have her committed on the spot. No, first he’d fire her, then he’d call a psychiatrist to send men in white coats to haul her off to some sterile institution with cheap hotel art on the walls. Kensey sighed. “I could steal the original myself.”
Anyone else might’ve spit out his coffee. Neil swallowed and set the mug down on his desk, then sat. “You don’t know who has the Degas.”
“We’ve both heard the rumors.”
“Rumors being the operative word.”
Kensey studied her boss. His brows lowered, he wasn’t quite frowning, more like he was deep in thought. She was encouraged by the fact that he hadn’t told her outright it was a ridiculous idea.
“You and Ian Holstrom used to be business partners,” she said. “Do you think he could have a private collection of stolen masterpieces?”
“We parted company over twenty years ago. Hard to say what he’s into now.”
“Is he capable of such a thing?”
Neil’s smile held no humor. “He wasn’t always narcissistic and greedy. We made a lot of money very quickly and Ian figured that entitled him to a seat among Boston’s elite. But he was crass, always talking about how rich he was. People didn’t like him. They still don’t, no matter how much expensive art he acquires. So, yes, I can see him wanting to stick it to everyone by hording stolen art for his own amusement, but I can also see how the rumors might have gotten started out of disdain for the man.”
“But since the Degas hasn’t been seen in seven years, only the forgery, it is possible Holstrom has it, right?”
“It’s also possible Seymour’s painting isn’t a forgery.”
Kensey didn’t blink. “I’m not wrong. And I don’t have any other leads.”
Neil sighed. “Look, you can’t break into his house. Holstrom has top-notch security. He’s an arms dealer and defense contractor, for God’s sake.” Neil held up a hand when Kensey tried to interrupt. “However, in addition to his love of art, he has an insatiable appetite for fine wine and beautiful women...”
“Okay,” she said. “So, what are you thinking?”
His smile relaxed her, but not because it was reassuring. Most people found that particular smile to be comforting. Fools, all of them. Her boss was wickedly smart and when he flashed that easy grin, she knew the axe was about to fall.
She had no idea what had caused the eventual rift between him and Holstrom; she could only thank her lucky stars that Neil was on her side.
“First of all, stealing the Degas isn’t the answer. I assume you meant you would turn it over to the authorities,” Neil said with a faint smile. “That won’t prove Foster didn’t steal it.”
About to argue, she realized he was right. “I have to prove the original has been in Holstrom’s possession all along.”
Neil nodded. “Unfortunately, that will still require access to his estate,” he said, running a critical gaze over Kensey. “But I don’t imagine it would take much for you to catch Holstrom’s attention.”
She took no offense. Not with Neil. But the thought of using her sexuality to snare the man made her shudder inside, although she knew she could do it, if that was what it would take. “Go on.”
“His office is in Boston where there happens to be a major security convention next week. He’ll begin the night before the conference officially opens with a party at The Four Seasons or the Mandarin Oriental hotel where he’ll parade his wealth like Caligula. Business will be done there, but the point will be to show off how rich and powerful he is. I’ll make a call, get you registered at the conference and put you together with a friend of mine. Knowing Sam, she’ll be very helpful. By then I’ll have gotten as much information on Holstrom as I’m able to, and we’ll go from there. You should know I can’t get you on the list for the party.”
Kensey nodded, marveling at how much her boss knew about Holstrom, but also wondering just how much Neil Patterson knew about her.
She’d said very little about her past, so she didn’t see how he could understand the nature of her early relationship with her father. How he’d taught her to be more than a decoy when she was younger. He’d pressed her to learn three languages, to take gymnastics and keep herself limber. She’d added martial arts, and he’d approved. And she’d sat at his feet, learning to become any character he needed, from naive waif to budding seductress. Not that he had let anything happen to her, but she’d been a very convincing actress.
He was meticulous. Every heist was studied until he understood everything he’d need to grab what he was after. Timetables, security systems, safes. The reason Douglas Foster had never been caught was that he never left his exit strategies to luck.
All of his expertise had been passed down to her. She’d believed, up until the day he disappeared from her life, that he’d been molding her into his protégé.
Even now her blood pulsed through her system like a maelstrom, the call to danger as familiar as breathing, but far more exciting. If she pulled this off...if she proved Douglas Foster innocent, he would see who she’d become. That she didn’t need him at all.
“YOU’RE GOING TO miss your flight, and you’ll feel horrible and probably do something self-destructive like flirt with someone wildly unsuitable who’ll end up stealing your wallet.”
“That happened one time.” Logan McCabe frowned at his sister. His advice to anyone who wanted a nice, sane life? Don’t have a sister. Actually, it should be don’t have his sister. Lisa was newly engaged and particularly chipper these days. He couldn’t wait to get to Boston. “Would you stop interrupting? I just want to make sure I’ve crossed all the t’s.”
“Now you’re blaming me for your jitters? What happened to the old nerves of steel? Mr. Former CIA Covert Ops—”
He looked up from his business proposal to catch her gaze. “Lisa, you know better.”
“I’m sorry,” she said, wincing. “I won’t do that again. I swear.”
No one else was in the office. He knew she hadn’t meant anything by what she said. But he worried that some day she’d kid around in front of the wrong person and they’d both be in serious trouble. The blame fell on him. He and Lisa were close, but he’d had no business telling her about his work for the CIA. He hadn’t told her anything specific, but he should have kept his mouth shut, period.
She rose from one of the visitors’ chairs in his Lower East Side office. The furniture was fine, if you didn’t care about comfort. But then anyone sitting across from him in this office wouldn’t give a damn about comfort or style or anything so trivial. He met clients elsewhere. The office was reserved for veterans like himself. The hardcore, superbly trained members of the Navy SEALs, Green Berets, Delta Force, Twenty-fourth Special Tactics, or Army Rangers. Some of whom, like him, had been recruited by the CIA to take on high-risk missions the military couldn’t perform. But the guys he helped, the ones who were just returning from active duty, all shared the monumental task of learning how to live among civilians.
