Too Hot to Touch and Exposed Read online

  The shock of her hand on his nearly zapped the practiced words out of his brain. In fact, he answered first in Spanish, then repeated the greeting in English.

  “El Dorado Auction House is currently closed.”

  “Yeah, no kidding,” replied the voice Alex instantly recognized as his brother, Michael. “Let me in.”

  Lucienne had not removed her hand from Alex’s. Her touch was tentative, her sharp intake of breath held in throat. Their eyes locked for a split second—long enough for him to catch a glimpse of what he’d been searching so valiantly for over the past six weeks.

  Desire.

  “I’m in the middle of something,” he told Michael, willing Lucienne not to take her hand away.

  “This is important,” Michael insisted.

  Before Alex could form a coherent response, Lucienne scrambled into the gallery. Her heels clicked a quick tattoo against the polished floor that matched the sudden, rapid pounding of his heartbeat.

  He cursed, then punched in the code that would unlock the front door.

  “He knows his way in,” Alex called, but Lucienne had already disappeared. She didn’t need to greet his brother, but she had needed to get away.

  Maybe he hadn’t seen desire in her eyes. Maybe that had been wishful thinking.

  He remained at his desk, stewing over the interruption when Michael charged into the room.

  “Maybe manners are different here than they are in Madrid, but a call ahead of time would have been appreciated,” Alex snapped.

  Not surprisingly, his half brother met his ire with an unrepentant grin.

  “Was that a skirt I saw disappearing around the corner when we walked in?” he asked.

  “We?”

  Michael leaned back so Alex could see that his brother had not come alone. Special Agent Ruby Dawson, one of the members of Michael’s team, was strolling around the gallery, her hands hooked behind her back as she lingered by the tables lined with trays of necklaces, rings and bracelets.

  Lucienne was nowhere to be seen.

  “My appraiser,” Alex said.

  “Ah, yes, the mysterious Lucienne Bonet.”

  “What do you mean mysterious?”

  Michael shrugged. “You’ve mentioned her quite a few times, but she never seems to be around when I am.”

  Alex glanced through the doorway again. Why had Lucienne left in such a hurry if not to show his brother into the office? Of course, Michael had grown up at El Dorado and had inherited the auction house, along with his mother, so he hardly needed an escort.

  “She’s very busy,” Alex snapped. “You know, working. A concept you generally understand on most days,”

  Michael snickered. “Sorry to interrupt your busy day, but a case I’m working just took a turn and I might have to leave town before the auction. And since I know you have to return to Madrid right afterward, I decided it’s time for us to take care of some important business.”

  Alex sat up straighter, an unfamiliar pang of worry driving deep into his stomach. He wasn’t used to having anyone in his family with a dangerous career. His mother, grandfather, uncle and several cousins worked at the auction house in Spain. He had an aunt who was the executive assistant for the head of a security firm, but he doubted she did more than answer phones and arrange appointments. She certainly never jetted off to cities unknown to catch elusive, terrifying criminals.

  Michael, however, did this all the time—a fact that hadn’t hit Alex until right this moment.

  “What kind of business?”

  Michael smirked. “You know I can’t say. Not yet, anyway. But look, I didn’t come here to discuss my case. I have to ask you something important.”

  Alex motioned for Michael to shut the door, which he did. But instead of taking the seat on the other side of the desk that Lucienne had just vacated, he crossed to the space behind their father’s desk and dropped to one knee.

  The tension in Alex’s midsection evaporated with a laugh. “Are you proposing?”

  Michael shoved Alex’s chair so that it rolled back into the bookshelf behind him, dislodging several books that knocked him in the shoulder. While he slid the books back into place, Michael ran a finger over a groove in the polished floor where the chair had been and then pressed down so that the slat levered up on the other side.

  “What is this?”

  Michael’s smile was only half-cocked and he suddenly looked more like their father than he did on first glance. Unlike Alex, who’d inherited his father’s dark looks, Michael favored his all-American mother with his lapis lazuli irises and light brown hair, which had undoubtedly been blond in his youth.

  When his mouth curved up with salacious intentions, however, he was all Ramon.

  One tug on the lever and a section of the floor dropped and slid to the side, revealing a safe hidden underneath. It was old and dusty and the tumblers clicked loudly as Michael twirled in the combination, but it opened with barely a creak. From inside, he pulled out a tattered wooden box and a sheaf of papers, bound in a leather portfolio that smelled of age.

  Michael put the documents on the desk, but handed Alex the box.

  The minute he had his hands on it, he recognized the style. Eighteenth century, definitely Spanish design, but likely crafted in the new world, as evidenced by the selection of wood. He imagined a noblewoman had purchased or commissioned the piece to keep her trinkets or jewels in.

  The lock, though discolored, was fashioned from tempered steel and coated with eighteen-karat gold.

  Alex eyed his brother warily. He and Lucienne had individually searched through every inch of the building that housed the auction house. Neither had found the floor safe—though admittedly, Alex hadn’t thought to look—or any reference in Ramon’s meticulous notes to indicate he was keeping something hidden in his office floor.

  Of course, making a record would have cancelled out the need to hide something so well.

  “I ask again,” he said. “What is this?”

  “Open it,” Michael instructed. “The key hasn’t worked for over a century.”

  Michael finally took Lucienne’s abandoned chair, giving Alex room to scoot in and flip on the retractable magnifying lamp attached to the side of the desk. He did as his brother instructed, somewhat surprised to find the inside of the box in worse condition than the outside.

  The torn, faded silk, which he suspected had once been a brilliant red, was washed out and pocked with unsightly watermarks. And the large emerald-centered man’s ring sitting atop a carved prong had clearly seen better days. While the black opals flanking the main stone glowed with vivid blues and greens, the gold was worn and the center stone, while large and vibrant, had an unsightly scratch that looked like a crude number 2.

  Or perhaps a Z?

  “This is hardly up to our father’s usual standards for his inventory,” he commented. The history of Ramon’s collection was salacious, but even Alex had to admit that the quality was usually impeccable.

  “This isn’t part of the auction house’s catalogue.”

  Michael’s gaze flicked over Alex’s shoulder. Alex followed the stare, his eyes lighting on their father’s affresco portrait. Ramon had posed wearing a charcoal black suit and stark white shirt, the only splash of color coming from his thin red tie and the stunning green of his ring.

  The ring in the box Alex now held.

  “He wasn’t buried with it?” Alex asked.

  Michael shook his head. “That ring has been in our family for centuries. It passes from father to son. And it’s your turn.”

  Alex dropped the box. The ring jostled off the prong and tipped onto the moth-eaten silk lining. From the side, he could see that the gold near the back was thin and had been repaired several times.

  The condition did not surprise him. Any ring that had been around for as long as Michael claimed would have sustained a great deal of wear and tear, particularly if it was actually worn and not kept locked away. What shocked the hell out of him wa
s that Michael wanted him to have it.

  “I can’t take your father’s ring.”

  “He was your father, too.”

  “Genetically.”

  “He wanted you to have it.”

  “That’s absurd!”

  He hated the way his voice tipped up in disbelief, but the idea was incomprehensible. Why would Ramon bequeath a family heirloom to the son he’d abandoned over thirty years ago?

  “It’s the truth.” Michael paced in front of the desk, his arms crossed and his gaze wary. “He told me he meant for you to have it. Right after he first told me about you.”

  Alex shook his head. As difficult as it had been, he and Michael had managed to keep their discussions about Ramon to a minimum. Alex could not begrudge his brother’s happy childhood, but that didn’t mean he wanted to hear all the white-picket-fence details.

  “We don’t need to discuss this,” Alex said, sliding the box across the desk so that it sat in front of Michael instead of him.

  “Actually, we do. A few years ago, when I was new at the Bureau, a case came up that Pop got caught up in. It was an art heist. The thief cut himself on a metal frame and left behind some DNA evidence. The techs ran it through the system and got a hit—me.”

  Alex arched a brow. His brother? A thief?

  “You stole a painting?”

  Michael rolled his eyes. “Of course not, but as an FBI agent, my DNA was in the system. It wasn’t a perfect match, but the science indicated that I was directly related to whoever had cut himself on that frame. That led the FBI to Pop.”

  Alex’s throat tightened. He scanned the inventory around him. His mother had always accused his father of being unprincipled and despicable, but had he amassed his collection through illegal trade?

  “I don’t know what—”

  “But he didn’t steal the painting, either,” Michael said emphatically.

  Alex did a poor job of hiding his doubt. “How can you be sure?”

  “He allowed the FBI to do more DNA testing, and again, it wasn’t a perfect match. But the likelihood that the thief was related to him was even higher. The squints said the blood likely came from a son. That’s when he told me about you.”

  Alex stood, outraged. “I was a suspect in a burglary?”

  “No, not with your reputation. I mean, not after we did our research.”

  Alex’s incensed stare did not waver. He had worked his entire adult life to ensure that his father’s disreputable past never reflected badly on him. Now he learned that the American justice system had suspected him of a crime?

  Michael raised both hands and signaled Alex to sit. “You were eliminated almost immediately, thanks to Pop. He pulled up a society page from a Spanish newspaper that had a picture of you at a charity function in Barcelona the night of the theft.”

  Alex lowered himself back into the chair. He wasn’t certain what shocked him more—the fact that he’d been, albeit briefly, suspected of a brazen robbery or that the father who’d never once called or sent so much as a birthday card had followed his movements and activities.

  When he’d decided to accept Michael’s invitation to the United States, he knew he would be forced to cut open the wound of his father’s abandonment. But now that the man was dead and buried, Alex had thought he could handle the pain and resentment. He had, after all, had a great life. A mother who cherished him. A grandfather who had defied old age and illness to live past ninety to make sure his grandson had a father figure. His childhood had been filled with family, the finest schools and boundless possibilities.

  The only thing his father had given him was DNA that had nearly caught him up in a crime investigation—and an old, battered ring.

  “He wasn’t proud of leaving you the way he did, Alejandro,” Michael confessed. “I mean, he never shared many details, but he did say that he was a different man then. And I believe he was. He didn’t have the ring until after he came back to the States.”

  “What does this ridiculous bauble have to do with anything?”

  Michael’s shoulders sagged. He was a strong man, his brother, but the emotions of this conversation were wearing him down. Alex understood. His stomach ached, as if someone had just punched him in the gut. He was learning more about his father than he’d ever wanted to know. It was much easier to maintain a steady hatred for the man when all he’d known about him was that he’d left his firstborn son and never looked back.

  But since he’d arrived in San Francisco, Alex couldn’t help but learn more. Getting to know Michael—realizing how honorable he was—reflected on his upbringing. How could a man who’d abandoned one son raise another to be strong, principled and comfortable in his own skin?

  “Put it on.” Michael slid the box back toward him.

  “What? No.”

  Michael opened the box, took out the ring and practically shoved it in Alex’s face.

  “Put it on, Alejandro. Once you do, you’ll understand.”

  2

  “SO PEOPLE PAY A LOT of money for this stuff, huh?”

  Caught, Lucy cursed under her breath, then came out of the storeroom as if she’d only darted inside to put something away rather than to hide. Michael must not have recognized her—if he had, he wouldn’t have left her out here to chitchat with the federal agent who’d come along with him.

  “Some do,” she replied.

  The agent lifted up a diamond-encrusted dagger said to have been the murder weapon of choice for an infamous Renaissance assassin.

  “How much would something like this go for?”

  Lucy curved her body around the edge of her desk, her back to Alejandro’s office. From behind her, the heat of a stare prickled against her skin. The feeling was familiar, as if yet again, Alejandro was checking out her ass. She didn’t mind. What was the point of having an oversize backside that made it hell to find a good pair of jeans if a hot-blooded man couldn’t appreciate it?

  And Alejandro’s appreciation had its advantages. Not only did his attention to her bottom keep him distracted enough to not realize, after six weeks, that she was not exactly the woman he thought she was, but it also gave her ego a much-needed boost. The man was a torrent of simmering passion capped like steam in a radiator—and with him, she wouldn’t mind getting burned.

  Getting burned by Michael Murrieta or his partner was another situation entirely. One that could result in jail time. But if Michael had not seen through her disguise—and really, why would he when they’d only met briefly once before—he’d expect her to be a worldly intellectual like Alejandro, not nervous and jumpy like a girl pretending to be someone she wasn’t.

  Lucy slipped on a pair of thin cotton gloves and turned her attention back to Michael’s partner. “We’re expecting the dagger will bring in close to fifty thousand.”

  “Dollars? For a letter opener?” The woman’s voice was pitched high in disbelief.

  Lucy risked a laugh. “This particular dagger dispatched the enemies of a particularly bloodthirsty pope, if rumors are to be believed.”

  With her insides quaking, Lucy’s European-influenced accent, meant to support her claims of boundless world travel during an exciting childhood abroad, slipped a bit. In truth, she’d only left the States three times in the past six years—each time on a passport faked by one of the best pros money could buy.

  Lucy inhaled deeply. She had to get herself together. She’d worked too hard and had risked too much to let one unexpected visit from federal law enforcement trip her up.

  Wasn’t like she hadn’t played the role of sophisticated, overeducated Lucienne Bonet before. This was her favorite persona—the skin she slipped into whenever the fires got too hot around Lucy Burnett, a well-known fence who specialized in hard-to-get objets d’art. As Lucienne, snotty museum curators and puffed-up private collectors had invited her to examine their priceless artifacts and antiques, to run her hands over their rare books and centuries-old tapestries until she’d learned just as much about the art world a
s she had about pawnshops and black market traders.

  The FBI agent, who seemed to be around forty, with skin that reminded Lucy of the luscious caramel that she loved to drizzle over chocolate ice cream, placed the weapon gently on Lucy’s palm. Lucy turned it over as if examining it for the first time, when in reality, she’d already appraised this piece two weeks ago.

  The woman grabbed a tissue from a box on Lucy’s desk, then gingerly took the knife back, this time holding it under the lamp. “That looks like dried blood.”

  Lucy pretended she hadn’t noticed that detail before. “Really? The price just went up to seventy-five.”

  The special agent’s dark eyes widened, then narrowed with her smile. “You’re playing me.”

  Lucy’s grin twitched. “Maybe just a little.”

  From behind them, male voices rose not in volume, but in intensity. The men had shut the door. Whatever Michael had come to discuss with Alejandro was not good news. Had Michael’s partner not been here to distract her, Lucy would have found a way to hear what they were saying. She’d slipped a listening device into Alejandro’s potted palm on the day of her interview and had tapped his cell phone when he’d left her alone to complete her employment papers. But neither avenue was any use with the FBI agent watching her every move. Had Michael recognized her? Outed her to Alejandro? She’d been so careful to make herself scarce whenever the fed was around, but this time, he’d shown up without an appointment.

  And yet, if he had identified her, she probably wouldn’t still be standing around discussing the cost of daggers with his partner. She’d be in handcuffs, at the very least.

  At worst, she’d be sequestered in some dank, moldy interrogation room, answering questions about Daniel, the third Murrieta brother, who up until now—as far as Lucy was aware—Alejandro knew nothing about.

  “I’m Ruby, by the way,” the agent said. “Special Agent Ruby Dawes.”

  Lucy extended her hand. “Lucienne Bonet.”

  The other woman’s handshake was quick, but powerful. If she was trying to size Lucy up, she was doing a great job of hiding it.