Purplish. Sandy. Coral.

He pressed his hands slowly over every inch of the box spring and slats to find some kind of hiding place. Then he realized that most box springs were covered with sheer gauze, leaving the inner springs visible.

But this one had a quilted fabric sewn on it, so well done that it looked perfectly normal. He started palming every square of the material until he found it.

A snap, sewn in to be invisible. He yanked at it, opening it, then another. Between the two snaps was a long nylon zipper. Exactly the high-pitched zip he’d heard when he’d listened outside the room.

He slowly dragged it open, half ready for the scepter and diamond to fall down on his chest.

But nothing fell. Behind the zipper was a large metal holding area, like a safe with no door. He reached all the way in to the back, then ran his hand from one side to the other.

Completely empty.

Forty minutes later, he was parked in the lot outside the Paxton Treasures Salvage Museum, ten or so miles north of the development he’d robbed the day before, when a limo pulled in, taking up three of the four spaces.

It was either Paxton, Lucy, or both. Climbing off the bike, Con ambled over as the driver came out, nodded to him, and opened the back door.

“Go ahead. She’s waiting.”

He slid into the cool car, squinting into the tinted-window dimness to see Lucy in the far back, her legs crossed in pale silk pants, her one foot quietly tapping a three-inch stiletto, a phone at her ear, her dark, Asian-tilted eyes on Con from the second he dipped into the car and took the seat across from her.

She held up one finger. “Judd, I realize this is a terrible blow to you and your wife.”

So he’d get to hear the client’s reaction firsthand.

“You wanted to know the truth, and now you do,” Lucy continued, giving Con a long look.

“I’ll see you in a few minutes, then,” Lucy said, snapping her phone closed, her eyes narrowed into ebony slits as she shook back thick, shoulder-length black hair. “Do you have the scepter and diamond?”

“No. Does Judd think I do?”

“I never mentioned them, in the off chance that you failed.”

“I just don’t have them yet.”

“Then when?”

He rubbed his hands over his face, exhausted, frustrated, disgusted. “Soon.”

“Do better than that.”

“Very soon?” He shot her a smile, but didn’t get one in return. “I’ll find her, Lucy.”

“I’m not interested in your finding her. I want the scepter and diamond that belong to my client.”

“She has them. And she can’t go too far. I’ll get them. Today.”

“You better.” She leaned forward, her expression clear. “Or I will assume you stole the treasure.”

His jaw dropped open. “What?”

“Your track record doesn’t support any other theory.”

“Fuck my track record, Lucy.” He slapped his hands on the leather seat. “I didn’t take them, just like I didn’t keep the medallion, which would have been very easy to do.”

“Give me your bag.”

He burned her with a look, venom boiling in his veins as he tossed it to her. “Suit yourself. The FBI has the medallion, and you won’t find anything in there but tools of my trade.”

She opened the pouch and rifled through his personal items, then the rest of the bag. “Consider it a test,” she said. “Produce the scepter and diamond, and I’ll know what you’re made of. If not, I’ll also know what you’re made of. The former is a Bullet Catcher. The latter… a fake.”

The venom turned cold and he just stared at her, vaguely aware of another car pulling into the lot.

“Here’s Judd. I think I’ll handle him alone.” She set the bag on the floor between them. “I’m sure you’ll need some of the things in there to work your magic. For instance, the pack of condoms. I see there’s one missing already.”

She didn’t look at him as she glided out of the car, leaving him with the knowledge that he only had one possible course of action. He had to screw Lizzie Dare again, in more ways than one, and prove without a shadow of a doubt that he wasn’t the man she thought he was.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

JET LAG MUST have hit her hard. Brianna turned on the lumpy down mattress, blinking against the sunshine that warmed the third-floor bedroom of the farmhouse. From the looks of the light, it was darn near afternoon in the Azores.

Good Lord, how late had she slept? She pushed up on her elbows, squinting into the brightness to make out the view of an ancient windmill through the dusty panes of glass. Far, far from home and not a soul knew she was there.

The adventurous thrill that gave her was tempered by a splash of guilt. At some point she’d have to tell Lizzie where she’d gone, but right now…

She stretched, wiggled her toes under the puffy down comforter, and drank in the heart-stopper of an ocean view.

Mrs. Bettencourt had been chilly at first, but then she warmed to the mission and promised to help today. She did have a library-all these old houses did-and maybe the final piece of proof that they wanted would be there.

In the meantime, Lizzie could explore and sightsee. Not that there was a whole lot to see. Too bad Carlos Bettencourt wasn’t from Monaco, or somewhere slightly more exotic than godforsaken little Corvo.

Still, she was free and unencumbered and doing her part for Dad, instead of just sifting through the mountain of papers that just made her miss him more.

“Ms. Dare?” The call was accompanied by a soft tap on her door. “It’s Gabby, with coffee. Our kind of coffee, American.”

“Just a second.” Brianna threw off the fluffy comforter and went to the door in her thigh-high T-shirt. “Oh, you’re a lifesaver, Gabby. I crave my caffeine fix.”

The woman, easily five foot nine and the size of a truck, nodded and barreled into the room, setting a tray on the ancient dresser. “No need to thank me, hon. The madame,”-she said in an affected British accent to drag out the word-“would have my head if I didn’t.”

Brianna smiled, moving some personal items on the dresser to make sure Gabby had room for the tray. “She seems like she might be…” A total bitch. “Tough to work for.”

The other woman shrugged. “I’m just stepping in for a few days because she’s desperate and I can gouge her for extra cash. Not that I’m trying to exploit the circumstances, but the opportunity was too good to pass up.”

“What circumstances?”

“She didn’t tell you? You haven’t heard?”

Brianna shook her head. “Heard what?”

“About her nurse, Ana. She liked to call her a housekeeper, but the whole island knew that Ana was a nurse hired by Mrs. B’s husband to keep an eye on her.”

Brianna looked up from the coffee she poured, intrigued. “What happened? And why does she need someone to keep an eye on her?”

Gabby pointed to her temple and made the universal twirl for nutso. “She’s a little…”

“Off her rocker?”

Gabby smiled. “That’d probably be the medical term for it.”

She didn’t strike Brianna as crazy, but who knew? “What happened to Ana?”

Gabby made a face. “It’s so sad. She killed herself.”

“That is sad.”

“Right there.” She pointed to the gray stone windmill perched at the cliff’s edge, the rotors circling rhythmically. “Threw herself right over the cliff.”

Brianna’s eyes flew open. “Oh my God. When?”

“A few days ago.”

“Seriously?” A chill shot the hairs on the back of her head to a stand. “How old was she?”

“Twenty-six.”

Brianna’s heart turned over. My age. She shifted her gaze to the windmill, suddenly more ominous than picturesque. “That is so, so tragic. Did you know her?”

“Everybody knows everybody in Corvo. There’re like three hundred and fifty people in the whole place, all of them related somehow, going back two centuries. The whole island is devastated.”