Chapter 7
Becky was quiet for a long time after he left, the tapping of her fingers on the keyboard the only noise in the cabin. He was right that she needed to be working on the password, but frankly she was running out of ideas.
She stood and went back to the kitchen. She found real crystal glasses and poured herself a glass of red wine. The alcohol hit her empty stomach with an acidic splash, and she took another sip before turning to stare into the well-stock refrigerator.
Who was this woman who was married to Rowan? Was she sentimental, the type of person who would use the name of an important person or event? Or was she analytical, choosing passwords strictly for their unlikely combinations? If it was the latter, they were well and thoroughly screwed.
Becky opened what she thought was a pantry, which turned out to be the door to the basement. Her eye caught on a small sign.
Staying Safe at the Safe House
- Stay indoors at all times
- Give all electronics to agent(s), including cell phones
- Stay hidden if anyone comes on the property
- Always do what the agent(s) tell(s) you to do
Confusion crystalized into a strange kind of clarity. She squinted to read the small print at the end of the list. “Copyright 1982 by the Federal Bureau of Investigation.”
She closed the door, walked to the table and sat down.
A safe house, like on TV.
What did it mean? Could this little house really be a place to hide people? Maybe that sign was nothing more than a joke, a silly sign that Bill or Bullwinkle or whoever actually owned this place saw one day at a flea market and just had to have.
Or maybe it was real.
It rankled that he was lying to her, no matter the reason. Becky had a zero tolerance policy for liars, and the fact that she was still here, still trying to help this man, was a source of sheer frustration to her own good sense.
By the time Rowan returned nearly three hours later, she had worked herself up into a full-fledged snit. She heard his fingers on the keypad.
Keypad. Who has a keypad on their front door? Why, the FBI, of course!
“Hey,” he said, stepping into the house and shrugging out of his coat.
“How did it go?”
“He’s going to try, but he told me not to get my hopes up.” He rubbed his eyes with a sigh.
“How long until we hear?”
“A couple hours. You have any luck here?”
“Not a bit. Oh, and I changed my mind, I’m not cooking. There’s some moose jerky in the pantry you can gnaw on.”
“We’re back to that again?”
She slammed her laptop shut. “Open the basement door.”
“Huh?”
“Open it!” She stood up and followed on his heels into the kitchen.
He opened the door and looked at the sign.
“Should I give you all of my electronic devices, Agent Mitchell?”
He closed the door. “I’ve got some fried chicken in the car.”
“What?”
“I wasn’t sure if you were cooking or not, and I didn’t want to go hungry, but I didn’t want to piss you off, so I left it in the car. But since you’re already angry, I figured we could have dinner.”
“Is that all you have to say for yourself?”
He opened the front door. “No. But it’s all I’m going to say right now.”
Rowan lifted the axe high above his head and brought it down swiftly, splitting the log in two. In his mind the noise was like a loudly ticking clock, counting down the moments until something horrible would happen to his son.
Not my son, really. But forever the son of my heart.
He wondered where Anthony and Tamra were right now, and immediately stomped on the thought. He would not wonder. He would not imagine. He would pray they were safe and unharmed and he would work his hardest to find them.
The axe came down again, sticking in the wood, and he yanked it back out, aware of the stinging in his eyes that threatened to destroy this facade of composure. He had to keep it together, or he’d never find his family.
He thought of Becky, her wild fire-kissed hair and glorious body rocking on his own, and longed to touch her again.
She was troubled by what they had done. Hell, maybe he should be, too, but he couldn’t be sorry, no matter how much he tried to conjure the emotion.
He wanted Tamra to be safe, but he was not betraying anyone by loving the woman he’d wanted since the moment he met her.
Crack, and the wood cleaved again, his breath forming clouds in the icy evening air. It wasn’t just Becky’s body. He wanted her mind, her sweet conscience, her in-your-face attitude. This was a woman who could keep him on his toes.
Or on his knees.
Of course, she hated him now for the lies he must tell. There was no more pretending he was being truthful. Lying never came naturally to Rowan, though he had learned to do it and do it well.
But not with Becky.
It occurred to him that maybe he had slipped with her, revealed too much, because he didn’t want to lie to her in the first place. A dangerous situation for an undercover agent to be in.
The ringing of his cell phone brought him out of his reverie, Marco’s familiar number on the display. “What do you got?”
“Okay. You ready for this?”
Becky stepped onto the porch, her arms crossed over her chest against the cold night air, and Rowan held up one finger.
“We got two hits, paternal and kinship, and you won’t believe either one of them. Anthony’s real father is none other than our very own Interpol Agent Gianni Amato.”
“What?”
“It gets better. Anthony’s a kinship match to Leonardo Depaoli.”
“The art thief?”
“That’s the one.”
“Holy…” Rowan swallowed hard. What did it mean? Gianni was there at the time of the kidnapping. That couldn’t be a coincidence. Did he know Anthony was his son?
Was it possible he was the one responsible for their disappearance?
“Where’s Gianni now?”
“He just went to the coffee shop across the street to get some bagels. Figured I should call you when I had the chance.”
“Has he been at the hotel the whole time?”
“Far as I noticed, but he says he has to go soon to take care of some personal business. You think he’s in on this?”
“I don’t know. Shit, how could he not be?” He let the axe fall into the chopping block, the blade sticking in the wood. “Thanks for letting me know.”
“You got it.”
Rowan clicked off his phone and met Becky’s curious eyes. “Anthony’s biological father is an Interpol agent who was at the museum at the time of the kidnapping.”
“The stuck-up guy with the gray suit?”
“That’s the one. And Anthony’s somehow related to the Depaoli family, who’re best known for their great love of art, both legitimately acquired and stolen.”
“That’s one hell of a coincidence.”
“I don’t know what it means.” He ran his hand through his hair. “Maybe Tamra’s mother was a Depaoli.”
“This is one doozey of a tangled web, Rowan.”
“You’ve got that right.”
She rubbed her hands up and down on her arms. “What’s the name of the Interpol agent again, so I can try it in the computer?”
“Gianni Amato.”
“Am I related to the Pope?”
“Half-cousin, once-removed.”
“Sweet.” She turned and walked inside, then reappeared a moment later. “Rowan?”
“Yeah?”
“Just now, you asked if that guy if Amato was still at the hotel. Weren’t you just there?”
His features turned to stone.
She shook her head. “That’s what I thought. You’re lying to me again. Damn it, Rowan!” She stomped her foot. “Where were you today?”
The two of them faced off under the stars, long moments passing without a word. Becky was the first to move, turning on her heel and heading inside.
She wasn’t gone five minutes when he heard her holler, “We’re in!”