supposed to be a big, bad secret agent,” she said coolly. “Dig out the information yourself.”
He would, Dom vowed as the door closed behind her with a small thud. He most definitely would.
All it took was one call to arm Dom with the essential information. Natalie Elizabeth Clark. Born Farmington, Illinois. Age twenty-nine, height five feet six inches, brown hair, brown eyes. Single. Graduated University of Michigan with a degree in library science, specializing in archives and presentation. Employed as an archivist with Centerville Community College for three years, the State of Illinois Civil Service Board for four. Currently residing in L.A. where she was employed by Sarah St. Sebastian as a personal assistant.
An archivist. Christ!
Dom shook his head as his cab picked its way downtown later that evening. He envisioned a small cubicle, her head bent toward a monitor screen, her eyes staring through those thick lenses at an endless stream of documents to be verified, coded and electronically filed. And she’d done it for seven years! Dom would have committed ritual hara-kiri after a week. No wonder she’d jumped when Sarah put out feelers for an assistant to help research her book.
Ms. Clark was still running endless computer searches. Still digging through archives, some electronic, some paper. But at least now she was traveling the globe to get at the most elusive of those documents. And, Dom guessed as his cab pulled up at the W New York, doing that traveling on a very generous expense account.
He didn’t bother to stop at the front desk. His phone call had confirmed that Ms. Clark had checked into room 1304 two days ago. And a tracking program developed for the military and now in use by a number of intelligence agencies confirmed her cell phone was currently emitting signals from this location.
Two minutes later Dom rapped on her door. The darkening of the peephole told him she was as careful in her personal life as she no doubt was in her work. He smiled his approval, then waited for the door to open.
When neither of those events happened, he rapped again. Still no response.
“It’s Dominic St. Sebastian, Ms. Clark. I know you’re in there. You may as well open the door.”
She complied but wasn’t happy about it. “It’s generally considered polite to call ahead for an appointment instead of just showing up at someone’s hotel room.”
The August humidity had turned her shapeless linen dress into a roadmap of wrinkles, and her sensible pumps had been traded for hotel flip-flops. She’d freed her hair from the clip, though, and it framed her face in surprisingly thick, soft waves as she tipped Dom a cool look through her glasses.
“May I ask why you felt compelled to come all the way downtown to speak with me?”
Dom had been asking himself the same thing. He’d confirmed this woman was who she said she was and verified her credentials. The truth was he probably wouldn’t have given Natalie Clark a second thought if not for those little nose quivers.
He’d told himself the disdain she’d wiped off her face so quickly had triggered his cop’s instinct. Most of the scum he’d dealt with over the years expressed varying degrees of contempt for the police, right up until they were cuffed and led away. His sister, however, would probably insist those small hints of derision had pricked his male ego. It was true that Dom could never resist a challenge. But despite Zia’s frequent assertions to the contrary, he didn’t try to finesse every female who snagged his attention into bed.
Still, he was here and here he intended to remain until he satisfied his curiosity about this particular female. “I’d like more information on this codicil you’ve uncovered, Ms. Clark.”
“I’m sure you would. I’ll be happy to email you the documentation I’ve…”
“I prefer to see what you have now. May I come in, or do we continue our discussion in the hall?”
Her mouth pursing, she stood aside. Her obvious reluctance intrigued Dom. And, all right, stirred his hunting instincts. Too bad he had that meeting at the National Central Bureau—the US branch of Interpol—in Washington tomorrow. It might have been interesting to see what it would take to get those prim, disapproving lips to unpurse and sigh his name.
He skimmed a glance around the room. Two queen beds, one with her open briefcase and neat stacks of files on it. An easy chair angled to get the full benefit of the high-definition flat-screen. A desk with a black ergonomic chair, another stack of files and a seventeen-inch laptop open to a webpage displaying a close-up of an elaborately jeweled egg.
“One of the Fabergé eggs?” he asked, moving closer to admire the sketch of a gem-encrusted egg nested in a two-wheeled gold cart.
“Yes.”
“The Cherub with a Chariot,” Dom read, “a gift from Tsar Alexander III to his wife, Maria Fyodorovna for Easter, 1888. One of eight Fabergé eggs currently lost.”
He glanced at the researcher hovering protectively close to her work, as if to protect it from prying eyes.
“And you’re on the hunt for it?”
“I’m documenting its history.”
Her hand crept toward the laptop’s lid, as if itching to slam it down.
“What have you found so far?”
The lips went tight again, but Dom was too skilled at interrogations to let her off the hook. He merely waited until she gave a grudging nod.
“Documents show it was at Gatchina Palace in 1891, and was one of forty or so eggs sent to the armory at the Kremlin after the 1917 Revolution. Some experts believe it was purchased in the 1930s by Victor and Armand Hammer. But…”
He could see when her fascination with her work overcame her reluctance to discuss it. Excitement snuck into her voice and added a spark to her brown eyes. Her very velvety, very enticing brown eyes, he thought as she tugged off her glasses and twirled them by one stem.
“I found a reference to a similar egg sold at an antiques shop in Paris in 1930. A shop started by a Russian émigré. No one knows how the piece came into his possession, but I’ve found a source I want to check when I’m in Paris next week. It may…”
She caught herself and brought the commentary to an abrupt halt. The twirling ceased. The glasses whipped up, and wariness replaced the excitement in the doe-brown eyes.
“I’m not trying to pump you for information,” Dom assured her. “Interpol has a whole division devoted to lost, stolen or looted cultural treasures, you know.”
“Yes, I do.”
“Since you’re heading over to Paris, I can set up a meeting for you with the division chief, if you like.”
The casual offer seemed to throw her off balance. “I… Uh… I have access to their database but…” Her glance went to the screen, then came back to Dom. “I would appreciate that,” she said stiffly. “Thank you.”
A grin sketched across his face. “There now. That didn’t taste so bad going down, did it?”
Instant
