“I told you everything in Paris,” Kat explained, her voice steady. “My father didn’t steal your paintings. With a little time and a little help, I may be able to tell you who did. I may even be able to arrange for them to be returned—”
His smile widened. “Now that is an interesting proposition.”
“But first . . .”
“Help?” the man guessed.
She nodded. “You say my father did this.”
“I know he did this.”
“How?”
“Oh, Katarina, surely any half-decent thief would know that I have taken . . . precautions . . . to protect myself and my belongings.” Arturo Taccone raised a hand, waved at the opulent surroundings.
“The Stig 360,” she said with a smile. “Nice. Personally, I prefer the cameras in the 340 models. They’re clunkier, but they have more range.”
Outside the villa, the rain was falling in torrents, but inside, Taccone’s voice was as dry as kindling. “I had hoped you would take my word that your father has done this terrible thing, Katarina. But if—”
“Look.” Kat’s voice was sharper than she’d thought possible as she stepped closer to the man at the center of the room. Goon 2 made a move toward her, but Taccone stopped him with a wave. “It’s not a pride thing. Or a trust thing. It’s an information thing. You’re a man who makes careful decisions based on the best information possible, are you not, Signor Taccone?”
“Of course.”
“Then help me. Help me get your paintings back. You’ve got proof, you say?”
Taccone held his drink to the light as if toasting Kat and her courage. “Of course.”
Kat smiled, but her expression held no cheer. “Then show me what you’ve got.”
There would come a time—although Kat didn’t know it yet— when her conversation with Taccone that evening would be told and retold around Uncle Eddie’s kitchen table a thousand times. When the story of her crossing the drawbridge would involve not rain but bullets; when the tale of her asking Arturo Taccone for his help would include threats and windows and something involving a pair of antique dueling pistols (which, according to legend, Kat would also steal).
But Kat herself never told the story. Hale and Gabrielle lay in the darkness, staring down at the grounds when the drawbridge lowered and Kat left of her own free will, taking her sweet time.
As she walked through the rain and darkness, Hale and Gabrielle didn’t notice the way she kept the small disk from Arturo Taccone tucked under her arm. But, of course, they would see it eventually.
And, of course, eventually, it would change everything.
Chapter 10
The hotel suite was nice. Hale (or, more specifically, Marcus) didn’t know how to reserve any other kind. The couch was plush, and the television was large, but as Kat settled in to watch the disk Taccone had given her, she was anything but comfortable.
“There should be popcorn,” Gabrielle’s voice cut through the suite. “Am I the only one who thinks there should be popcorn?”
Kat pulled her dry sweater around her and tried to tell herself it was the rain and her damp hair that had chilled her.
“Milk Duds,” Hale said as he sank to the end of the sofa. “I, personally, am a fan of the Dud.” And Kat suddenly realized where the chill was coming from.
Hale hadn’t spoken to her in the car or looked at her in the elevator. Kat pulled a notebook from her bag and crossed her legs, wondering if Hale would ever forgive her for walking away from him. Again.
She reached for the remote control and pushed PLAY. The television flickered. Ghostly black-and-white images flashed across the screen: the long entryway that she had walked down only an hour before, a professional-grade kitchen, a wine cellar, a billiards parlor, Arturo Taccone’s private study. And finally . . .
“Stop.”
Gabrielle hit the PAUSE button, and the image froze on a room that Kat hadn’t seen—a room Kat could only assume very few people ever saw.
A bench was the only piece of furniture. The floors were solid stone instead of marble or wood. But the most remarkable thing was the five paintings that hung on the far wall.
“Blueprints,” she said, but Hale was already rolling the spare set of documents onto the coffee table between the sofa and the TV.