Diana Duncan - Full Exposure

She gathered her long, damp chestnut hair away from her face. “I’m a walking disaster. You know how the professor dotes on punctuality. I’m going to grab a coffee, run upstairs—”

The doorbell pealed. Geoff had probably sent a dozen predictable…ah…classic white roses. Ariana flung open the door. It wasn’t flowers.

It was the police.

After six months of harassment, she recognized the FBI’s second-in-command. Ariana scowled. “Unless you have another warrant, forget it. You people have already turned our house and our lives inside out.” She blocked the doorway, shielding her mother. “I doubt you’ll find America’s most wanted by rifling through my closet again.”

The solemn Agent indicated a U-Haul being unloaded by two movers. “After your father’s demise, the government’s case against him was officially terminated. The paperwork is complete, and we’re returning personal effects held as evidence.”

“Giving back our own possessions. Thank you.” She stepped aside so the men could enter. FBI search teams had shown up one day in the middle of Sunday brunch and torn apart their home. Cops had poked and pried and violated every inch. They’d taken the antiques, her father’s computer and research books and every scrap of paper, including her journals. The travesty had continued at his museum office. “Everything better be in perfect condition.”

“Nothing has been damaged.” Agent Thomas nodded stiffly. “Our experts didn’t have time to dig too deeply before the case was abruptly concluded.”

Hurt by his clinical description of the events that had destroyed her family, she pressed trembling lips together. “Is abruptly concluded the police-approved definition of ruining an innocent man’s reputation and persecuting him into an early grave?”

The Fed’s eyes glinted as cold and gray as the winter twilight. “Mr. Bennett was charged after brokering stolen antiquities to an undercover officer. The arrest was legitimate, as was the search.”

Talk about professional detachment. Maybe the FBI confiscated agents’ hearts when they entered the Bureau. For the second time in an hour, she let anger burn away pain. “Dad never so much as ran a stop sign. He didn’t know the antique jewelry was stolen. It was entrapment. If your ‘undercover officer’ had listened to him, my father would be alive today.”

“Everybody we detain is innocent, Miss Bennett.” His level tone didn’t negate the sarcasm. “Until proven guilty in a court of law.”

“He didn’t get that chance. He was convicted by the press and the museum’s board of directors.” Her father had been forced into a leave of absence. All because of the FBI and their gestapo tactics. Nobody would ever convince Ariana that the strain over the loss of his job combined with the impending trial hadn’t precipitated her father’s massive coronary. “In the public’s eyes, he died a guilty man.”

“Ariana.” Her mother’s quiet appeal made her turn around. “Don’t let this spoil your evening.” Sadie handed her a labeled box. “Why don’t you take your journals upstairs and get ready for tonight?”

Ariana squelched her temper. Her mother hated confrontation. According to Sadie, a lady never raised her voice, never lost her poise. A woman with class practiced avoidance. That method had worked for Ariana…until injustice had struck down her father. But Sadie had already been through the wringer, and Ariana wasn’t about to twist the handle. She accepted the box and marched upstairs.

She dropped the carton on the blue organza bedspread, which matched the bed canopy and frilly curtains. Her room remained unchanged since she’d left for college years ago. Dad wasn’t the only parent who liked museums.

She opened the box and began to slot journals in her bookcase according to year. She preferred order, in her surroundings and emotions.

Memories assailed her with each volume. Her first date. First kiss. First broken heart. A newspaper article fluttered out of the book dated Summer 1981, and her mouth softened. Even as a girl, she’d been a romantic. Charles and Diana—the Royal Wedding. She had set the alarm for dawn to watch the proceedings. A real-life fairy tale.

The grandfather clock downstairs chimed seven, and Ariana jumped. She had sixty minutes to prepare for “the moment every woman waits for.” She dropped the journal and sprinted to the shower.

THREE HOURS LATER, she shakily let herself back inside the house. Sadie didn’t ambush her, and Ariana tiptoed into the living room and found her mother asleep on the sofa.

A small boon in the day from Hades. She wouldn’t have to break the news until morning. The sadness she’d held at bay flooded her eyes.

Instead of a diamond with the dessert trolley, Ariana had received a quiet brush-off. A “better for both of us if we go our separate ways” swan song. Her courtly, dependable literary professor had politely retreated from their relationship.

She swiped her wet cheeks as she trudged upstairs. Of course, she hadn’t made a scene. Tantrums weren’t her style. She was her mother’s daughter. The goddess of get along. The countess of compromise.

And the Fates had compromised her out of a father, a job and a fiancé.

At least Geoff had possessed the decency to stop waltzing around the truth when she demanded a real explanation. He’d finally admitted Derek’s tattered reputation and Ariana’s “furlough” might threaten his tenure.

She tripped over the journal on the floor and snatched it up. A real-life fairy tale. In real life, the princess had been hounded to death…like Ariana’s father. So much for romance. So much for loyalty and undying love.

So much for happily ever after.

Ariana hurled the book aside and it thudded to the floor, the binding torn. Newspaper clippings littered the carpet, and something shiny glinted at the tattered edge of the journal. With trembling hands, she extracted a computer CD. The thin disk had been sealed between the embossed leather cover and cardboard backing.

Tears dried on her face as she booted up her laptop and inserted the CD. Over forty scanned pages of ancient Greek script and cryptic personal notations in her father’s spiky handwriting shimmered on the screen. She had enough rudimentary knowledge to discern that the information concerned antiques and Derek’s international brokerage.

Her breath caught. Why had her father secreted the CD in her journal? Had he suspected he was being set up? Thought he was in danger? Had he put the CD where he knew she would find it…in case something happened to him?

Her mother would have said, “We can’t change the past, let it go.”

She used to agree. Now an old Chinese proverb sprang to mind. If you cannot succeed, then die gloriously.

Compromise hadn’t worked out so well for Ariana, or her loved ones. Perhaps it was time to try a new tack. Her father’s reputation would not perish in ruin and be buried along with him.

Heart pounding, she directed her Web browser to libertycruiseline.com. The police had stolen her family, her reputation and her future.

All she had left was a crusade.

She grimly hooked up her iPod to the computer and began to reconfigure and download files. Fed up with being tossed around by the whims of the Fates, she was taking her life back.

After all, how much worse could things get?

Alexandra’s Dream

Mid-October

FATHER PATRICK CONNELLY aka Michael O’Connor dropped the benevolence he forced himself to wear in public and crossed the confines of his cabin in three impatient strides. Scowling, he unbuttoned his black shirt. The stiff white collar was penance for buying him credibility. He impatiently yanked off the torture device and tossed it aside. Penance. Now his alias was affecting his way of thinking. Neither guilt nor redemption were in his repertoire.