at odd hours of the night. Calls with rough, whispered warnings, a reminder that his life was always under scrutiny now. Everywhere he went, he was watched. And it was all because of his years of success—followed by one failed robbery that should have been the perfect crime. Every detail had been precisely planned for almost two years and no expense had been spared in buying insider information. But no one had expected an extra guard to key in and drop off a clean uniform off-shift at three in the morning. As a result, the guard had tripped over a set of glass cutters on the museum’s stairs. Falling headfirst, he’d plunged over a banister and dropped two levels, his neck broken instantly.
A terrible accident, and the only mistake Jordan had ever made in his burglary career of almost two decades. Of course criminals always said that, didn’t they?
He forced a smile into his voice. “I’m listening, Nell. Of course I heard you. Stop worrying about the Tintoretto. No one has better hands than you do. I saw you clean that last Caravaggio, remember? The dealer was delighted.”
With every calm word, he hid the bitter truth from his daughter. He’d sweated out every week of his prison sentence, determined to put the past behind him, but now he was being pulled right back into that world of shadows.
He couldn’t let Nell be pulled in with him.
He stretched his right arm carefully, feeling a sudden throb at his elbow. With every weather shift the ache returned. The beating he’d received the night of his arrest eighteen years before hadn’t helped. Nor had the later beatings he’d received from guards and fellow inmates during his years in prison.
Jordan blocked out the grim memories. All that mattered was the now.
The lean, white-haired man cupped his right elbow, wincing as fresh pain radiated out from the bone. The weather was definitely changing again.
He remembered how Nell had warned him to be prepared, that the world would look and sound different after his release. How right she had been. Wise and quiet and stubborn, his daughter was the only thing that mattered to him. He had failed her miserably by breaking the law and failed her yet again by being clumsy enough to get caught afterward.
Most of all he had failed her by indirectly causing the accident that had left a museum guard dead.
As Jordan MacInnes stared out at the Oakland Bay Bridge, he felt his fear return. Finishing his prison sentence should have brought a measure of peace and a chance at happiness. But you never walked away from your past. He saw that all too clearly now.
Nell deserved a father she could rely on, a man she could be proud of. In the years he had left, Jordan MacInnes was determined to be both those things, even if it killed him.
“What did you say, honey?” When his daughter repeated her question, he frowned. “Watch that Chinese vermilion. Mercuric sulfide is toxic in minute amounts, no matter how careful you are.” Nell knew all about toxic material safety, of course, but a father couldn’t stop worrying.
Jordan was reaching for one of his old books on Renaissance pigments when he heard a click on the line. Another call was coming in. Another whispered warning.
He scanned the number.
Blocked.
Damned cowards.
But he was ready for them now. He trusted only three people in the world, and two of them knew about his dangerous plan. Even if he failed, Nell would be protected from the shadow world and those who refused to let him go.
“Lunch tomorrow? That sounds fine, Nell. I want to hear all about Scotland. You haven’t said more than a few words about the climbs you and Eric made, and that’s not like you.”
Jordan MacInnes was almost certain he wouldn’t be at that lunch, but he didn’t want to alarm Nell. She would be told all she needed to know in due course. His old friend would see to that.
The white-haired thief with the aristocratic face stared out at the darkness, sensing the danger waiting in the shadows.
There was no turning back. Now his death might be the only gift he had left for Nell.
CHAPTER SIX
THE WIND OFF THE BAY was freezing.
Nell shivered as she rubbed her arms, glancing up at the fog that covered the Oakland Bay Bridge. For some reason the advancing white curtain reminded her of a gate opening slowly, swallowing all light and motion.
Nell forced away her uneasiness. Her windows were all closed, her doors locked. Her workroom alarm was set, which made her absolutely safe.
Of course you are. You always set your alarm when you work late. Stop dithering and finish the painting.
She had been uneasy since her return from Scotland the week before, and to her great irritation she hadn’t been able to get Lieutenant Dakota Smith out of her mind, even during long days of intense restoration work.
Now that project was almost done. Looking down at Tintoretto’s jewellike study of Saint George fighting a dragon, Nell didn’t want to let go. Living in the mind of a genius could be extremely addictive.
But now the exquisite restoration was complete. She studied the area near the dragon’s head and then put down her fine Russian red sable brush.
Done.
There was nothing more to add, no detail that would intrude to place her vision over Tintoretto’s. No art restorer allowed personal technique to challenge the integrity of the original image.
The moment Nell was finished, exhaustion struck. The restoration process required fanatical focus and patience. When you were hunched over a sixteenth-century masterpiece, you couldn’t afford even one slip of the hand. So you never let down your guard. Not ever.
And that also happened to be one of Nell’s un-shakable life rules, right up there under don’t trust and don’t lean. If most people would consider that cynical, it was too damned bad.
Life had not exactly been a kind teacher.
She rubbed her face. After long hours of meticulous brushwork cleaning the canvas, her eyes burned, her fingers ached, and her shoulders felt as if they’d been impaled by razors.
One more reason that Nell was looking forward to walking home after closing her workshop. San Francisco’s cool, salty air always helped her loosen up and put the work behind her.
After that, she would call her father to check in. If she was lucky, she might get the truth about his urgent calls to her in Scotland. For the moment, he was sticking to his story of sudden chest pains that had made him panic and call her from the emergency room.
Nell didn’t buy it—she knew her father well enough to know that he cared little about his own health. He was worrying about something else. She just didn’t know what.
She locked her workshop door and triggered the alarms for active monitoring, jogging in place to warm up. So far she’d been lucky, with no robberies or thefts of any sort, but she made it a point not to take chances. Her alarm system was the best you could buy. Even her father had approved of it.
She stretched from side to side, savoring the silence of the street while mist curled past in
