Last Man Standing

Tori knew it was only the results of winds and ions and barometric pressure, but a sudden, almost panicked need to feel the heat of the sun had her reaching toward the sky, splaying her fingers against the cool glass and holding her breath.

On the next, saner breath, she curled her fingers into her palms and pulled away from the window. She wasn’t prone to panic attacks or silliness of any kind, but the sensation of being trapped in a world of darkness had tapped into some whimsical notion from her childhood, when she’d still believed in fairy tales and mythical monsters.

Time to bring herself firmly back into the modern, real world she could control.

Activating the electronic sensor on her Cartier watch, she scanned her surroundings. A single hit. The blinking readout indicated one listening device. She let her eyes find it first, then crossed over to the bookshelf, ostensibly to inspect the leatherbound collection of French classics, while she evaluated the design and capability of the bug. Audio only. Good to know.

No camera, no problem with leaving a guest unattended. Apparently, she could snoop wherever she wanted as long as she was quiet about it. Smiling at her good fortune, Tori closed Les Misérables and replaced it on the shelf. Jericho Meade’s library spoke more of privilege and culture than of the top-notch security fortress her briefing had led her to expect.

Cole Taylor was the name she’d been given—warned about, in fact. A former cop with KCPD, he’d been seduced by enough money to turn his back on Meade’s illegal activities and become the reputed crime boss’s personal bodyguard. Backer and Brady had said there hadn’t been one successful break-in or attempt on Meade’s life since Taylor had taken over the job. No one in law enforcement on the local, state or national scale had been able to make a dent in Meade’s criminal empire since Taylor had taken over security.

Tori frowned. This notorious Taylor must have a secret weapon he relied on, because she’d seen little evidence of anything top-notch since she’d driven up to the main house.

True, getting here hadn’t been easy. The feeling of isolation had probably been planted in her subconscious mind as she’d wound around secondary highways and back roads to find it. Secluded on seven acres near the Kansas City Zoo and Swope Park, the Meade estate was surrounded by a forest of oaks and maples and leafy undergrowth—some of it landscaped, more of it left to grow wild and create a natural barrier that separated the redbrick mansion from the park, the road and the rest of civilization.

Yes, there’d been a guard at the wrought-iron gate. He’d searched her shoulder attaché and scanned her with a metal detector. But at the house itself, she’d seen nothing beyond a routine electronic alarm system at the exterior doors and windows, and Aaron Polakis, who seemed to have lost interest in keeping an eye on her. If this was Taylor’s idea of security, then she was overqualified for the job.

But she wouldn’t claim an easy victory just yet. She couldn’t help wondering what else the two Bills at the Customs Department had been misinformed about. They had little hard evidence that Meade had actually stolen the statue—only his affinity for rare art and business trips that put him in New Orleans at the time of the theft. Maybe the intercepted communiqués to a mysterious Sir Lancelot weren’t talking about the sale of the statue at all. The horse in the memos Bill and Bill had shown her could be referring to anything. A shipment of drugs. A thoroughbred. Another work of art.

If the statue was here, though, she’d find it. She owed that much to the memory of her father.

A knight in shining, golden armor. A lone warrior on horseback. The Horseman will always ride to your rescue, her father had told her. He’d first shown her The Divine Horseman’s picture in a museum magazine when she was fourteen, and, in her adolescent heart, Victor Westin had seemed every bit as handsome and heroic as that fabled knight. He’d promised to take her along on his next business trip and show her the real thing.

But her father never came home again. Except in a box for his own funeral.

“Focus, Tori,” she chided herself in a whisper, slamming the door on those tender memories of Victor. She was here to complete a mission, not to reminisce about what might have been.

Hidden at her sides, Tori’s fingers stretched and curled in a balletic display of controlled dexterity. She wasn’t nervous so much as steeped in adrenaline. She was far more comfortable taking action than biding her time.

The Westin name had gotten her in the door. Her credentials as an appraiser would give her access to Meade’s reputedly extensive collection. Then there’d be time for plenty of action.

She settled back into the chair, easing the anticipatory energy from her posture. Thoughts of her father and foolish schoolgirl fantasies were firmly tucked away. Agent Westin was in control once more. Correction, Professor Westin was in the house. She was good to go.

“Ms. Westin—?”

Tori shot to her feet at the male voice, tinged with a hint of arrogance and a full dose of down-home charm.

“Or should I say Professor? Doctor?”

“Victoria’s fine.” She extended her hand to the thirty-something man in the crisp white tennis outfit. Six feet tall, maybe. Compactly built. Not one strand of his light-brown hair looked out of place. This wasn’t the white-haired patriarch from the Customs Department briefing file.

“Victoria, hmm?” He savored her name as if he’d taken a sip of pricey champagne.

Too smooth, too handsome, for her tastes. Definitely more her mother’s type.

He folded her hand up in his and smiled. “I’m Chad Meade. Jericho’s nephew.”

The grip on her hand tightened when she would have pulled away, and she could have sworn the stroke of his thumb was an intentional caress. A shiver of revulsion skittered along her spine, dredging up an instant sense of distrust.

Fortunately, he misread the confusion that must have shown on her face. “He’s resting right now. But since I manage the estate and oversee the acquisition and donation of his collection, I thought we should get acquainted. I want to help any way I can.”

“I see.” Tori pulled her hand away, resisting the urge to wipe it clean against her thigh. “I hope Mr. Meade isn’t ill. I was looking forward to getting started with cataloging right away. It’s exciting to think he has so many pieces, he can’t keep track of them all. Who knows what I’ll discover.”

“Admirable work ethic. He’ll like that.” He gestured for her to retake her seat and crossed to a tray of ice and drinks in the corner. “Can I get you anything?”

At two in the afternoon? Tori crossed her legs at the ankle and feigned a relaxed pose. “Nothing for me, thanks.” To his credit, Chad bypassed the decanted liquor and filled a tall glass with ice and sparkling water. “Will I be reporting to you, then?” she asked.

“That remains to be seen.” He turned and raised his glass in a toast. “How closely would you like to work together?”

She didn’t plan to have anyone looking over her shoulder, especially this starched and tanned loverboy. Tori pulled her reading glasses from her bag and put them on to emphasize the bookish, I’m-not-here-to-flirt role she’d come to play. “I tend to be pretty independent. Since the list I was given is out-of-date, it might be easier if I go from room to room to document items as I go. The job can be tedious and time consuming, and it sounds like you’re a busy man. I’m content—and more productive—when I work alone.”

Seemingly undaunted by a pair of wire frames, Chad took a drink and crossed to the desk. He leaned against the edge of the dark cherry wood immediately in front of her, forcing her to tilt her chin up to maintain eye contact.

“Keep in mind, Victoria…” He nodded to a line in the paneling that ran parallel to the edge of the redbrick fireplace. She’d already spotted the hinges on the bookshelf marking a hidden door. “This old Victorian monstrosity is filled with secret rooms and passageways a stranger could get lost in. We had a new maid here once who went down to the cellar for a bottle of wine and ended up missing in the catacombs for two days. Needless to say, by the time we found her, she wasn’t inclined to return to work, so we let her go. For your own safety—as well as protection of Jericho’s artifacts—until our chief clears you, you’ll be restricted to certain areas of the house.”

“But I’ll need access to every room, even the hidden ones, in order to do my job completely.”

“True, my uncle’s taste in fine things goes through the entire house. Nonetheless, there are restricted areas throughout the estate. I doubt the chief would look too favorably upon finding you where you shouldn’t be.” He flashed a smile as white as his shorts, then stood and circled behind her chair. He traced his fingertips along the sleeve of her jacket, marking a trail from wrist to shoulder. “Of course, I, too, have an appreciation for fine things. Perhaps I could personally show you some of the more valuable items we keep behind locked doors.”

Tori stared deep into the grain of the desk, resisting the urge to clench her fists at the unwelcome touch. She had a feeling breaking and entering, and risking the wrath of Jericho Meade would be preferable to spending time in close quarters with this lothario.

“The chief?” she asked, keeping her voice even. “You mean Mr. Meade?”

Irked by her lack of interest in his offer, the charm bled from Chad’s voice. “Our chief of security. Cole Taylor.” Chad stalked to the drink cart and splashed some brown liquor into his water. He drank half the glass before speaking again. “He used to be a cop. Lost his badge on a corruption charge.” The rest of his drink disappeared in another long swallow and he refilled the glass, ignoring the water this time. “Taylor saved the old man’s life one night, and now he’s the golden boy. He guards Jericho and all that’s his with the devotion of a damn puppy. He’s the one you really need to worry about.”

So she’d heard.

Chad’s smile was firmly back in place when he faced her again. But she’d glimpsed the chink in his plastic exterior. Was it jealousy over Taylor’s quick rise in the family hierarchy? Contempt over golden boy’s qualifications for the job? Mistrust because Jericho had let an ex-cop into the fold?

Tori didn’t push. Curiosity aside, she wasn’t here to investigate crime family disharmony—unless she needed to use it as leverage to achieve her own agenda.

“So when can I meet Mr. Taylor?” Though she’d have a hard time feigning respect for a man she knew to be a crooked cop, she had to play the protocol game, or risk her cover. “The sooner I get started, the sooner I can have the estimates for your uncle.”

“Why are you so anxious to get to work, Victoria?” Chad bolted his drink and strolled back to the desk.

“Because it’s the job Mr. Meade hired me to do?”

He, apparently, didn’t appreciate flippancy. He sank into the chair behind the desk. Neither of them was smiling now. “I’m Mr. Meade,” he stated, emphasizing his claim to authority while sounding for all the world like a petulant child. “I’d think you’d want to be making a better impression on me. My uncle is in his late seventies. His mind and health are failing and he’s tired all the time. I’m the one who arranged to have you hired. We’re trying to avoid a legal nightmare with insurance claims and make sure his wishes are carried out after his death.”

The library door opened with a quiet swish across the carpet. “Don’t write me off just yet, Chad.”

A wizened old man with a shock of snow-white hair and clear blue eyes entered the room. The gnarled fingers of his left hand clutched an unlit cigar and rested on the arm of a plump man with slick, thinning hair. Though the men were similar in age, there was an unexpected frailty about the white-haired man.

Despite the added lines and yellowish pallor, Tori recognized Jericho Meade even before Chad rose from his seat to acknowledge him.

“Uncle.”

“Mr. Meade.” Tori stood and extended her hand. “Victoria Westin. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”