Chapter 14

Chapter Fourteen

R and spotted Kira the moment he stepped into the gallery. She was talking to a man on the far side of the room, and she sparkled like a diamond.

Her dark hair was worn up in some sort of twist. Elegant. Beautiful. She wore a tight blue cocktail dress that hugged her curves—and showed she had more than he'd imagined. The pencil skirt she'd worn at their first meeting had been covered to mid-hip by a long, loose top. He'd only gotten glimpses of her spectacular ass and hadn't realized the blouse hid a perfect hourglass shape.

Tonight, Kira looked like a Valkyrie—a sexy, brilliant, mythical being.

She laughed, and his heart squeezed. He wanted to be the one to make her laugh like that.

But then, he just wanted her, period.

He stepped deeper into the room and took a drink from a passing tray. An older man approached and introduced himself. Philippe DeAngelo, the gallery manager.

"Thank you for the invitation," Rand said.

"It's my pleasure. A friend of Gillibrand is always a friend of mine. He mentioned you're interested in acquiring the work of one of our local artists."

Rand nodded. He'd spent his flight memorizing names and dates, but his cover allowed for some ignorance. "I'm new to collecting. My interest first sparked when I was researching a book last year."

"Ah yes. Gillibrand mentioned you're an author. What do you write?"

"Thrillers. I'm afraid I can't reveal my pseudonym for legal reasons." He considered claiming to be a ghost writer, but could offer that excuse later if needed. He had to possess a certain level of wealth and success for this role—which some ghost writers could claim—but he didn't need to be Stephen King.

"Now, of course, I'm eager to know."

Rand smiled. "Someday. Maybe." He then went on to name the artist he was most interested in, a man who'd died five years ago and whose original paintings were scarce. Prints, even signed ones, were attainable, but that wouldn't warrant a trip to Malta. "If you come across an original, please give me a call." He passed DeAngelo a card that had his name and a cell phone number and nothing else.

Calls to that number would be forwarded to his phone without giving the caller access to his device or location data. Freya had been efficient at getting him what he needed for this op. With that in mind, he raised his glass for a sip and flicked the band of the championship ring with his thumb, snapping a photo of the gallery manager.

He made sure to keep his head down, focused on the manager, waiting for the moment when he would officially spot Kira. He felt the buzz of anticipation, much as he had in the classroom. As he had been then, he was braced for anger, but hoped for something better.

"We do have signed and numbered prints, but it could be some time before another original comes our way."

"I'm in no rush. This is more research trip than art hunt, and I'm interested in glass artists as well. After a brush with nearly buying stolen artifacts, I've decided to steer clear of antiquities."

"Understandable. We don't deal in antiquities for that reason. But we have some fine glass art."

The gallery manager shifted and indicated a sculpture on a pedestal. But his view of the item was obscured by the beautiful art historian who was studying it. She stood at just enough of an angle that he could claim to recognize her. This was his moment. Cementing his cover story.

"Excuse me, is that Dr. Kira Hanson?"

"The daughter of Dr. Conrad Hanson? Yes. Did you know him?"

Not long and not well. "No, but she assisted me with a purchase from Gillibrand several months ago."

"Ah, yes, she said she does research and appraisal in the US for Gillibrand and other auction houses. It came as a surprise because we didn't even know Dr. Hanson had a daughter. But then I saw her and, well… It begins to make sense."

Rand looked at the man sharply, then reined in his natural reaction. His character would be interested, but not a special forces operator conducting an interrogation. "Well now, you've piqued my curiosity."

Philippe smiled slyly. "Tell you what, give me your penname, and I'll explain."

Rand let out a chuckle that only sounded real. "If only I could."

"I expect her visit will cause quite a stir."

From the speculative look on the man's face as he gazed at Kira, she already had.

K ira had been thrown for a loop by Reuben Kulik's claim her father was a thief. Even worse, it wasn't as if she could refute his words. Conrad Hanson's secretiveness only made the claim more credible.

Secret bank accounts sounded more and more plausible.

Did her father deal in stolen art?

Or did he force unwilling repatriation?

Art theft for profit was a rare and weird beast, given that the most valuable works of art, if stolen, couldn't easily be sold or, if they were, displayed by their owners. And it wasn't like her father had a secret stash of paintings in the basement—well, except for the ones painted by her mother—but Kira had witnessed her mother painting most of those and had posed for more than a few of them.

They were authentic and personal. Not a hidden Monet, van Gogh, or Rembrandt.

She studied the glass sculpture as she sipped her wine, thankfully alone as Kulik had gone off to ruin someone else's vacation.

The price tag for the piece was thirty thousand euros. It was gorgeous: red, yellow, and orange flames that gave the illusion of flickering as it gathered light from the pedestal and glowed. If Kira had that kind of money to spend on pretty objects, it would be something that would make her happy to have in her living room—wherever that would be when she finally decided where she'd go after selling her parents' house.

Technically, she could afford the piece. She would smile every time she looked at the gorgeous glass art and think of her trip to Malta and the friendly, skilled artist who created it. But it would be foolish to spend so much given her uncertain future, just because it would make her happy.

She had that level of passion for works of art, but had always lacked the wherewithal to collect for herself. She'd spent years as a collection manager for extremely wealthy clients, and spending their money on fine art had been satisfying. But then her last full-time employer had attempted to acquire her , souring her on working for wealthy, entitled men.

So she'd shifted her employment to consulting—no employer meant she could walk at the first sign of trouble. And she'd been happy, even if a bit—or a lot—poorer.

She took a deep breath. She needed to continue circulating the room. Most people here knew her father, and this was her starting point. The man she was looking for might be here.

But being social and perky felt daunting. She'd been doing fine as far as managing her social anxiety, but Reuben Kulik had thrown her for a loop. Maybe she should leave. Tomorrow, she could return when the gallery was open to the public and chat up whoever was working.

A deep chuckle sounded behind her, and she felt a ripple of…she wasn't sure what this emotion was. Elation? Pleasure? Alarm? Resentment?

All of the above?

No. It was utter disbelief.

It wasn't possible that she'd recognized that laugh. Not here.

Tuned in now to the conversations behind her, she found his voice easy to identify. "This is more research trip than vacation. I plan to set part of my next book in Malta."

Her belly fluttered, and the mix of emotions hit her again, but with sharper peaks and valleys.

Not only was Lieutenant Commander Randall Fallon in Valletta, but he was also using the cover story they'd devised last December. She'd bet anything he'd pitched his voice so she would hear. He was feeding her cues.

But how? Why?

She could guess the answer: Freya was worried. She'd said as much. But could she really pull the kind of strings required to send a Navy SEAL to Malta?

Not if the SEAL in question didn't push for it. Which meant Rand had traveled nearly five thousand miles for her .

She slowly turned as she sipped her wine, thankful that this time, she'd had the warning of his voice. No spewing. Still, when she saw him, she couldn't help but catch her breath. She coughed, but kept her drink.

Randall Fallon in his wealthy author-on-vacation attire was a sight to behold.

Not that he hadn't been hot in his combat uniform—or whatever the camouflage thing he'd been wearing Tuesday was called. It was just a different kind of attractive. She was reminded of their first meeting, when he'd walked into the room and his handsome face and confident manner had practically melted her ovaries.

The man was a presence.

If she wasn't careful, he might make her forget why she was here.

Or even why he was here.

Was she really in danger?

She made a soft squeal of surprise to draw his attention. She was barely even acting, her brain still reeling from his unexpected appearance.

His gaze met hers. His mouth curved into a devastatingly perfect smile. "Dr. Hanson, I was just on my way to say hello. I couldn't believe my eyes when I spotted you across the room."

She let out a soft laugh. "I imagine I'm the more surprised of the two of us." She flashed her teeth and narrowed her gaze, even as her heart pounded. This man made her want things it was safer to avoid.

The man he was chatting with—a collector from Italy, if she remembered correctly—smiled broadly and said, "I'll leave you to your reunion."

With him gone, there were just a few feet of empty space between her and Rand. "You're researching your next book?" She spoke loud enough for others to overhear.

"I'm behind on my proposal and figured a tax-deductible trip might get the creative juices flowing." He took her hand and brought it to his lips. "It's good to see you. I've been meaning to contact you to get an appraisal for a painting my sister inherited from her husband's family."

Her nerve endings prickled with the touch of his lips on the back of her hand. Usually, Kira would give all the disclaimers about the limits of her expertise, but this was a cover story like his fake author persona. It didn't matter. "We can discuss that when we're both back in DC."

His smile deepened, bringing out the wrinkles next to his eyes. "It's a date, then."

Her belly fluttered. This was all an act. He couldn't hold her to a fake date and nonexistent artwork appraisal, yet she felt certain that was exactly what he intended to do.

She decided to make him squirm by asking a question he might not have an easy answer for. "If you're in Malta for research, what brings you to this gallery, tonight of all nights?"

"You"—he paused, letting the word stand alone, then added—"hooked me on collecting when you helped me last fall. Although I'm no longer interested in antiquities. I figured since I'm here for research, I should buy a souvenir I can write off as a business expense."

"Your writing must be going really well if you can afford original works as souvenirs, but I have a hard time believing Uncle Sam would accept such a purchase as a business expense."

"So I'll convince my publisher to put whatever I get on the cover. There. Business expense."

She laughed. "Well then, I think this glass fire sculpture would sell a lot of books." She pointed to the work she'd been studying moments ago.

"You like that piece?"

"Very much."

He glanced at the price and his grin widened. "I'll add it to the list of potentials. I've only just arrived in Valletta. I probably shouldn't buy the very first thing I see, even if it has the stamp of approval from my favorite art historian."

"You flatter me."

"Definitely not."

"I have the distinct feeling I'm the only art historian you know."

"I'm certain we'll meet at least one more tonight."

She laughed. "What if you decide you like them more than me?"

"Not possible." His eyes lit with warmth as he watched her. Relaxed and confident. Nothing about him said he was working the room, working undercover.

"How long are you here for?" she asked.

"Two weeks, maybe longer if my research goes well."

His answer didn't surprise her. It was exactly her timeline. Was the Navy really giving him that much time off? There was no way this was a sanctioned op. He had to be burning leave.

The idea that he was giving up precious leave for her brought a return of the fluttery feeling, but it also left her with a debt she'd never be able to pay.