Cindy saw life differently. She admired her A Sook, and often traveled with him from Hong Kong to Macao and back, watching him conduct business as he earned his fortune. She wanted the same for herself.
She’d been drawing since she could hold a crayon, and pencil sketching since not too many years after that. She always thought she’d be an artist, but her interests took a detour along the way, influenced by her structured, engineering-oriented mind and her photographic memory. So architecture seemed the perfect way to go, a marriage between her technical and creative sides.
Her true talents were in the design and creation of interior space, the very direction she pursued. Fortunately, in good times or bad, there were always a select few among New York’s affluent who were adding wings to their homes or redesigning their existing living space. Consequently, there was no shortage of work in New York City for architects as talented as she.
Cindy lived on the Upper West Side of Manhattan with her amah, Peggy Sun, a close family friend and paid companion who’d accompanied Cindy to the United States when Cindy was fifteen. That was when Johnny Liu had ensured his niece a place in an exclusive private high school, and her new life had begun.
Nearly fifteen years later, Peggy was still her faithful companion—more like an older sister than an amah, since Cindy was nearing thirty. The two women had a great deal in common. Peggy, like Cindy, was a gifted artist with a keen eye for detail. She could capture and replicate almost anything on canvas. And Cindy’s uncle had fostered those talents by funding Peggy’s enrollment in fine arts programs that enhanced her skills.
Cindy knew that her A Sook had invested in Peggy so that she could be a professional asset to Cindy. And she was grateful, especially now that she was striking out on her own. Peggy’s instincts for fine art rounded out Cindy’s structural and conceptual skills, and her knowledge of art history and stylistic nuances helped Cindy pick out just the right design elements for each client.
They made a great team. Between that and the business savvy Cindy had in common with her uncle, her fledgling business was off to a fine start.
Still, knowing her A Sook as well as she did, Cindy had always suspected that he had more specific reasons—a larger plan—for training Peggy so extensively.
The phone call she now received from him confirmed it.
Her heart was broken when he told her his medical prognosis. He wasn’t just ill, as he’d led her to believe. He was dying. But he wanted no tears shed. What he wanted was to get his life in order. He needed Cindy’s assistance, and Peggy’s as well. He needed their combined talents and expertise.
There was never a question of what their answer would be.
Up until now, Cindy had pushed many ethical boundaries, but she’d never crossed the line into criminal. It hadn’t been necessary. But the conversation with her A Sook changed all that. She’d do anything for him. Plus, the undertaking would be challenging, exciting, and—most of all—vindicating.
So she met with his New York representative, Xiao Long, who explained the details of the individual roles she and Peggy would play.
It was a brilliant plan. Risky, yes, but what was life without risk? Cindy had learned that at her A Sook’s knee. Big stakes meant big payoffs—if you had the guts. Well, Cindy had the guts and the motivation. So did Peggy, who was on board with no coercion necessary.
The requisite phone calls were made. And the ball was in Cindy’s court.
Her job was two-part—personal and professional. The combination would be tricky. She’d have to walk a very fine line.
It was critical that this first meeting went precisely as planned.
She spent extra time getting dressed and applying her makeup that morning. She chose a stylish black pantsuit—conservatively trendy, but fashioned by a less well known designer. Nothing that screamed money, like an Armani. She was portraying a budding professional, not the wealthy, spoiled niece of one of Hong Kong’s richest business tycoons. And she was portraying it to a man who knew money.
She glanced at the photo of Meili that Xiao Long had given her. She remembered her cousin well—beautiful and vital, a turn-on for any man. There were definite similarities in their bone structure and coloring. Cindy had to make the most of those similarities.
Sitting patiently in front of the makeup mirror, she parted her glossy black hair on the right rather than the left side, letting it flow straight and loose past her shoulders. She applied a light amount of lip and eye makeup, being sure to emphasize her arresting almond-shaped eyes, dark and mysterious, and her high cheekbones.
She slipped into high-heeled pumps, since, like Meili, Cindy was petite, with a small-boned, dainty build.
Then she turned to Peggy. “What do you think?”
A smile curved her amah’s lips. “I think you’ve more than accomplished step one of our goal.”
Cindy acknowledged that statement by crossing her fingers and scooping up her purse. “Let’s hope you’re right.”
They would arrive in New York on schedule.
It had taken careful planning. Smuggling criminals into the United States was far more difficult than getting them across European and Asian borders. But with the right connections and enough money, anything was possible.
It helped that no one had seen their faces. It also helped that the concentrated efforts of Interpol and the various federal government agencies that were investigating the museum heists were all focused on Europe. Criminals for hire like the Black Eagles, despite being affiliated with Albanian organized crime in Europe, didn’t normally travel to the States.
But they had family in America. Family they could hide with, blend in with.
And, with one phone call, America had become the land of opportunity.
Wallace was in his Manhattan art gallery that morning. He’d come in early to review his finances. He was in trouble. Big trouble. But he couldn’t give up the paintings. If he did, he’d be left with nothing but the cavernous hole in his heart.
He had to make more money.
He’d spend most of the day in the gallery, where business hours presented the greatest likelihood of pedestrian traffic and potential sales. Then, he’d drive out to Long Island before rush hour and spend the evening at his East Hampton gallery, when the year-round residents were strolling the streets and browsing at the local shops. The affluent often bought on impulse.
Closing time would be at nine. That would allow him the entire long, empty night in his East Hampton estate, where he’d lose himself downstairs in his private sanctuary.
His anguish wasn’t the only thing that would keep him from sleeping. Nor was his escalating debt.
His entire body still ached from the beating he’d taken. He wasn’t a kid anymore, and his body didn’t heal the way it used to. The bruises on his throat had faded enough so he could switch from turtlenecks to buttoned dress shirts and ties. But he still flinched every time he shaved, as well as every time he stood up or made a sudden move.
He was worried sick about a repeat performance—or worse—now that Matthew had told the truth to the FBI. Wallace had agreed that it was the only way to go when Matthew had called. What else could he say without arousing suspicion, especially after Rosalyn’s harrowing experience? Only he knew that, even if Rosalyn were killed, her death would be quick and painless compared to the agonizing torture they’d inflict on him before slaughtering him for his betrayal. And there was no backing out now. He was in too deep. Plus, he needed those paintings. They were his lifeline.
The tinkling bell at the front of the gallery interrupted his musings, telling him that his first customer of the day had arrived. He went to the front, forcing a smile as a young Asian woman stepped inside. She brushed strands of hair off her face and raised her head, meeting his gaze head-on. “Mr. Johnson?”
Wallace felt as if his heart had dropped to his knees. “Meili?” he murmured in a choked voice.
The young woman looked puzzled. “Excuse me?”
He blinked. Her English was perfect, unaccented. And the way she was dressed, the way she carried herself—it wasn’t Meili. But, dear Lord, they could be twins.
“I apologize,” he managed. “I thought you were someone else.”
“I hope that someone is attractive and talented.” She smiled—Meili’s smile—and extended her hand, palm out. “I’m Cindy Liu. I believe you spoke to my uncle?”
Liu. He’d almost forgotten. His longtime business associate in Hong Kong had called to discuss his niece, and to ask for Wallace’s cooperation in advancing her career. Liu was a wealthy and influential man, whose transactions with Wallace in his prior career had escalated his success as an investment banker. Now, after Wallace had lost everything and was pouring whatever was left of his soul and his financial assets into his two galleries, Johnny Liu continued to be supportive. He had numerous affluent friends and business associates who were also patrons of the arts, and, when they were in New York, he made sure to send them Wallace’s way. He’d also personally bought paintings from Wallace, and sold a few of his own through Wallace’s galleries.
As a result, any favor Liu asked of Wallace was a favor done.
In this case, he’d asked Wallace to use any influence he still wielded in New York’s circle of the rich and famous to promote his niece, Cindy, and her new architectural business. Since that was the world Wallace still traveled in, it would be an easy task to accomplish. Especially now that he was seeing Cindy Liu in person. Like Meili, she was beautiful and he could already tell she was charismatic. He’d have no problems getting her in the right doors, and if she was as talented as her uncle professed, she’d be an instant sensation.
“Cindy.” Wallace recovered himself, clasping her hand and shaking it. “You’re the brilliant young architect your uncle spoke so highly of. Please, call me Wallace.”
“Thank you, Wallace. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” Cindy paused, eyeing him with a curious, concerned expression. “Are you all right?”
“Fine.” Wallace squelched the overpowering sense of déjà vu. “You just remind me of someone. The resemblance is striking.”
“I hope that’s a compliment.”
“It is. The woman I’m remembering was quite lovely, and obviously, quite memorable.” He gestured for Cindy to come in and have a seat. “Your uncle and I have been colleagues for many years. I’m so glad he sought me out to help you. I’d like to do all I can to benefit your new business. Hopefully, I can introduce you to the right people who’ll make all the difference.”
Cindy gave him a radiant smile. “I have no doubt that you can.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Sloane ran the hounds an extra half-mile that night to atone for leaving them longer than usual.
It was eight p.m. She’d been gone since eight a.m. Between a seminar she was giving at a local police precinct, a class she taught in level-three Krav Maga, two meetings with corporate clients, and a later-than-usual occupational therapy session, the day had been packed.
And, yes, she’d also been avoiding Derek.
Last night, she’d arrived home before him, still fuming from his deception. She was also drained, having joined her father to pick up her mother and get her settled and comfortable at home, then waiting while Rosalyn provided the sketch artist with as comprehensive a description of her kidnapper as she could. Before taking off for home, Sloane had ensured that the FBI agents Tony had assigned were in place—one inside her parents’ apartment, and two outside the building. She’d introduced herself and reviewed their instructions with them. Satisfied, she’d left and driven to the New Jersey suburbs.
She’d pulled into her driveway, thinking that home looked damned good. Derek’s car not being there looked even better. After taking care of Moe, Larry, and Curly’s needs, she’d gulped down a yogurt and turned in early. Once she and the hounds were in the bedroom, she’d locked the door behind them, giving Derek a clear sign that he wasn’t welcome.
He’d tried the door once, knocked and called her name twice, then given up and gone to the guest room.
This morning, Sloane made sure she heard him leave before pulling on her jogging gear and taking the hounds for their three-mile run. Shortly thereafter, she’d fed them, showered, and taken off.
She moved back her occupational therapy session. Connie had no problem seeing Sloane at six rather than five, since she was working at her Morristown, New Jersey, office today, rather than the Hospital for Special Surgery in Manhattan. Although, being the blunt person she was and the friend she’d become to Sloane over the past year and a half, she was quick to point out that Sloane was putting off the inevitable. Whatever it was that Derek had done to piss her off so much wasn’t going away without a major blowup.
Sloane had to agree. This confrontation was going to be ugly, but it had to be had.
Finishing up her extended run with the hounds, she returned to the cottage. This time, Derek’s car was already in the driveway. She went inside, unleashed the hounds so they could take off for their water bowls, and grabbed a towel, wiping her face and neck.
“Hello.” Derek walked out of the kitchen with a glass of wine in his hand. “I put out some brie and flatbread crackers to go with this.” He pointed at his goblet. “Care to join me? Or are we continuing our game of duck and run?”
Sloane lowered the towel. “I’m not playing duck and run. I’m just trying to calm down enough to have a civil conversation.” She glanced at the wine. “Merlot?”
“Beaujolais.”
“Better still. I’ll jump in the shower and join you in ten minutes.”
“Done.”
She spent the ten minutes reining in her emotions as the spray of water hit her face and she lathered away the aftermath of her run. Then, she dried off, pulled on a comfortable nightshirt, ran a brush through her damp hair, and made her way to the kitchen.
Derek was sitting on a stool at the island that seated two. He gestured at the other stool, which he’d pulled around to the other side of the island.
“I figured we’d be less likely to kill each other with wood and granite between us.”
“Smart idea.” Sloane slid onto the stool and poured herself a glass of wine, taking a sip and then spreading some brie on a cracker.
“Do you blame me for what happened to your mother?” Derek asked without preamble.
“I blame you for the setup.” Sloane was equally blunt. “You used our relationship, and the intensity of our first few nights together, to dupe me. That’s not only degrading, it’s a major breach of trust. Which, as you recall, is what broke us up the first time.” She gazed steadily at Derek as she chewed and swallowed her cheese and cracker.
“I’m not going to pretend I don’t see your point,” Derek replied, although his jaw was set in that way that told Sloane he wasn’t backing down. “What I was forced to do sucked. But when Rich called and laid things out for me, I had no choice. I had to protect you. Not from the world—I realize you’re more than capable of doing that. From yourself. You love your father. If he had been guilty of something ugly, he might not have told you, and you might not have been able to see through him the way you would anyone else. And if you’d known what Rich had planned, you would have raced over to your parents’ apartment and jeopardized everything Rich hoped to, and did, accomplish.”
“Right.” Sloane’s tone was dripping with sarcasm. “So this was all about me. Not your loyalty to the Bureau.”
A muscle worked in Derek’s jaw. “It was about both. Yes, I did my job. Yes, I feel an obligation to put away the bad guys. And, yes, that would apply to your father if he turned out to be one of those bad guys.”
“Well, what do you know? A shred of honesty. Maybe if you’d gone for that approach from the start, I would have cooperated, and we wouldn’t be having this fight.”
“Oh, get off it Sloane. You wouldn’t have cooperated—not emotionally or legally. You’d be choosing between your father and an organized-crime investig
ation. That’s one hell of a major conflict of interest. Worse, he’s not just your father. He’s also your client. You’re legally obligated to protect his interests. Take a step back and view this objectively. Don’t you see how irrational you’re being?”
“Yes.” Sloane slammed her fist on the counter, hating that Derek was right, hating that she couldn’t get past this. “The logic is all there. But the way the situation was handled…I still feel used. And manipulated.”
“I had a snap decision to make. I made it. I knew you’d be furious. And I felt like shit when I gave Rich the go-ahead. But I couldn’t see any other way for him to get his answers and not put you in an untenable position. I’m sorry for how all this makes you feel. I’m sorry about your mother. But I’m not sorry for my decision. Now it’s up to you. Are you going to be reasonable and work through this with me, or are you going to reerect that damned wall of yours?”
“I’m trying like hell not to. That’s why I put off having this fight. I get what you’re saying. But here I was, picking out fabric patterns with you, while my mother was being carted off to be killed, and Rich was grilling my father about Cai Wen’s murder. Do you know what a fool I feel like?”
“The redecorating part wasn’t a lie. I want to make this place ours, rather than yours. The only contrivance was the timing of Leo’s appointment.” Derek leaned forward. “Let’s face it, Sloane. If you’d been the lead agent on this case, you would have followed the same procedure I did, and you know it. The real issue here is that you need to be the one in control—always the cat, never the mouse. Well, life doesn’t work that way. This time you were the mouse. And you can’t come to grips with that.”
“Right back at you,” Sloane retorted. “You’re the biggest control freak I know. If the tables were turned, you’d be ripping mad.”
Derek issued no denial. Not that Sloane had expected him to. The facts were the facts. They both hated being maneuvered like chess pieces, no matter how solid the reasons behind it were. And now Derek was waiting for her to find an objectivity that continued to elude her.