Dana Mentink - Lost Legacy

Brooke felt suddenly exhausted. She only wanted to get to her hotel room, sink into a hot bath and forget the past few hours. Maybe if she tried really hard, she could convince herself it was all a dream, a very bad dream. “Thank you.”

Victor led the way to the parking lot, where he opened the door to a spotlessly clean Mercedes. She leaned her head back on the leather seat and closed her eyes as Victor eased them through the crush of the San Francisco financial district, suited men and women, bicycle messengers and the constant supply of taxis weaving through the lanes. He didn’t say a word, and that was just fine with her. The sun was low in the sky now, outlining the tall buildings in harsh shadow.

She shot a peek at his profile, dark hair cut short on the sides, bangs long enough to show the slightest tendency to curl. Thick brows and a strong chin that sported the shadow of the beard that would no doubt emerge if he wasn’t impeccably shaved.

“I overheard you talking on the phone to your mother.”

Brooke stiffened. “My mom is gone. That was my father’s cousin. My unofficial aunt.”

“Is your father ill?”

The question might have been rude if it hadn’t resonated with a certain compassion. Or was it clinical curiosity? She sighed. “Yes, he’s…he’s not well.”

“And you’re trying to find the painting because you think time is running out for him?”

She shoved her hands under her thighs. “Isn’t that kind of a personal question after you washed your hands of my case?”

A ghost of a smile danced on his lips. “You’re right. Poor bedside manner. I apologize.”

“Why aren’t you a doctor anymore?” she blurted out, aghast at her own forwardness. What had come over her?

He didn’t look at her, but she saw his grip tighten on the steering wheel. “I needed a break.”

“So you went from being a doctor to a treasure hunter?”

He offered a small smile. “Luca’s idea. He’s always been part Indiana Jones.”

She brightened. “Do you think he would take my case, then?”

Victor laughed. “We usually stick together on these decisions. Treasure Seekers is really important to all of us.”

“Indiana Jones would have done it.” They exchanged a look and both of them laughed until Brooke flopped her head back against the seat. “Well, you did save my life, so I guess I can forgive you for turning me down.”

“I’m glad,” he said.

“I think I’ve heard your name before somewhere. Are you an art aficionado?”

“No, but my wife was.” He cleared his throat. “I took up treasure hunting after she was killed.”

Brooke felt herself flush. “I’m sorry.”

He nodded, not looking at her. “Me, too.”

They pulled up at the hotel and Brooke got out quickly, hoping Victor wouldn’t offer to walk her in. He did anyway, in spite of her protests. Something about him made her stomach flutter.

The hotel carpet was plush, the lobby tasteful with graceful indoor trees and richly upholstered chairs arranged in cozy groups. It all looked so normal, so unbelievably calm compared to the anxiety storming inside her.

He walked with her to the elevator and they got inside, the silence thickening between them. Brooke could not figure out what to think about the man next to her. She wanted to be angry with him for brushing her off, but those feelings were outweighed by his heroic effort in the lobby and the shadow in his eyes when he spoke of his wife.

She would have shaken her head to ward off the thoughts if he wasn’t standing so close, close enough for her to catch the faint musky aftershave and see the tiny cut on his cheek, no doubt caused by his dive into the glass.

A big man wearing dark glasses got into the elevator. She jumped as he dropped the clipboard he was carrying, which fell to the floor with a sharp crack. Victor gave her a reassuring look as the man apologized, and she offered him a shaky smile.

Victor saw her up to the fifth floor and waited until she slid her key card and opened the door. She turned to thank him again.

He held up a hand to stop her. “I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

He’d turned and walked away before she could answer.

I hope you do, too.

Brooke closed the door with a deep sigh and leaned her forehead against the cool panel before she turned around to find a man standing next to the bed.

THREE

Victor checked his iPhone.

Message from his brother.

Steph told me what happened. Don’t take that case. You’re not getting the whole story.

Victor could picture his little brother’s determined face. He’d seen Luca’s same ferocious resolve to help after Jen died. It was the reason, he suspected, his brother had come up with the Treasure Seekers idea in the first place, a way for Luca to exercise his own constant need for adventure and give his big brother a purpose again.

Four years later, it had only partially worked.

Yes, it had kept his mind busy, passionately absorbed in the next prize waiting to be found, but it had not healed his heart. That was still a lump of cold lead, untouchable and numb.

He was about to dial his brother’s number when he heard Brooke scream.

He bolted back to her room just as she tore open the door and hurtled out into his arms, nearly knocking him down.

Eyes wide with terror, she gasped, “There’s someone in my room.”

He guided her behind him. “Stay here.”

In spite of his order, he felt her hand on his back as he eased the door open. She edged in behind him as he slowly pushed the door wider.

The man with close-cropped silver hair and a face that spoke of hard living sat on the bed, arms folded. He showed no sign of agitation at being discovered.

“What are you doing here?” Victor said. Brooke stepped up to get a closer look, one hand still resting on Victor’s back.

The man looked closely at both of them with expressionless blue eyes before he answered. “Hello, Doc.”

Brooke jerked, eyes shifting from Victor to the man on the bed. “You know each other?”

“Yes.” Tuney stood. “Dr. Gage hired me to do some investigation for him four years ago. How are you, Ms. Ramsey?”

“Who are you?” Brooke said warily.

“A detective. I’m working on a case that started with a theft at a certain museum.”

Brooke sagged and went to the nearest chair, dropping heavily onto the upholstered seat.

Victor eyed Tuney carefully, the muscles in his stomach knotted. “Why are you following her?”

Brooke gazed at the carpet as she spoke. “I recognize him now. You came to my house and asked all kinds of questions after the robbery, didn’t you, Mr. Tuney?” When she lifted her head, he noticed the smudges under her eyes and the fatigue that seemed to permeate her body. “Four years ago my father was the assistant curator at the Museum of Culture here in San Francisco. There was a theft—three pieces were stolen from the delivery truck just outside the museum.” She shot a harsh look at Tuney. “My father had nothing to do with it. He tried to call for help once he realized what was happening, but it was too late.”

“That’s one version,” Tuney said. “Another is your father leaked the information to someone who arranged for the theft. That’s why he lost his job, isn’t it?”

Anger flared in Brooke’s face. “He lost his job because the museum needed a scapegoat, and Jeffrey Lock, the head curator, made sure my father took the fall.”

The disbelief on Tuney’s face was clear along with an inexplicable current of anger. “Lock lost his job, too. That’s why he works at Bayside now. The art was probably sold on the black market, and someone made a fortune. Any idea who?”

“It wasn’t the Ramsey family,” Brooke snapped. “We’re not exactly swimming in money, in case you haven’t noticed. We left San Francisco because we couldn’t afford to stay here anymore after the incident. My father owns a fifteen-year-old car and a run-down house in San Diego.”