“Valetta is a great starting point, but I hope you make it to Gozo while you are here.”

“I plan to take a boat to Gozo next week.”

“Good. I have work in a gallery in Rabat—Victoria—where I live. Let me know when you are coming, and I can show you the gallery, give you a tour of the city.”

“That’s a very generous offer.”

“Your father brokered many sales for me in the US. It is the least I can do for his daughter.”

Yet another person who mentioned her father’s assistance as an art broker, yet he’d never mentioned this aspect of his trips abroad. He’d certainly never worked with any of the auction houses she consulted for. But then, he was brokering private sales between artist and buyer, with the price decided up front.

How lucrative had that work been for him?

Over the woman’s shoulder, Kira spotted a tall man with a receding hairline and white skin flushed red from the heat outside. He mopped the sweat from his crown with a handkerchief as he scanned the room. His gaze landed on her, and he smiled and made a beeline in her direction.

She was fairly certain she knew who she was about to meet. She’d expected him to be here when she arrived and had spent the first twenty minutes cursing that they’d never FaceTimed or exchanged photos as she searched the room for him. But clearly, he’d recognized her.

He paused a few feet away and opened his arms in a stiff but welcoming gesture. “Cousin Kira?”

She smiled and accepted the awkward—and thankfully loose—hug. “Cousin Andre. I’m so pleased to finally meet you.”

He took her hands and beamed down at her, cocking his head. “I saw your photos on the news websites. You are even more lovely in person.”

At least that explained how he’d recognized her, but she shuddered to think of the news stories he referenced. Last December, her face had been all over international news, her photo taken without her permission as she left the hospital and later when she’d shown up at the courthouse with Diana for the arraignment.

She’d never told Andre about her role in the arrests last December. Now he not-so-subtly told her he knew. At least the Navy had promised to keep her name out of the news reports from earlier this week. She was here to learn about her parents, and the last thing she wanted was prying questions about either ordeal.

She gave him a tight smile at the compliment, then turned to Juliette. “This is my father’s nephew—my step-cousin—Andre Stoltz, visiting from Berlin.”

The artist shook Cousin Andre’s hand, then said, “I’ll let you two catch up. Be sure to call me when you visit Gozo.” She handed Kira her card.

“I will, thank you.” She slipped the card into her purse and watched as the older woman approached an imposing-looking older man in a bespoke suit. His sharp gaze lacked warmth as it fixed on Kira and Andre, triggering a slight shiver. He turned and looked down at Juliette and kissed her cheek, then placed a possessive hand on the woman’s small waist.

She’d assumed he was a patron, but the hand and kiss added another element to their relationship. Not that it was any of Kira’s business. But if he was likely to join the Gozo tour, Kira would pass.

She returned her attention to her newfound cousin. “I’ve met several associates of my father already. It seems he was quite the patron of the arts in Malta.”

Andre leaned close and spoke softly. “I’m sure he knew how to cultivate sources. A good way to see people’s private collection is to become part of the community.”

“Yes. But you never said he brokered deals. Both contemporary art—which wasn’t exactly his specialty—and historical pieces.”

“Did he? I wasn’t aware. But it makes sense.”

She supposed it did. He couldn’t just tell everyone he wanted to search their catalog for stolen art. But was his work official, or under the table?

Who was she kidding? His work had to be under the table. Odds were her father had bank accounts she didn’t know about in Malta. The country had a reputation for money laundering. Russian oligarchs took great advantage of that, and the government was currently in hot water with the international community for not seizing the assets of oligarchs who’d been sanctioned in the last few years.

She and Andre circled the room, with her introducing her cousin to the people she’d met before he arrived. These people weren’t just the movers and shakers of Malta’s art scene, they were from all over the region—Morocco, Italy, Spain, Egypt. And most of them knew her father personally or by reputation. They respected and admired him and were shocked to hear of his passing.

If nothing else, this trip was a decent memorial for her father, whose graveside service had been attended by only a handful of people. Freya had been there, one of the few who’d known him from his teaching days. Not that he didn’t have friends, but most of his colleagues had been left behind in Pennsylvania when he retired.

One man had stood off to the side, not quite joining the scant mourners, and Kira had asked Freya if she recognized him from the college. Freya had studied the man carefully before giving a sharp shake of her head.

Kira had looked forward to meeting him and finding out how he knew her father—her endless quest for answers—but he’d left before she could approach him.

Now, here she was, months after his funeral, in a roomful of strangers, receiving an outpouring of respect for Dr. Conrad Hanson in person, and it was an unexpected emotional hit.

She needed a break to collect her thoughts and excused herself to visit the restroom. At least her social anxiety appeared to be on hiatus for the moment. Perhaps it was because everything was new and foreign, or it might be the jetlag, but it hadn’t dogged her since her plane had landed last night. Who knew travel could be easy like that?

She touched up her lipstick and took several deep breaths. This regrouping felt vastly different from her break between teaching classes on Tuesday. It wasn’t about her. It was about her father and the respect people were paying her simply for being related to him.

She let herself have a moment of grief. Of missing the man and feeling the hole in her heart that had begun with her mom’s death and grown larger when her dad took his last breath.

She had a lot of anger at him for all his lies and omissions, but in this moment, she only felt the love and loss for the man who’d taught her to ride a bike and how to play chess.

Who’d shared with her his love of art. And his love for her mother.

She’d worry about secret bank accounts tomorrow.

If nothing else, she would be grateful for this trip for rekindling her love for her parents. She touched her mother’s pendant, the metal warm from resting on the bare skin over her sternum, then ran her hands down her hips to smooth her deep blue cocktail dress. Skintight with a heart-shaped neckline, it was probably the sexiest dress she’d ever worn.

After years of trying to hide her body from male employers who made inappropriate advances and who always attended the art receptions that were part of the world she worked in, it was freeing to get to feel pretty and sexy and empowered in an art gallery, no less.

She took one last deep breath—reminding herself she needed to be on guard here, no matter how much people invoked memories of her father—and left the ladies’ room.

Raptor operative Chase Johnston had taught her how to fight dirty. Her shoes weren’t stilettos—no way did she want to climb the stair-streets of Malta in four-inch heels—but they had enough heel to do damage if necessary, and she knew exactly how to do it.

She didn’t know if her father’s mystery correspondent was here, but even if he wasn’t, someone here was bound to tip him off that Dr. Conrad Hanson’s daughter was in Malta with days to go before the July 3^rd meeting.

Rand dropped his bag on the floor of his third-floor hotel room. Two twin beds, an enclosed balcony—an iconic component of Maltese architecture—and a view of the harbor.

The room was charming, but right now, all he cared about was the shower. He had just enough time to get clean before heading to the gallery reception, which had started an hour ago.

He ran a hand over his jaw. Malta in late June was not the time to start growing a beard, but he didn’t really have time to shave. Three days’ growth looked more like a choice than laziness. A man on vacation. Indiana Jones setting out to loot another ancient temple.

He took a quick shower, then pulled on business casual slacks and a designer Aloha shirt. He hoped he looked the part of a man on vacation in an income bracket that could afford the kind of art that would be on display at the gallery.

He opened the camera case that hid surveillance devices Freya had provided and chose the thick sport championship ring—minor league baseball, which made him wonder if Freya knew of his glory days in high school or just got lucky in choosing a sport he knew well—with built-in camera and slipped it on his right hand. He would be able to snap pictures when he raised a glass to his lips.

Dressed and ready, he set out. He stopped at his rental car to tuck away the camera with spy gadgets, then continued to the gallery, which was one block up from the main pedestrian street inside the walled city of Valletta. A ten-minute walk from where he’d parked the car.

His senses were on alert as he climbed the roadway stairs. He’d never visited Malta, but it had long been on his bucket list. He was used to last-minute international travel as a SEAL, but that was always for ops. It was a bit surreal to be here as a civilian. Twenty-four hours ago, he’d been impatiently waiting for his commanding officer to sign the papers that authorized his travel, and now he was here, on his way to see Kira, who might or might not have entered a viper’s nest.

He’d kept his focus on the mission—unofficial though it might be—while he was en route, but now that he was here, he thought about the woman he’d just followed across an ocean and a sea.

He would argue to his last breath with his superiors that this was about the threat of terrorism on US soil and an assault on his base, but to himself, he would admit there was more to it.