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  Again Marcus turned sharply, this time avoiding the razor- sharp edge submerged off his bow. He jerked the wheel again to the right around another rock and then yet another, the jet boat still tight on his tail.

  Apollyon loomed dead ahead, less than a hundred yards, but the boat behind him was obviously piloted by someone who knew these waters well. Which meant that he, too, would clear the rocks and then close the distance in no time.

  Marcus had been in tighter situations and still escaped, but this one was pushing the envelope. A bullet zinged overhead. The bastard was shooting at him. Risking a look behind, he saw that there were two men aboard, which meant the gunman had all the time in the world and no distractions.

  Not that he was going to accomplish anything. But in the time it took Marcus to regenerate, it was quite possible that he would lose control of the statue. And that simply wasn't acceptable.

  He pulled up to the side of the yacht, ducking another round of bullets, and cursing the damage to Apollyon's paint job. Taking quick aim, he got off a round of his own, successfully clipping the gunman's right arm. That ought to help even the odds a bit.

  Marcus yelled for Faust and a ladder, already tying off the dinghy to give him stability. The other boat was closing fast, and based on the reports grazing the hull, the gunman was managing to shoot despite his wound.

  The ladder dropped and Marcus started to climb upward, releasing the dinghy as soon as his feet cleared the third rung of the ladder. The little boat twirled in circles for a moment, then started back toward the speedboat. There was a moment's confusion, and then suddenly Apollyon simply disappeared.

  If Marcus hadn't known what was happening, he'd have fallen, but he'd been his father's son for going on seven centuries and he knew the devil's work even when he couldn't see it.

  "Father," Marcus roared, stepping out onto the deck. "What the hell do you think you're doing?" There was the sound of a muffled explosion, as Marcus's dinghy hit the jet boat, exploding on contact just as Marcus had planned for it to do. "I could have handled them myself."

  "Seems to me like you did." Marcus's father materialized slowly, head to toe, along with the rest of the yacht. The sea was quiet now, the only remnants of the speedboat a wash of burning refuge. "Nice touch. Although I'll never understand why it is you go to all the trouble to steal something when all you have to do is wish for it and it's yours."

  Marcus shrugged. "Your way takes all the fun out of it."

  "Need I remind you that my way is ultimately your way whether you like it or not." His father's tone was laced with both anger and laughter. It was an old bone of contention.

  "So what are you doing here?" Marcus sighed, eyeing his father with suspicion. The old devil never came to see him unless he wanted something.

  "I have a proposition."

  Marcus raised an eyebrow, trying to contain his smile. His father's entire life's work was built on propositioning, and more often than not he got his way. Except with Marcus. "I'm not interested."

  "Even if the prize is taking over my empire?"

  "You know I'm not interested in your enterprises. Too damn much responsibility. I like answering only to myself."

  "And you think I answer to someone?"

  Marcus resisted the urge to look skyward and instead ignored the question. "I told you I'm not interested. Why don't you ask Jack or Nick. They're far more likely to be seduced by your offer. Especially Jack."

  "I have." His father's voice was quiet, regretful, and Marcus jerked up to meet his father's gaze. "They failed me."

  "You’re kidding?" Marcus wasn't sure which was the more prevalent feeling, elation or surprise. He had nothing against his brothers, but they were hardly a close family. And push come to shove, and it often did, they'd almost always bested him. The idea that maybe he had a shot at coming out on top appealed greatly.

  His father shrugged. "I'm afraid you're my last hope."

  Now there was a compliment. Marcus forced a smile. "So what is it exactly you want me to do?"

  "I need you to procure something for me."

  At least finding things was his specialty. "Something my brothers couldn't find?"

  "No." His father shook his head, his eyes still sad. "They were charged with different tasks."

  "But they failed." Marcus was trying not to gloat.

  "They chose a different path, as it were." Lucifer shrugged, all remnants of sorrow erased. "But I'm trusting you not to let me down."

  It was tempting. A quest, a chance to make son of the year, and best of all the opportunity for one-upping his brothers.

  "So what is it exactly you want me to get?" Marcus asked.

  "The Devil's Delight."

  Marcus's heart lurched. He was good, but he wasn't that good. The Devil's Delight was the stuff of dreams. The kind of thing that every collector would kill to possess. But in truth no one had ever actually seen the thing. It lived only in legend.

  "Oh, it exists." His father's voice was soft, possibly even reverent, if that hadn't been impossible. "I've held it in my hands, but a traitor stole it eons ago. And now I need it back. Interested?"

  Marcus swallowed his excitement; no sense in tipping his hand. "Depends."

  "On?" His father asked, cutting right to the chase.

  "I work on my own, with no involvement from you."

  "Done."

  "And I do things my way. Without calling on your minions or my powers."

  His father sighed. "Also done."

  "Fine," Marcus said, holding out his hand. "Then I'm in."

  They shook on it and Marcus laughed at the notion that he'd just made a bargain with the devil. He might have been concerned except for the fact that said devil was his father.

  "When do I start?"

  Chapter Two

  St. Emilion Monastery; Avignon, France

  The chapel at St. Emilion was dark, the only light faded silver swathes spilling from the clear-story windows, the antipodean shadows only adding to the Gothic gloom. Celeste Abbot moved on silent feet, her mind's eye recreating the floor plan she'd so carefully studied.

  The church was a work of art in and of itself, but she ignored the stonework, arches, and stained glass, keeping her mind instead on the task at hand. Assuming her sources were correct, the object she sought lay in the sacristy just behind the altar. There was no high-tech security in the sanctuary, but she was certain there would be something at the doorway or within the robing room itself.

  Sotheby's had fought long and hard to obtain the right to auction Theloneous Gerard's possessions. Simple though they might be, they had historical significance. And not insignificant value. The man had been the abbot of the monastery during Nazi occupation. And because of his alleged cooperation he had acquired certain protections, as well as a couple of Renoirs that under normal circumstances wouldn't have found their way to an abbey.

  But it wasn't the Renoirs she was interested in.

  It was the journal.

  Celeste smiled as she made her way down the center aisle, a statue of St. George standing watch over her progress. Although it was only an effigy, in the half light the saint seemed almost real.

  The altar was simple, but she recognized the silver work of Odiot in the candlesticks and the smooth turns of Jean Goujon in the marble rendering of Mary. Priceless works of art that should never have found their way here. But they had. And if the rumors were to be believed, there had once been much more.

  The monks of St. Emilion had supposedly amassed an astonishing collection of art over the past three or four centuries—their acquisitions said to rival that of some of the greatest museums—the piece de resistance a perfect ruby called the Devil's Delight. Unfortunately, the only remaining pieces were here in the chapel, the rest of the treasure, if indeed it ever existed, lost with the passing of its last keeper.

  Which explained the interest in Theloneous's belongings. Particularly the journal. There was every possibility that the person who purchased Theloneous
's diary would hold the key to finding the ruby, or at least the treasure. Except, of course, that the pages would never make it to auction. Not if she had anything to do with it.

  Her father's obsession with finding the ruby had ruled most of her adult life, and the emergence of the journal presented the first real possibility of finding a clue to the stone's whereabouts in years. There was no way she was taking the chance on it falling into someone else's hands. Sotheby's would just have to live without it.

  She moved deeper into the church, the moonlight making the stained-glass figures shimmer and shift as she passed. She shivered, not sure exactly why, maybe just the chill in the cavernous sanctuary. Or maybe someone was walking on her grave.

  The thought actually brought comfort. She could even hear her grandmother's voice. The remembered sound was soft and Southern. Home. She hadn't been back to Savannah for years, her father preferring Europe as a base for his quest. They moved often. Nomads in a modern world. It was fascinating, she'd never deny the fact, but she longed sometimes for the simple house on Cedar with its rambling front porch and moss-laden cypress trees.

  She shook her head, clearing her thoughts. There was work to be done. Pausing at the head of the altar, she crossed herself, the gesture ingrained from Sundays spent with her grandmother at All Saints Episcopal Church. It had been a lifetime ago, but some things you never forgot.

  It only took a minute to traverse the dais, and she paused at the carved door set into the paneling behind the altar. She pulled a flashlight out of her pocket and ran the pencil-thin line along the crevices that marked the boundaries of the door. There was no wiring evident but she held her breath anyway as she reached out a gloved hand to turn the handle.

  Silence continued uninterrupted. Maybe she'd been wrong about security. Or maybe she simply hadn't encountered it yet. Relieved, she stepped into the shadow of the room, closing the door behind her. Immediately she was plunged into complete blackness, the dark almost a living, breathing thing. She'd broken into many places in her efforts to help her father. Had even stolen things when the occasion demanded. But she'd never gotten used to it. Never felt completely comfortable in the dark waiting for the other shoe to fall.

  She switched on the flashlight, moving slowly to illuminate the tiny room, stopping at the first corner. Two crates stood side by side, the Sotheby's name stenciled in black on each of them.

  Bingo.

  She crossed over to them, careful not to brush against a table towering with books. No sense in sending out her own alarm. The crates weren't all that large, and she knelt in front of the first, delighted to find that it hadn't been sealed shut. Inside were two padded compartments, each containing a painting. The Renoirs. It was tempting to pull them out for a quick peek, but she'd already taken too much time.

  Double-checking to be certain nothing else was couched between the compartments, she moved over to the second crate. Like the first, the lid had not yet been secured, but unlike the other crate, this one was not compartmentalized. In fact, things appeared to been have stacked without rhyme or reason.

  She reached in to remove a sheaf of papers, flipping through them to quickly scan the contents. Nothing. Putting them carefully to the side, she pulled out an exquisite miniature, obviously Dutch, set it aside, and picked up a silver crucifix. It was intricately wrought, the fine workmanship marking it as sixteenth century. She closed her hand, her fingers stroking the smooth metal, and then opened it again, putting the cross next to the miniature.

  Her father would be delighted with it, but she wasn't here for silver work. The remaining contents of the crate were quickly searched and discarded. The journal wasn't there. She stood up, running a hand through her hair, the arc of the flashlight cutting through the dark room as she searched for more crates.

  "Looking for something?" The lazy heat of his voice twined around her like a cat or a lover, probably a bit of both.

  "I should have known." She turned the flashlight toward the sound of the voice, almost expecting to find the room empty. The man was a shadow. "How long have you been here?"

  "Just long enough to secure the journal." Marcus Diablo smiled, his green eyes glittering in the light.

  "So why wait for me?" She knew the answer, but she wanted to hear him say it. Or deny it.

  "I need your help."

  "You mean my father's help."

  He shrugged, his smile potent. "It's all the same, isn't it?" There was an insult in there, she was certain of it, but somehow he had a way of sugarcoating the knife. But at least he was being honest with her. Unlike the last time. "Let me have the journal." She held out her hand, her gaze locking with his.

  "I hardly think that's likely. After all, the last time we were together, you didn't exactly wait around for me."

  The last time they were together was a moment she tried very hard not to dwell on. "What was I supposed to do? Hand the Degas over to you on a silver platter? You seduced me in the hopes that I'd tell you where it was."

  "I seduced you because I wanted to bury myself inside you." Somehow they'd shifted positions, standing only inches apart. "The Degas was a bonus. Besides, seduction is a two-way street."

  "A lane and a boulevard, maybe. They're hardly the same thing." They were breathing in tandem now. She could see the muscles in his chest bunch with each inhalation.

  "But a perfect fit, no?" His teeth were white in the shadows.

  She shook her head, fighting for clarity. He was doing it again. Seducing her. And she'd sworn never to let that happen again. Once had been enough.

  Okay, maybe that part was a lie. But wonderful things could still be dangerous.

  "I want the journal. It's my father's life work to find the Devil's Delight. You know that. This isn't the same as a painting or a statue."

  "It's his heart's desire. Yes, I know." His frown held a hint of disapproval. "Unfortunately, I have a client who desires it as well."

  "And your client trumps my father?" She inched forward, still holding his gaze.

  "In this case"—his expression changed, his face hardening like one of the marbles he so often procured—"yes. My client trumps everyone."

  "I don't think so." With lightning speed honed from years of practice, she grabbed the journal and pivoted to run, her emotions tumbling between regret and elation. To her credit, she made it as far as the sacristy door.

  "Going somewhere?" His body pinned hers to the wall, every hard muscle pressing into her flesh with the searing precision of a carved relief, two halves that were ordained to fit together.

  "Let me go." She started to struggle, then stopped, the motion causing far more damage to her senses than simply holding still.

  "Why?" His smile was crooked. "This is much more fun." He dipped his head, his lips brushing against hers. It was meant as a tease, but something in his touch ignited a fire inside her, and without thinking, she responded, the kiss deepening to something far more than what he'd intended.

  She closed her eyes, letting passion carry her away, his remembered smell and taste combining into a potent aphrodisiac. His fingers cupped her breast, the thin fabric of her shirt doing little to buffer the sensation. His tongue was possessive, stroking and thrusting in a way calculated to bring pleasure.

  Calculated.

  Gathering her wits, she pushed back, but she was too late. He'd already retrieved the journal. "You son of a bitch." She swung her hand, intent on knocking the smirk from his face, but he caught her wrist, still smiling.

  "Come on, Celeste," he said, holding her firmly now, "no name calling. It isn't ladylike."

  "Well, I'm not a lady," she responded, immediately regretting her words when she saw the glint in his eye.

  "Believe me"— he leaned closer, his breath warm on her cheek—"I'm more than aware of that fact." He kissed her again, then released her, the sudden motion almost causing her to lose balance.

  "So what happens now?" she asked, regaining at least a modicum of composure. Except for the fact that h
e was breathing a little faster, there was no sign that Marcus had been affected by their interchange at all. "You walk out of here with the journal?"

  "That would have a certain quid pro quo, you have to admit." The last time they'd done this, she'd walked away with not only the Degas, but a fabulous Willendorf Venus as well.

  "I only took the Venus because you used me to get to the Degas."

  "You took it because that's what you do. Same as me."

  "There's a difference. I do it for my father. And I always try to obtain things through legitimate sources first."

  "Right." He nodded as if that made sense. "Definitely puts you on higher ground."

  "Damn it, Marcus. You know how much this means to my father."

  "We've covered that territory before." They'd reached a standoff. And apparently she was on the losing side of the proposition since he had the journal, and she did not.

  "I could turn you in," she threatened.

  "You could, but you won't."

  "Why?"

  "Because then someone else would have Theloneous's journal. And if that wasn't a problem, you wouldn't be here right now, would you?"

  "Well, better the authorities to have it than you."

  "Fine. Call them. I'll get my comeuppance. And the journal will disappear forever into the hands of some avid religious collector. Which of course means that if there's something in it that could lead to the Devil's Delight—that will be lost, too."

  "So either way I lose."

  "Maybe not." He stepped back, the distance between them not as welcome as she'd have thought. "At least not for certain."

  "What do you mean?" She tilted her head, frowning at him. There was simply no trusting the man, but she couldn't seem to help herself.

  "Well, the only person I know capable of truly understanding what's in the book is your father."

  She nodded, waiting.

  "And so, as I said before, I could use his help."

  She tried but couldn't contain her snort of derision. Her father was not likely to volunteer to help Marcus.