Last Man Standing

“Have you thought again about having your breasts augmented, dear? I’ve met the most delicious cosmetic surgeon here in California. He says there’s a procedure that—”

“Mother.”

“I’ve always thought you’d have the most lovely figure if…”

It was the damn if that always stuck with Tori. No matter what she achieved with her life, that if never seemed to completely fade from the back of her mind.

What if her father hadn’t died?

What if her grandfather wasn’t one of the wealthiest men in Kansas City?

What if she’d been born the son her family had always wanted instead of the daughter who never quite measured up?

And so she ran.

Tori worked damn hard to stay in top shape, to replace skin and bones with endurance and muscle, to toughen up the outside in an effort to toughen up the inside, too. Running was her escape. It had been the saving talent that a too tall, too skinny, too smart high school girl could master while other girls got dates and her world fell apart.

Now, as a twenty-seven-year-old woman, it was vital to her job and mental health to exercise regularly. Running was almost as good as coffee ice cream with chocolate sauce. It was almost as rewarding as bringing down the bad guys. After wrapping up her most recent investigation and providing the key evidence to indict a gang of drug smugglers who’d used shipments of paintings to transport cocaine across the country, she should be feeling pretty good about herself.

If…

She sprinted her last lap at her high school alma mater, the Pembroke Hill School, slowed her pace and turned for home.

Maybe if she had a new case to dive into right now, her mother’s biannual chat wouldn’t bother her so much. Maybe if her date the night before hadn’t been such a dead end, her mother’s insinuation that Tori wasn’t as pretty or perfect as she could be might not have a ring of truth. Ken Burford had told her that her greatest asset was her red hair. But she’d read between the lines of his tedious conversation—her greatest asset had always been her grandfather’s bank account.

Tori jogged north, up along Rockhill Road, toward the art museum and her renovated condo. Traffic was getting heavy with Kansas City’s lunchtime rush, and the sun had popped through the clouds to warm the bare skin of her arms and the pavement beneath her feet. She stopped at the red light and jogged in place, pressing two fingers against her pulse and checking the second hand on her sports watch to monitor her heart rate. As cars and pedestrians gathered at the intersection around her, she ignored curious glances and…something else.

One particular look she couldn’t ignore.

Though she couldn’t immediately place the source, Tori felt the thorough, personal scrutiny like a tap on the shoulder. She curled her fingers into fists and slowly dropped them to her side. Someone wasn’t just scanning the crowd, giving a second look to the tall, slender jogger. He was watching her. Intently.

Professional training, which she trusted more than personal intuition, kicked in. The light changed to green, the flow of traffic switched, and Tori jogged out ahead of the slower walkers. She inhaled deeply through her nose and lengthened her stride, her face fixed straight ahead, her eyes scanning the street from curb to curb.

Black car. Four o’clock position. Approaching from the rear. Local plates. She slowed her pace and watched it pass by. Two men. Unknown to her. She paused beneath the shade of a tree as she reached the parklike area of the museum grounds. Unzipping her fanny pack, she pulled out a bottle of water and took a long, quenching drink, using the opportunity to verify her impressions of the vehicle.

She’d seen it parked at the school. The men inside just happened to be leaving at the same time and taking the same route as she? When the teak-skinned driver pulled into the museum parking lot, she was certain they’d been following her.

Amateurs.

Tori replaced the bottle and tucked the wisps of her straight copper hair back into her inch-long ponytail. She jogged in place until the driver and passenger climbed out. Both men wore suits and ties and gloves. Driving gloves she could excuse without alarm. But gloves on the passenger? In another couple of weeks it’d be summer, for crying out loud. He’d better be doctoring a rash inside those things.

She waited a few seconds longer, until Rash-man glanced her way and the two men nodded to each other. Time to go. She cut out across the museum’s thick, green lawn. The detour around the building would add an extra half mile to her run, but she had a feeling she was going to get a thorough workout no matter what route she took.

She grinned as the two men gave chase.

Tori didn’t take chances when it came to her own personal safety, but she wasn’t afraid to confront danger when it ran into her path—or, in this case, ran after her. She doubted they wanted to rob her. She’d allowed them to see the contents of her fanny pack. And a rape in broad daylight wasn’t unheard of, but these guys had had a better chance of nabbing her at the school.

She had a feeling this pursuit was related to work. Or family. At least the danger she faced on the job served a useful purpose. The family connection could be a little trickier. But whether these two Lethal Weapon wanna-bes were the good guys or the bad guys remained to be seen. Wearing them out in a footrace would give her the advantage, either way.

When she neared the copse of trees and low wall surrounding the modern statue of a giant shuttlecock, she seized her opportunity. Tori jumped once, up onto the wall. Then she jumped to the ground on the other side, crouched low behind the statue and stilled her breathing. The would-be Riggs and Murtaugh came scrambling over the wall, the dark-skinned one puffing from the exertion. The shorter one with the blue eyes reached inside his jacket. “Lady?”

Fat chance.

Without waiting to see what kind of weapon he’d pull out, Tori sprang to her feet and charged. With her hands fisted, her leg braced, she kicked out and knocked the weapon from his hand.

“Son of a—” He grabbed his wrist and shook his hand as if his fingers had gone numb.

“Lady, wait!” The driver wanted his turn. “Miss Westin, we’re—” She spun and kicked, forcing him back into the wall. He plopped down on his rump and threw his hands up in the air in surrender. “We just wanted—”

“How do you know my name?” she demanded. She was guessing family business now—of the worst kind. Only she couldn’t imagine any of her grandfather’s enemies hiring two bad-boy wanna-bes like these guys to come after her. And if they were with the Bureau, they needed to revisit basic training. When he started to get up, she thrust her palm toward his face and he scrambled back to his seat to avoid the blow. “Why are you following me?”

“Victoria Westin, right?” he confirmed. “FBI undercover task force? You’re Frank Westin’s granddaughter?”

She kept him pinned with the proximity of her fist. “Who are you?”

Feeling had apparently returned to the shorter man’s hand. He was adjusting his gloves now. “We don’t have to deal with this kind of crap, Brady. Let’s take care of this ourselves.”

“Backer!”

Take care of this? Ignoring his partner’s warning, he advanced on Tori from behind. She shot her elbow back into his solar plexus. “Stay away from me,” she warned.

“Hey, lady.” The shorter man stooped over, holding his gut. His words were barely a whisper as he struggled to find his breath. “We know you know martial arts, already. Give it a rest. I swear, we just want to talk.”

“Talk?” She moved aside, keeping both men in her sights. “You chased me.”

“You ran.”

“I was out jogging—”

“This should help.” The dark-skinned one named Brady interrupted the debate and unbuttoned his suit jacket, showing her the interior lining.

“Stay away from that gun.” She recognized the Sig-Sauer, government issue, strapped to his belt.

“It’s okay.” With a silent warning for his partner, Backer, to stay put, he used his thumb and forefinger to pull a slim leather wallet from his inside pocket. He closed his jacket and flipped the wallet open to reveal a badge and ID. “We’re with the Customs Department. I’m Agent Bill Brady. My hotheaded partner here is Agent Bill Backer.”

“Let me see your badge.” She silently nodded to Backer, who picked up his wallet from the ground and displayed it. That was the item he’d been pulling from his pocket. She wasn’t sure whether to feel embarrassed, amused or irritated by this unusual introduction. But the badges looked legit. The photo IDs matched. Customs agents. Tori lowered her hands to her sides and took a deep breath. “You’re both Bill’s?”

If this was a decent con, they’d have changed their names.

“Confusing, I know.” Brady laughed and pocketed his badge.

Backer sat beside him on the wall, rubbing his sore stomach. “Jeez, lady, you’re tougher than you look.”

“I told you she’d be right for the job.” Agent Brady took on an almost fatherly tone. “Your credentials are impeccable, Agent Westin. So’s your spin kick.”

“Thanks.” Now she was a little confused. “Why didn’t you introduce yourselves right away?”

Backer grimaced. “Did you give us a chance?”

Tori crossed her arms and canted her hip to the side. These guys were harmless. “You should have used the telephone or stopped by my office. Following a woman who’s on her own in the big city is hardly a reassuring way to approach her.”

“Sorry,” Brady apologized. “We wanted to keep this out of normal channels, for secrecy’s sake.”

Intriguing comment.

“You have a degree in art history, right?” he asked.

More intriguing. “One of my degrees is, yes.”

“And you’re Frank Westin’s granddaughter?” Backer seemed more impressed with that relationship than she was.

Not like she’d claim the man. But she supposed wealth and power and shady connections got one’s name mentioned in certain circles. “We’ve already established that. What do you want?”

“Have you heard of The Divine Horseman?”

Damn intriguing. She loved a good mystery. And, as far as she was concerned, The Divine Horseman was one of the biggest.

Tori could have run through the extensive mental catalog of Middle and Eastern European art she’d memorized from years of interest and study. But this was one rare, beautiful piece she knew by heart. The legend surrounding the sculpture had fueled adolescent fantasies about men and heroes that reality couldn’t match. “Jewel-encrusted statuette of a knight on horseback. European. Dates back to the Crusades. Stolen from a museum in New Orleans a year ago. Hasn’t surfaced at any public auction or private sale since. The diamonds, rubies and gold alone are valued at over a million dollars. The history of the Horseman makes it priceless.”

Agent Backer grinned. “She does know her stuff.”

Despite her earlier annoyance with these two bozos, their friendly banter and inept efforts at covert action were growing on her. And her curiosity was definitely piqued. “What about The Divine Horseman?”

“We’ve talked to your superior at the FBI and have gotten permission to recruit you to assist us. Your expertise in the art world, your Bureau training and your family connections make you the perfect choice for this mission. I have your orders here.”

“Orders to do what?” she asked, excited at the prospect of what they were asking of her, but leery of why the Westin name had to be a part of it.

“Word is, the current owner plans to sell it to a foreign investor and ship it out of the country. All under the table, of course. Before that happens—” Agent Brady pulled a sealed envelope from his pocket and handed her the assignment “—we want you to get it back.”

Two weeks later

“WAIT HERE.” The taciturn butler who’d introduced himself as Aaron Polakis opened the thick walnut door and pointed Tori into the library. His cropped blond hair had receded so far that the points of skin gave him a devilish expression which rivaled the friendliness of his personality. Maybe his thick Middle European accent was an indication he didn’t know the language very well. Or maybe he was just an economist when it came to words. He paused before closing the door on his way out. “Sit.”

Clearly, he hadn’t been hired to make guests feel welcome. She wondered what his real job was here at the Meade estate, and whether the gun holstered beneath his uniform jacket had something to do with it.

Tori felt comparatively naked without her Glock sidearm strapped to her waist. But then, art historians rarely armed themselves. This afternoon she was Victoria Westin, associate professor of antiquities, not Tori Westin, FBI agent. Indiana Jones aside, she needed to come off as book smart and boring, not armed and ready for action.

Bearing that in mind, Tori smoothed the legs of her taupe linen pantsuit and perched on the edge of the brocade wingback chair to await an introduction to her new employer. Her mother would tell her the color of her suit was drab and clashed with her rich surroundings. But the understatement fit the role she was playing. Besides, she was here to do a job, not snag a husband. Brains and resourcefulness were the requirements of the day, and Tori had those in spades.

She rose to her feet, intending to make the most of any unguarded time in the house by inspecting every room until she could narrow down the search. And, judging by the turrets and wings and widow’s walks she’d seen driving up to the front steps, she had plenty to search.

The Meade mansion was an historical testament to Victorian architecture, with its red brick and dark wood and ornate moldings. Heavy velvet curtains and gilt trim bespoke power and money.

But there was a chilly heaviness to the air, as if the weight of too much opulence and too many secrets had grown too great for the walls to bear. Tori pushed aside the fringed drapes and gazed out at the ominous clouds that gave a dusky cast to the afternoon sky and threw long, fingerlike shadows across the lawn and driveway below.

A few miles to the north, above the downtown skyline, the air was still clear and sunny and blue. But like a tail she hadn’t been able to shake, the clouds had rolled in and darkened and followed her south. Now, they seemed to linger overhead, thickening in strength, churning in an ongoing battle within themselves.

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.”