she rely on him?

She hurried down the stairs toward the subway platform through the throng of commuters waiting to get onto the next train. The ground was scattered with cigarette butts. Advertisements were pasted onto the walls. She quickly stepped into the car before the doors slammed shut, then let out a sharp breath of air. A street musician began playing the accordion in the corner of the crowded space as she grabbed on to the metal pole in order to keep her balance. She should feel safe, but even surrounded by people, she had to fight the urge to run. They were out there somewhere. Watching her. Following her...

A group of students chattered in the corner. A woman bounced a toddler in her lap. A businessman talked loudly on his cell phone. Her surroundings faded and were replaced by memories. The day they told her Thomas was dead. The day she buried him. The day she’d sat in the interrogation room for hour after hour, answering their questions. The police had eventually dismissed the possibility of her involvement, but there had still been lingering questions. How could she not have known? She was, after all, his wife.

She fought to push away the memories. She could go home, pack up a bag and take a train to Naples. Or maybe she’d go across the border into France. But that would only delay the inevitable. Until she found the paintings, and discovered who was after them, this wasn’t going to be over. And she wasn’t going to find out the truth by running.

The sun had slipped behind a line of clouds by the time she made it to her stop and climbed the long flight of stairs to the street level. She breathed in the smell of freshly baked bread from the bakery nestled beneath her apartment building, wanting to turn back time to yesterday, when everything had felt normal. She’d fallen in love with the area the first time she’d visited. Ivy leaves climbed the sides of the century-old building, with its green shutters and flower boxes. Laundry blew in the breeze on a clothing line on the second story. She glanced at the glass display case in the bakery window. Flaky croissants filled with homemade custard, cannoli and her favorite, chocolate mousse on a chocolate biscuit covered in dark chocolate... She wished she could stop now and consume one; it’d be a stress reliever.

Instead her phone rang. A wave of adrenaline rushed through her as she pulled it out of her pocket. If it was them again...

She checked the caller ID and hesitated.

She recognized the area code. It was someone from Texas. She opened the door to the apartment building and took the call.

“Hello?”

“Talia...it’s Captain Blythe.”

She started up the narrow flight of stairs to her apartment on the fifth floor. It had been months since she’d heard from the department where her husband had once worked. “I was actually planning to call you today. It’s been a long time.”

“Yes, it has.” There was a pause on the line. “Listen, I felt you needed to know that your husband’s case has been reopened. The gun that killed him was involved in another, more recent murder.”

Hearing him repeat what Joe had just told her made the situation seem so much more real.

“The FBI’s gotten involved,” he continued. “There’s an agent—”

“Joe Bryant,” she said, finishing his sentence. “He’s with the FBI and here in Rome. I just met him.”

“So you know about the reopened case?”

“Yes,” said, starting for the third floor. “Can I trust him?”

“I didn’t meet him, but the chief did and was impressed when the guy came by. He believes there were pieces of stolen art at the raid where your husband died, which is the reason the FBI is involved. The bottom line is that maybe after all this time they’ll find out who killed Thomas.”

She was breathing harder as she took the last flight of stairs to the top floor. This was the closure she’d prayed for. They’d never been able to find the owner of the gun. Never been able to find who’d pulled the trigger and murdered Thomas.

The case is breaking open again, God. I didn’t want to go there, but if this ends up helping me put it all behind me for good...

That was what she needed.

“I won’t keep you,” Captain Blythe said, interrupting her thoughts, “but if you need anything, call me.”

She said goodbye and hung up, wondering if she should have told him about the threats. But something had made her hesitate. Joe had implied that his reopening up the case had prompted someone to come after the paintings. But did that mean that someone else—someone inside the department—had been involved in Thomas’s death?

She pulled out her key and opened the front door to her apartment loft, trying to make sense of everything. The implications of the matching bullets, the text messages and inconsistencies she’d seen with the case... The man she’d married never would have been involved in stealing evidence, but she’d never been able to get anyone to listen to her. And eventually she’d come to accept that Thomas wasn’t the person she’d known all those years.

Inside the one-bedroom apartment, the space was a small, open layout with a cozy terrace and views of the neighboring rooftops and monuments in the distance. But it wasn’t the familiar layout of home that caught her attention as she stepped into the room. Someone had been here. Talia felt a sick feeling wash over her, along with a wave of panic. Books had been pulled down from their shelves, red couch cushions and half a dozen throw pillows lay scattered across the hardwood floor, while her artwork had been ripped from the walls. She picked up the shattered glass frame holding the photo of her with her parents and little sister that had been taken before her mom and dad had been killed in a car wreck.

Who had done this?

Wind blew through the open terrace door, causing the white sheer curtains she’d picked up at a local flea market to flutter in the breeze. Something clattered against the floor in the bedroom. She froze beside the kitchen counter. Whoever had trashed her house was still here. Without thinking, she set down the photo, grabbed a butcher knife from the kitchen counter and started for her bedroom.

When she stepped through the doorway, he was going through her dresser—the same man who’d grabbed her bag outside the Colosseum. Her intrusion into the room seemed to startle him for a second, then he pulled a gun out of its holster and pointed it at her.

“You should have shown up with the paintings,” he said in English with a thick Italian accent. “Toss me your bag.”

She hesitated, then threw it at him, still holding the knife. But the blade would be useless against a man with a loaded gun. He dumped the contents on her bed, scattering them across the dark blue bedspread.

She gripped the handle of the knife between her fingers.

“They’re not here,” he said, rummaging through her things. “The paintings. Where are they?”

“I don’t have them.” Talia fought to keep her voice steady. “I never did.”

He shook his head as if trying to figure out his next move. Light streamed in from the bedroom window. The man was in his mid-to-late twenties. Brown eyes. Dark hair with a streak of blond across his bangs.

He took a step forward. “I was told you’d say that. You knew you couldn’t fence the art right after your husband’s death, so you decided to be patient and wait to sell them.”

She shook her head. “Who told you that?”

“It doesn’t matter. All you need to know is that I wouldn’t cross the person I work for. They were involved in the death of your husband, they’ll kill again if they have to.”

“Over a piece of art?” She pressed her lips together, trying to fight the panic. But that wasn’t the only thing that sent a chill through her. He knew who’d killed her husband.

The intruder didn’t answer her question. But he didn’t have to.

“I don’t have them,” she repeated.

“And I said I don’t believe you. They were in your husband’s personal items, which were later given to you by the police.”

As he moved to the smaller bedside table, his gun still pointed in her direction, another memory surfaced. A few weeks after Thomas had died someone had broken into their house while she’d been out visiting with a friend. The only things that had been taken were a few pieces of her jewelry. At the time, she’d thought it was nothing more than a random break-in, but now... What if there was another explanation? What if the thief had been looking for something specific, like three valuable paintings?

But she didn’t have them. Or did she? Her mind raced. The days after Thomas’s death were still a blur, but she’d told Joe the truth. She’d given most of her husband’s personal things to her mother-in-law in an attempt to get rid of the memories. And while the paintings Joe had shown her seemed vaguely familiar, she wasn’t sure what she might have done with them. Could they really be there?

She eyed the gun that still pointed at her as the attacker continued searching. She needed to get someone’s attention. The balcony door to her bedroom was open. She could scream. Mrs. Lamberti from downstairs wouldn’t hear her—the woman was almost deaf—but someone else might catch her cry for help.

She started toward the door, but the man shifted at the movement and aimed his gun at her heart. “I want you to drop the knife and don’t even think about making a sound.”

She hesitated as her options vanished, then let the knife fall against the wood flooring.

Show me what to do, God. Please...

“Here’s the deal. If you’re lying to me, they will come after you. And in the meantime, I was told you might need some motivation.” He pulled an envelope from his back pocket and dropped it on the bed beside him. “I understand that you and your sister are close.”

She picked up the envelope and pulled out a handful of black-and-white surveillance photos of her sister. She stared at the shots of Shelby getting into her car at work, pumping gas at the local station, walking her Maltese poodle after school...

No, no, no. This couldn’t be happening.

The room began to spin. She couldn’t breathe. “You can’t do this.”

“Except I can.” His cocky smile sent a chill down her spine. “And if you really don’t have the paintings, you’ve got seventy-two hours to find them.”

THREE

Joe found Talia’s name and number on the entry phone next to the doorway of the apartment block. He hesitated, wondering if he should buzz her, then changed his mind as an older woman with an armful of groceries opened the locked lobby building door. He slipped in behind her, then ran up the stairs to the fifth floor.

He paused at an open door on the landing—Talia’s door—and his senses automatically shifted to high alert. He’d seen Talia slip into the building ahead of him, which meant she was here. But something wasn’t right. He stepped inside. The living room had been trashed, leaving couch cushions, books and photos scattered across the floor.

“Talia?” He crossed the empty room, wishing that the Italian government allowed him to be armed. “Talia?”

A man bolted out of an adjoining room and shoved past Joe, knocking him into the wall. Five foot ten, dark hair with a streak of blond... It was the man from the Colosseum!

He pointed a Glock at Joe as he headed toward the door. “Don’t even try and follow me.”

Joe shouted again for Talia. He needed to go after the man, but if she was hurt... “Talia? Are you okay?”

She stepped into the doorway of the living room, her face ashen, and nodded.

“Then I’ll be back.”

Ignoring the man’s warning, Joe spun around and strode after him. They needed to get this guy and find out who he was and who he was working with.

God, I need some help here. Both for Talia’s sake and for my own.

He needed to know the truth. Joe needed closure—not only in the string of art thefts the FBI was investigating, but also in his personal life.

Shoving back the distracting thoughts and forcing his mind to focus, he ran down the narrow hallway to the stairwell. The sound of the other man’s footsteps echoed as Joe flew down the flight of stairs, trying to bridge the gap between them. The door to the front lobby slammed open against the wall below him, then shut.

And he still had two more floors to go.

His heart was racing by the time he made it to street level and stepped outside the structure into the afternoon sunshine. He searched the movement of pedestrians and traffic. The air smelled like fresh bread and chocolate. A car honked. A moped whizzed by as he hurried to the corner, debating which way to go. The intruder had to be here somewhere, but there was no sign of him. And the problem was, he could be anywhere. Joe glanced to his right past the busy intersection lined with stores and restaurants and the occasional bakery. Another two blocks to his left was the subway. Tracking him at this point was going to be impossible.

Irritated, he headed back to the apartment building. He needed to make sure Talia was really okay. A minute later he pressed the number of her apartment, waited for her to buzz him back into the building and headed up again to the fifth floor. His mind worked to sort through the few bits of information he had. Reopening the case had triggered someone to go after the paintings. But who? It had to be someone who believed that at some point Thomas had possession of them. Which led him back to his original theory. Whoever was after the paintings had most likely been there the night Thomas had been murdered.

When Talia opened the apartment door for him, she was on her cell phone. She signaled for him to wait a moment, then turned away, but not before he caught the tears streaming down her cheeks.

“Shelby, as soon as you get this message, call me.” She dropped her phone onto the kitchen counter, then caught his gaze. “I’m sorry.”

“Hey...it’s okay. He’s gone.” He couldn’t blame her for being terrified. It was one thing to have someone snatch your bag in public, but having someone invade the privacy of your home with a weapon was going to take a lot longer to forget. “I’m going to use some of my connections with the Italian police and find a way to track this guy down. We’ve got a good description—”

“No.” She was crying harder now. “It’s not okay. He threatened my sister. He’s got surveillance photos of her at her house, and at her job...”

“Listen, I know this is hard, but I need you to tell me exactly what happened,” he said. “And we will figure this out. I promise.”

She grabbed a tissue off the counter. “I can’t get a hold of my sister. If anything happens to Shelby because of this I’ll never forgive myself.”

“Show me the photos.”

He followed her into the bedroom, where she sat down on the edge of the bed and picked up one of the pictures. “There are ones of Shelby outside the school where she works in Dallas, outside her house...”

Joe flipped through the photos, understanding her concern. Someone had killed her husband, and now they’d shown her that they could get to both Talia and her sister.

Joe pulled out his own phone. They needed to find a way to put an end to this. “If you’ll give me her address, I’ll have someone sent to her place right now. And if she’s not there, I’ll make sure they track her down and ensure she’s okay.”

She grabbed a piece of paper and a pen off her desk and started writing down the address. “The man gave me seventy-two hours to come up with the paintings.”

“And if you can’t?” he asked.

“I don’t know, but they’re clearly not playing games.” She glanced back at the photos. “I also called Thomas’s mother. I described the paintings and she thinks she remembers seeing them. If she does still have them, the artwork is probably somewhere in my in-laws’ apartment.”

He started to touch her arm, then pulled back at the intimate gesture, wishing she didn’t look so vulnerable. But he knew what it was like to have the life of a sibling threatened. Knew what it was like to lose a brother. And personal or not, he was going to make certain neither she nor her sister were hurt.

“We’re going to find those paintings, and ensure nothing happens to either one of you in the meantime.”

She blew her nose again. “You can’t guarantee that.”

“Maybe not.” He hated the fact that she was right. “But I can promise that I’ll do everything in my power to stop whoever’s behind this.”

* * *

While Joe started making calls on his cell phone, Talia hurried to shut and lock both the balcony and the front door. Not that closing up the apartment made her feel safe. A man had already found a way to break in to her house. Which meant she wasn’t sure she’d ever feel safe here again. Not only was her life being threatened, but now her sister was also potentially in danger. And all because of some missing paintings She glanced at the clock, then redialed Shelby’s number. Texas was seven hours behind Rome, so there was a good possibility she had her phone off while she was teaching, assuming Shelby was okay. She hoped that Joe would be able to keep his promise, and that everything would be fine. But she knew firsthand that sometimes things didn’t turn out the way you wanted them to.

Joe talked on his phone while pacing in her living room. There was something surprisingly calming about his presence. But the reality was that he was a complete stranger, and the captain’s call had only managed to erase some of her doubts concerning the FBI agent. And yet somehow Joe Bryant was still managing to take the edge off her panic.

She closed her eyes, unable to get rid of the constant flood of memories. Not long after Thomas’s death, the chief had given her a box of his personal things. At the time, she’d felt too betrayed to do anything more than glance through the belongings before she got rid of most of what was inside. Thankfully, a friend of hers had advised her not throw away everything that reminded her of him, just because of her strong feelings of betrayal. She’d gone with the advice and had kept a few things, which she’d transferred to a smaller container then mailed the rest in a box to her mother-in-law in Venice.

And then she’d done her best to forget about it. Until now.

She glanced around the small apartment. There was really only one place it could be. She found the small, nondescript box under her bed behind a suitcase.

She lifted off the lid and felt a rush of emotion sweep through her. On the top was their wedding invitation, a black card with white-and-teal print. Beneath that were photos from their honeymoon to Ireland, the watch she’d given him for their first anniversary and their wedding rings. And along with these symbols were everything she’d thought they’d promised each other.

For better, for worse.

For richer, for poorer.

To love and to cherish.

Till death do us part.

She’d worked to put her past behind her, but now everything she’d tried to forget had risen to the surface, making her wonder if she was ever going to be truly free. She dug through the rest of the box until she touched the thin sheet of tissue paper in the very bottom. There were no postcards. No paintings.

“Talia?”

Joe’s voice broke into her thoughts and pulled her back into the present.

“I just got off the phone with a friend of mine in Dallas. He’s sending out a patrol call to your sister’s house right now and promised to tell me as soon as they find her.”

She set down the box next to her, hoping it was going to be enough to keep her sister safe. “Thank you.”

“I also called a contact of mine here in Italy. He’s with the Italian version of the FBI’s art crime team, the Carabinieri art squad.”

“I think I’ve heard of them.”

“They deal with art theft, damage to monuments and archaeological zones. Anyway, he’s promised to help look into the case and see if he might be able to track down our hooded thief.”

“He’s here in Rome?” she asked.

“He has an office here, but he’s currently at an archeological site, doing some monitoring. He’s promised to see what he can find out.” Joe glanced at the box sitting next to her. “What are you doing now?”

“Looking through the few things I kept after Thomas’s death. The paintings aren’t here.”

Which meant they had to be in Venice.

She stood, then grabbed a backpack from her closet and started packing. She couldn’t stay here anyway. Not when they knew where she lived. She could take a train north to Venice. Her mother-in-law might be somewhere basking in the beauty of Scandinavia but Thomas’s brother had a key and would let her in.

“Wait a minute,” Joe said. “What are you doing?”

“I can get a key to my in-law’s house from Thomas’s brother. If the paintings are there, I should be able to find them.”

“In Venice?”

She nodded.

“Then I’m coming with you.”

She dropped a pair of comfy flats into the bag. “You don’t have to do that.”

“Yes, I do. Your husband was more than likely killed over these paintings, and now both you and your sister have been threatened. You need me.”

“Okay,” she said, surprised at how relieved she felt at his offer. She might not trust him completely, but as far as she knew he was on her side. “I’ve got a Metro pass. We can take the subway to the main train station and be in Venice later tonight.”

“I’ll need to grab a few things from my hotel on the way,” he said, “but that won’t take long.”

She nodded, the lingering anxiety still twisting in her gut.

She filled up the rest of the backpack with a couple of changes of clothes. They could be in Venice in a few hours, then all she had to do was find the artwork, and all of this would be over.

FOUR

Joe checked his phone again as Talia grabbed clothes out of a dresser drawer, wondering if he’d just made the right decision. No messages. He probably should have insisted she stay and let him head to Venice and see if he could find the paintings on his own. He could easily call in for backup from either the FBI or someone from the local law enforcement right here in Rome. Someone who could stay with her and ensure her safety somewhere off the grid, where she couldn’t be found.

But there were two things that stopped him from making that suggestion. One, she knew far better than he did where to look for the paintings, which meant they would probably find them much faster together than if he was searching on his own. And with the clock ticking in this situation, he didn’t have the luxury of time on his side. And two, going together to Venice meant he’d be able to keep an eye on her himself. Besides, from what he’d learned about her from their brief time together, he had a feeling she never would have agreed to stay put here in Rome and do nothing.

Which meant all he could do was pray he’d made the right decision. He glanced at her as she dropped her passport into her bag and caught the determined set of her chin. He was right about one thing—she wouldn’t have stayed here in Rome no matter how he tried to convince her. This situation might be personal for him, but it was personal to her, as well. And the bottom line was he’d rather be the one looking out for her than someone he didn’t know.

“Any messages yet?” She swung her backpack over her shoulder and let out a deep breath.

“Nothing yet,” he said. “But we’ll hear from them soon. I promise.”

“Okay. Then I think I’m ready.”

He hesitated in the doorway and caught her gaze. “We’re going to find those paintings, Talia, along with whoever’s behind this.”

“I hope so.”

They headed out of her apartment and down the narrow staircase leading back down to the first floor of her building. He’d caught the worry along with doubt in her voice, and understood that feeling. He knew what it was like to lose a sibling, and he was going to do everything in his power to keep both her and her sister safe.

Which he would. The Dallas police department would watch out for Shelby, and he’d keep track of Talia. Because seriously, how much trouble could she get into riding the train north to the century-old city? They’d arrive in Venice, make contact with her brother-in-law, then search for the paintings. And if all went well, they’d find what they were looking for.

He had local Italian law enforcement looking for the man who’d broken into her apartment. Once they found and interrogated him, they’d find out who was behind this. And he’d be able to close the case. Simple. And once they discovered all the players in this, he’d have the answers he needed to know who’d murdered his brother.

As long as they did it all within seventy-two hours. He glanced at Talia. The problem was no case involving money, greed and murder was ever simple. And whoever was behind this had already killed at least once. Which only raised the stakes.

Once they reached the bottom of the staircase, Joe opened the door and stepped back out on the noisy street and bright sunlight. A rush of hot, humid air surrounded him.

He stopped on the sidewalk as the door clicked shut behind them and he scanned the busy street for signs of the man who’d broken in to Talia’s apartment. No one looked familiar, but he could be anywhere. Watching them from inside one of the other buildings or from the rooftop. Which was why for the moment he was going to focus on getting her safely to Venice and count on the local police to track down their assailant.

“This way,” he said, turning left at the light.

Talia paused on the sidewalk. “The subway’s straight ahead.”

“I know, but I think it’s safer to go the long way in case we have a tail.” Joe grabbed her hand and picked up his pace. If someone was following them, he planned to lose them before they ever hit the transit system. “It’s just a precaution.”

But while he didn’t want her to worry, he certainly felt on edge. He searched the crowded streets, looking for anyone that seemed familiar or was acting suspicious. He felt her fingers clench tighter around his, escalating his need to protect her. He knew what it was like to lose someone close to you. And he didn’t want it to happen to her again.

There was no sign of anyone following them as he led them down a narrow cobblestone lane, but he wasn’t willing to take any chances. Because what he did know is that someone was out there, watching, and at this point he had no idea who it was.

“You okay?” he asked.

“Yeah. Just scared.”

There was fear in her eyes when she glanced up at him. Her vulnerability tugged at him, but he wasn’t going there. Not this time. She was vulnerable, but he had no intention of taking advantage. He was an agent and this was a case. Nothing more.

“It’s like a game of cat and mouse,” she said, barely above a whisper as they continued walking.

“The subways should be just a couple blocks back. If whoever is after the paintings is watching, it’s more than likely they are going to assume we’re headed to the main train station. But there’s no reason to make this easy on them.”

Five minutes later, he could see the sign again for the public transport. Talia was still looking behind them as they walked, clearly afraid that the man who’d broken in to her apartment was on their tail. He clutched her hand tighter.

She shivered next to him as they took the stairs down into the subway. “I can’t shake the feeling someone’s following us.”

“Do you think you saw him?”

“I don’t know. I keep thinking I do. Like I said, I might just be paranoid, but it makes sense they’d keep track of my every move if they think I have the paintings.”

Joe glanced behind them as they went through the ticket barrier and punched their subway passes. He looked up at the ticker board as they walked onto the platform. There was two minutes until the next train appeared. It was crowded, which hopefully meant that if anyone had followed them, they wouldn’t try anything, but that hadn’t stopped their assailant from grabbing her bag at the Colosseum.

A group of Japanese tourists huddled near the edge of the platform. A woman pushed a stroller past them. A businessman talked on his phone.

“He’s here.” Talia grabbed his arm.

“Where?”

“A dozen yards or so behind us.”

“Okay, I spotted him.” Joe grabbed her hand. “Stay close to me, but keep an eye on him. Let’s see if he follows us onto the train.”

The platform was so congested they barely had enough space to move as the throng pressed toward the yellow line. The lights of the subway on the opposite side of the tracks shot through the darkness of the tunnel. Seconds later, the subway car rushed by, followed by the squealing of brakes as it came to a stop.

They still had another minute until their train arrived.

“He just slipped behind a pole,” she said.

One second she was there beside him, the next second she was gone.

“Talia...” He scanned the platform for a glimpse of her pink shirt, but she’d already disappeared into the crowd.

* * *

Talia heard Joe calling her name, but she ignored his plea and instead pushed her way across the Metro platform toward where she’d last seen the man. Something inside her had snapped. He’d broken in to her apartment, and as much as she wanted to get away from him, she needed to put a stop to this. This man had threatened not just her, but her sister, as well. She couldn’t erase the photos he’d sent her from her mind, either. The one of Thomas’s body. The one of her and Joe sitting at the café. Someone was determined to get what they wanted, but she was just as determined to put a stop to all of this.

Except she’d lost him.

She searched the crowd, breathing in the smell of cigarette smoke and body odor brought on from the hot summer temperature. Graffiti blurred along the paint-chipped walls of the Metro. The train was coming into the station. Someone pushed past her, anxious for the doors to open and the exiting passengers to alight. But she kept moving through the crowd, her focus on the man with the streak of blond she’d just seen.

Two officers who stood talking on the other end of the platform caught her attention. She swallowed any doubts that what she was doing was foolish. She’d be safe. He wouldn’t try anything here. Not with all of these people and security around them.

Her heart raced as she scanned the crowd. This wasn’t exactly the way she’d planned on spending her afternoon. Having this man grab her bag, being rescued by the FBI, finding her apartment trashed and then having the intruder threatening her with a gun. Her gut churned as she pressed her bag closer to her side and glanced back at where she’d last seen Joe. But even he couldn’t fix everything. She still couldn’t get a hold of her sister, and there were no guarantees that going to Venice was going to put an end to this. Because if she couldn’t find the paintings, nothing she did was going to matter.

Someone bumped into her from behind. While taking the Metro was the easiest way to travel, she always preferred avoiding rush hour, where it always seemed as if the entire city was riding the subway. Like right now.

She glanced around the platform, but there was no sign of the man. But he must have her in his sights. She had the same feeling of being watched as she’d felt earlier at the Colosseum.

She shifted her gaze to the left. Bingo. He was still there, lingering at the edge of the crowd. He hesitated briefly, then quickly turned around and headed for the exit. But he wasn’t getting away. Not this time.

The crowd was thinning out around her as she started running. She grabbed his arm and pulled him around to face him. The familiar gaze pierced through hers. She swallowed the lump of fear in her throat, but didn’t let go. She was right. It was him.

“Tell me who are you and who’s after my sister,” she said in Italian.

Talia caught the look of surprise in his eyes as he tried to pull away, but she just held on tighter. He’d threatened not just her, but Shelby, as well. This had to end.

“I said who are you?” she repeated when he didn’t answer.

“You shouldn’t have done this.” He grabbed her arm and pressed a gun to her side. “You should have done what you were told, because now you’ve just made me mad and made this whole situation a whole lot worse.”

“You can’t shoot me here in front of all these people. There are cameras and police officers—”

“Except I don’t have anything to lose.” He leaned closer to her. “Which means I wouldn’t test me if I were you.”

There was anger in his voice, but she also caught the fear. What did he mean, he didn’t have anything to lose?

“Who are you?”

“That doesn’t matter.”

“Then tell me who you’re working with.”

“A very bad person.” He shook his head. “Do you think this is a game? Because it’s not. I’m just a pawn, hired to ensure you do what you were told to do. The person who hired me... I meant what I said earlier. They’ve killed before and trust me, they will kill you—and your sister—if you don’t do what they want.”

Someone shouted “Pistola!”

Gun!

Talia turned around. A woman was screaming in Italian for the police. Taking advantage of the distraction, Talia pulled her arm away from the man and slipped through the crowd. But it was too late for him. The police had surrounded the man.

Crowds filled the platform and the scene was chaos. She never should have left Joe. She needed to find him. Needed to get out of here.

“Talia...” Someone grabbed her from behind—Joe. He whisked her back toward the platform. “What did you think you were doing?”

“I don’t know. I saw him, and then...and then something snapped. I had to confront him.” Her hands were shaking, her chest heaving. “What do we do now? They’re going to be looking for me, and we don’t have time to explain this to the police.”

Another subway was pulling into the station.

“You’re right. Let’s go.”

The doors of the newly arrived car whooshed open, letting the dozens of riders escape, filling the platform even more. Joe kept walking, then pulled her into the subway car. The doors slid shut a fraction of a second later.

Talia glanced out the window from the safety of the Metro train. She couldn’t see much, but it appeared that the police now had the man in their custody. Her legs shook as they found two empty seats in the back of the car.

“Talia...”

She looked up at him, unable to tell if he was furious with her, or simply relieved she was okay.

“That was stupid,” she said. “I’m sorry. I never should have confronted him.”

“Stupid, maybe, but on the other hand incredibly brave. But you could have been hurt.”

“I know.” She pressed the palms of her hands against her thighs to stop them from shaking. “But all I could think about was stopping him. To make this entire nightmare go away. I wanted to find out who he was, or who’s behind this.”

“Tell me what he said.”

“He told me I should have done what I’d been told. That I’d made the entire situation worse.” She drew in a deep breath. “But there was something else.”

“What do you mean?”

“Something in his eyes. I don’t know. He told me he didn’t have anything to lose. He was scared, Joe. And I’m not sure why.”

“He’s being used by the person who killed your husband.”

“I know. And now we’ve got the police involved. They’re going to be looking for me now.”

“I’ll talk to my Italian contact. I already sent in a description of the man. I’ll let him know that the police have him in custody and make sure someone questions him for answers regarding this case.”

“And in the meantime?” she asked.

“I think we still need to head north and see if we can find those paintings. Because this is far from over.”

FIVE

She was losing it. Talia felt the windows of the Metro close in on her as they sped into the darkness through tunnels that threatened to crush her. She tried to reassure herself that the car was filled with tourists carrying backpacks and businessmen reading newspapers. Not the man who’d broken in to her apartment. He’d been arrested by police and wasn’t going anywhere for the moment. Which should make her feel better. But it didn’t. At least not completely. Whoever wanted the paintings—whoever had killed her husband—was still out there. And after all that had happened in the past few hours, having their hired thug arrested and put behind bars wasn’t going to stop them.

And that had her terrified.

She tried drawing in a calming breath as she counted down the subway stops to the hotel, where Joe needed to pick up his bag. She needed a place to clear her mind and stop shaking. Somewhere away from the stuffy Metro, full of people. The double doors finally opened at their stop, spewing out a dozen passengers including her and Joe, while more people filled the open space they’d left behind.

She felt Joe’s hand on her elbow as they walked down the crowded platform and up the steep flight of stairs to the street in silence. She knew if she started talking she was going to start crying and probably not be able to stop. And she didn’t want to do that. What she wanted was a place where she could feel safe.

And that place wasn’t here.

“Talia...” He squeezed harder on her elbow, causing her to flinch. “Are you okay?”

She jerked away, surprised at her response. How did she explain that she was scared stiff? That no matter how hard she tried to fight the panic that had welled up within her, it wouldn’t go away? And that she had no idea how to shake it?

Instead of answering, she took him down a side street, to a quiet spot she knew was located off the beaten path, and slipped under a darkened archway. She’d always been drawn to the places off the main thoroughfares, where you’d never find tourists and their cameras. Her father had first showed her a number of Rome’s hidden jewels, and those excursions had given her a zeal for the city that went far deeper than simply a shopping list of famous attractions.

She slowed down once they were inside the private courtyard and took in the familiar old buildings, with their twisted grapevines climbing up the sides, earth-colored paint jobs and flower-lined balconies. A woman glanced down from a third-story window and smiled before turning back to her laundry hanging in the wind above them. It was a quiet place, a reminder of what Rome had looked like decades ago. Simple. Unencumbered. And how her heart had once been before it had lost so much.

She turned around to face Joe, then held up her palm to stop him from talking. Not yet. She needed her heart to stop racing. She didn’t need him feeling sorry for her. She just wanted to find a way to put an end to this before someone else got hurt.

“I’m sorry.” She drew in a deep breath, let it out slowly then sat down on a cracked step leading up to one of the apartments. “I just need a quiet place to calm my nerves for a few minutes.”

The sun shone on him as he looked down at her, bringing out red and blond highlights in his hair. “You have nothing to be sorry for.”

She swallowed hard. “That’s easy for you to say. You’re an FBI agent. You know how to handle situations like this, but I don’t. I’m used to spending my days showing tourists this city, but this... I don’t know how to deal with people threatening my life and the lives of my family.”

“Which is why I’m coming with you. So you don’t have to deal with this on your own.”

“And if that’s not enough?” She heard her voice rising and pressed her lips together in an attempt to stop her emotions from spiraling out of control. He didn’t deserve her backlash. “The point is that you can’t guarantee my protection. Or my sister’s. We don’t know who’s behind this, but we do know how far they are willing to go. They’ve already murdered at least one person.”

He sat down beside her. “Take a deep breath.”

Talia frowned. She didn’t want to take a deep breath. She wanted to run away as far as she could and forget any of this happened. She wanted to go back to a time when all she had to worry about was the occasional obnoxious tourist. Not this.

Besides, she’d come to Italy to get away from losing Thomas, and now it was as if it was starting all over again. She didn’t want to deal with her past. Didn’t want to relive to the moment when her heart had been broken by all the lies he’d told her.

She looked at Joe, who was sitting just close enough to where their shoulders were touching on the narrow staircase. She really didn’t know anything about him. Only that he’d agreed to come with her, and that her heart kept telling her to trust him. But was his presence going to be enough to keep her safe? Thomas had been a cop, and it hadn’t saved him. Nor had it stopped him from betraying her.

But Joe wasn’t Thomas. And it wasn’t fair for her to make that comparison.

“I just feel as if it’s happening all over again,” she said, breaking the silence between them. “The days after Thomas’s death were like a nightmare. Not only did I have to deal with questions from our friends about what had happened, but the police believed that I knew about what he had been doing. That I had somehow been in on it. After he was killed they brought me in to an interrogation room, read me my rights and made me sit for hours of questioning.”

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