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.
Kira 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.”
