Thunderbolt over Texas (12 page)

She dialed the number, spoke to a show coordinator who had Rupert Cowan's business phone number and address. She jotted it down on the hotel notepad, peeled off the sheet and tucked the slip of paper into her purse.

She had no way of knowing if he was the right Rupert Cowan. Heading down there might be a waste of time. But she couldn't for the life of her come up with a way to broach the subject with him on the phone.

She had no choice but to approach him in person and keep her fingers crossed.

She might have one heck of a lot of explaining to do once she got back. But it was time to pull out all the stops. If Rupert Cowan did have the brooch, and if she could get her hands on it, Cole would probably be grateful enough not to question the details.

She unzipped her garment bag, retrieved a blazer and skirt that were only slightly wrinkled, then dressed and headed for the lobby.

 

When Cole woke up, Sydney was nowhere to be found. She wasn't in the suite. She wasn't in the hotel restaurant. And she wasn't in the lobby.

He knew he had to stop being suspicious of her, but it was unnerving to have her just up and disappear. They
were supposed to be working together. Even though he'd promised to give her the benefit of the doubt, he couldn't help but wonder if she was up to something.

Okay, so there was every chance that she was investigating antique dealers, or maybe she'd just gone around the corner. She could easily show up any minute with coffee and bagels.

Still, he glanced around the suite, taking inventory. Her suitcase was open on the sofa. Her toiletries were in the main bathroom. She'd opened a bottle of water at the bar.

What else?

He glanced around for clues.

A pen lay haphazardly across the oak desk next to a hotel note pad. Nothing to say the housekeeping staff hadn't set them out crooked, but nothing to say Sydney hadn't used them, either.

Cole held the notepad up to the light, staring across the fibrous surface. There were a few indentations in the paper, so he took a trick from a television crime drama and shaded across them with a pencil.

Rupert Cowan—2713 Harper View Road.
Didn't sound like a deli or a coffee shop to Cole.

Didn't sound like anything, he told himself. She could have a perfectly legitimate reason for writing that down and leaving.

After last night, he was giving her the benefit of the doubt if it killed him.

He crumpled the shaded paper in his fist.

It might even be left over from the last guest.

They'd probably laugh about it later.

He tossed the note into the wastepaper basket and sat down on the couch, bracing his fists on his knees.

He couldn't
wait
to laugh about it later.

S
ydney stepped cautiously into 2713 Harper View Road. Unlike the other commercial businesses on the block, this one had a solid gray door that was tucked into an uninviting little alcove.

Inside, hanging fluorescent lights buzzed in the cavernous space. The shoes of unseen employees shuffled against the gritty concrete floor between rows of beige, Arborite countertops and fabric-filled shelving. A few voices sounded in the distance, and a lone man paged through sketch sheets a few counters back.

“Hello?” Sydney ventured.

The man glanced up, pushing his long, graying hair back from his forehead. “Hey there.”

She took a couple steps toward him. “I'm looking for Rupert Cowan?”

The man straightened to about five feet seven. He wore
black slacks and a black, ribbed-knit turtleneck. “You found him.”

Butterflies pirouetted in Sydney's stomach. “Oh, good.”

He braced his hands against the countertop. “Something I can help you with?”

She moved forward and stretched out her hand. “I'm Sydney Wainsbrook.”

He shook. His hand was pale and his grip noncommittal. “Nice to meet you, Sydney.”

“I was wondering—” she glanced around, swallowing against her dry throat “—is there somewhere we can talk?”

He laced his fingers in front of his chest. “About?”

“It's a personal matter.” Her heart rate was going up, and her palms were getting sweaty.

Thank goodness they'd already shaken hands.

“You looking for a job?” he asked.

Sydney shook her head. “It's… I'd feel better if we could sit down somewhere.”

Rupert glanced at his watch. “Well, I'm a little—”

“Please?”

He hesitated. “We could go next door for coffee.”

She nodded eagerly. “Perfect.”

“Patrice?” Rupert called over his shoulder.

“Yeah?” came a woman's gruff voice from the back of the shop.

“I'm out for a bit. If the agency calls, tell them we'll need all ten girls there by Sunday for rehearsal.”

“Okay,” came the voice.

Rupert gestured to the door with an open palm.

Sydney gave him a shaky smile, then led the way outside and around the corner, into a small, glass-fronted coffee bar.

“Frappachino? Mochachino?” asked Rupert.

“Let me,” said Sydney, pulling out her wallet.

Rupert addressed the clerk. “Small half-caf, two sugars, extra foam.”

“Just black for me,” said Sydney as she pulled out a few bills.

They took a corner table with a checkered plastic tablecloth and a metal napkin dispenser. The whine of the coffee machine filled the silence.

“Are we through being mysterious?” asked Rupert.

Sydney took a bracing breath. Then, making a firm decision, she opened her purse and took out the picture of the fake Thunderbolt.

“Do you recognize this?” she asked Rupert.

Rupert took the picture between his fingers and sat back in his red leather seat. “You must be one of the Ericksons.”

Sydney's stomach bounced clear to the floor.

He
knew
about the Ericksons?

“So, you recognize it?” she asked, struggling to recraft her approach. She hadn't counted on him knowing the story. Did he know about Grandma? About his father? About his mother's extortion?

“It's the heirloom brooch,” said Rupert, dropping it on the table top. “My mother warned me you'd come looking for it one day.”

If he'd known about the Ericksons, why hadn't he come out of the woodwork before now?

“What, exactly, did she tell you?” asked Sydney.

He stroked his chin as if he'd once had a beard. “You know, you're not what I expected.”

“What did you expect?”

The waitress set their coffee cups in front of them, and Rupert shrugged. “Someone a little less classy, a little more West Texas.”

“I'm not an Erickson,” said Sydney.

“Ah-hh.”

She resented his tone. Cole had looked damn classy in his suit yesterday.

“I'm a…friend of the family,” she offered. She wouldn't mention the Laurent if she could get away with it. If he thought there was interest from a museum, his price would probably go up.

“And you want the brooch.”

She nodded. “I'm prepared to pay.”

He shook his head. “Not for sale.”

Damn. He was sentimental.

She kept a poker face. “You don't know how much I'm offering.”

He propped his elbows on the table and rested his chin on his laced knuckles. “It's pretty valuable to me at the moment.”

“For sentimental reasons?”

He let out a cold laugh. “Sentimental? Me? About them?”

“Then, why…?”

He leaned forward. “Ever heard of Thunder Women's Wear?”

Sydney shook her head.

“Don't worry. You will. We caused quite a stir in Miami last season, and we're scheduled for Milan in ten days.”

She paused. “I don't understand.”

“That little brooch? That stupid little brooch that my mother practically worshiped, is the centerpiece of my new line—the bold, crisp colors, the angular lines, the drama and majesty of it. We reproduced the jewel using embroidery thread and my final model wears the brooch itself in every show.”

“A fashion line?”

He nodded. “Years, I've been slaving away in this fash
ion backwater. Then, one night, I'm hunting through the drawer for a pair of cuff links and out drops the brooch…”

Looking for a pair of cuff links? The man kept the Thunderbolt in his
dresser drawer?

Sydney was going to have a heart attack right here and now.

He picked some lint from his sleeve. “So, you see. It may not have sentimental value, but it has business value to me.”

Sydney took a sip of her coffee, searching her brain for a new tactic. She could blurt out a lucrative price—Grandma had arranged a line of credit. But instinct told her it was too soon to talk numbers.

“Did your mother ever tell you how she got the brooch?”

He cracked a knowing smile. “A gift from dear, old Dad. I figured it was hush money.”

“Is that why you never contacted the Ericksons?”

Rupert tipped back his head and laughed. “That would presuppose I gave a damn about his reputation. I just figured those cowpokes would have no more interest in me than I have in them.”

Sydney nodded. That was good. If Rupert didn't want anything to do with the family, all the better.

She took another drink of her coffee, choosing her words carefully. “You've probably guessed it has sentimental value to them.”

Rupert sipped his frothy brew. “That would be why they sent you.”

She nodded, toying with the handle of her mug. “I'm prepared to offer you a hundred thousand dollars.”

Rupert didn't react. Not even a flicker.

Sydney swore silently. Maybe he'd had it appraised.

Unexpectedly, the chair beside her squeaked against the floor and a shadow loomed large.

“Whatever she just offered you,” said Bradley, plunking himself down and crossing one ankle over the opposite knee. “I'll double it.”

Sydney felt like she'd been sucker punched. “How did you…”

He cocked his head.
“Please.
Double-o-seven, you're not.”

Sydney could have decked him.

Bradley picked up Sydney's coffee cup and took a deliberate swig. “I assume we're getting down to brass tacks?”

“Who are you?” asked Rupert.

Bradley stuck out his hand. “Bradley Slander. I deal in antiques.”

“And I've got a bidding war?” asked Rupert with an impressive air of unconcern.

“If she makes another offer, I'll top that, too.” Bradley took another defiant swig of her coffee and slanted her a cold look.

It was official. The man had no soul.

Grandma's line of credit went as high as three hundred thousand. Bradley could easily match that. Even if Sydney added her own savings, there was no way she'd beat him.

“Exciting as this is—” said Rupert, pushing his chair back from the table “—and much as I'd love to add six figures to my bank account today, the Thunderbolt is not for sale.”

Sydney reached toward him. “But—”

He stared down his aquiline nose. “Sorry, Sydney.”

“Four hundred thousand,” said Bradley.

Rupert hesitated.

Sydney swallowed. Should she match it? It would take all of her savings…

“Sorry,” said Rupert, taking another step.

Sydney jumped up, nearly knocking over the heavy chair.

She absolutely, positively could not let Rupert out the door without making a deal. Bradley wouldn't give up. He'd be on the phone to Oslo within the hour, upping the ante. He'd eventually win Rupert over, and Grandma would never see the brooch again.

“Really, Rupert—” Sydney began, trying not to gasp for air. “It's a family heirloom.”

Rupert shook his head. “And I give a damn, because?”

Should she tell him the truth? That his mother was an extortionist? Put her cards on the table and betray Grandma?

Betraying Grandma would be better than losing the Thunderbolt forever. Wouldn't it?

Her heart was pounding and her palms were sweating. She needed time to think. Somewhere out of the heat, away from that infernal coffee grinder.

Rupert started for the door.

“Wait!” she called in a dry, hoarse voice.

He turned and gave her a salute. “I need it for Milan, Sydney. Milan and beyond.”

The fake!
The idea slammed into her brain with the force of an anvil.

“I can replace it,” she blurted.

He paused with his hand on the knob.

She moved toward him. “I have a replica.”

His brow furrowed.

“It's good,” she assured him. “It's
very
good. Flawless diamonds, five-carat rubies. You could have the cash
and
the Thunderbolt.”

“Half a million,” drawled Bradley.

“I'd have to see it,” Rupert said to Sydney.

“I'll have it here this afternoon.”

Bradley stood up, clattering his chair against the floor. “For half a million you can make two fakes, and then some.”

Rupert arched a brow. “Within the week?”

A muscle ticked in Bradley's jaw, and his eyes beaded down to brown dots.

Rupert shook a warning finger at Sydney. “I'll look at it, but it would have to be perfect.”

“It's perfect,” said Sydney, counting on the fact that the faceted diamonds were only a historical flaw.

He hesitated for a long minute. Then he nodded his head. “Here. Two o'clock. Right now, I have a conference call.”

As soon as he disappeared, Sydney groped for her cell phone. Bradley pulled his out of his pocket and left the café. Calling Oslo no doubt. He'd be back with a higher offer this afternoon.

Never mind Norway, thought Sydney as she punched in Grandma's number.

 

By two o'clock, Cole was forced to face the fact that he'd been duped.

Sydney wasn't coming back. Whatever it was that had brought her flying to Miami must have been a damn good lead. She'd obviously decided she didn't need him anymore, and she'd had no compunction about ditching him.

Maybe she was going to sell the Thunderbolt on the black market. Maybe she'd decided that one big score was worth giving up her career. Maybe she'd never been from the Laurent Museum in the first place.

Lies upon lies upon lies.

Whatever it was she'd decided, it definitely included screwing him.

He stood up from the sofa and crossed the room to retrieve the address from the wastepaper basket.
Twenty-seven thirteen Harper View Road.
There wasn't an explanation in the world that would get her out of this one.

 

One of Joseph Neely's clerks personally delivered the fake Thunderbolt to the Miami airport. Sydney met him there and made it back to the café with less than five minutes to spare. Where, to her surprise, Rupert pulled out a jeweler's loupe and began inspecting the brooch.

Bradley sat next to her, drumming his fingers against the plastic tablecloth, all traces of his flirtatious persona gone.

“Five hundred and fifty thousand,” he ventured, and she knew his profit margin was diminishing. He was going for pride now, pure and simple.

Sydney stared directly into Bradley's eyes. “Four hundred thousand, plus the replica.”

Rupert paused, looking up from his inspection. “Will you two
stop
.”

The muscle in Bradley's jaw began ticking again.

After an excruciating fifteen minutes, Rupert returned the loupe to his jacket pocket. He closed the case on the fake Thunderbolt, and Sydney held her breath.

Finally, he put his hand out to Sydney, palm up. “Four hundred thousand.”

“A cashier's check?” she asked, her heart smacking against her rib cage.

Bradley swore, but Rupert silenced him with a glare.

“A cashier's check will be fine.” He pulled a sheaf of papers from his breast pocket. “And you can sign here.”

It was Sydney's turn to hold out her hand, palm up.

Rupert smiled his admiration, then he reached into the same pocket and pulled out a worn jewelry case.

She clicked it open, and her entire body shuddered in relief.

“May I?” she asked, pointing to the pocket that held the loupe.

He retrieved it. “Be my guest.”

She checked the jewels, then she turned the brooch over to check the casting. A deep sense of satisfaction settled in the pit of her stomach. The Thunderbolt was going home.

She pulled out the envelope containing the two cashiers' checks—one from Grandma's line of credit, the other from Sydney's savings account.