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Mercedes, smiling while she shook it. “I was going to introduce myself,” he said. “But I’m thinking that might be unnecessary.”

      “I might have heard a thing or two about you,” Mercedes said, taking her hand back. “But apparently nothing like the research you’ve done on me.”

      Devin gave a one-shouldered shrug. “It’s research like that which makes my job so interesting.”

      Mercedes’s lips pursed in an appreciative little smile. “A compliment that doesn’t sound like a compliment. Pretty smooth for an art thief.”

      “Former art thief,” Devin said. Pagan could see he was tickled by Mercedes tweaking him. “I never stole cars, but compared to taking a Picasso out of a guarded museum, it doesn’t sound that hard.”

      Pagan opened her mouth to shush him, and then shut it. As Devin well knew, Mercedes had stolen her share of cars, and other things. She was in reform school for armed robbery and extortion because she’d been one of the top enforcers for the Avenidas, one of the most powerful Mexican gangs in Los Angeles, a gang headed by her brother, who’d been shot and killed. A gang that still wanted her back.

      Mercedes’s eyelids dropped to half mast as she reassessed Devin. “It’s not hard,” she said, “unless Clanton 14 has six guys chasing you from both ends of Rampart Avenue and the only car you can get to has two more of them inside it.”

      Clanton 14 was the rival gang to the Avenidas. Reform school had taught Pagan a lot of things Hollywood could not.

      Devin lifted an impressed eyebrow. “I retract my statement.”

      “Look at us, three little criminals,” Pagan said.

      Mercedes and Devin turned as one to look at her, faces wearing identical looks of skepticism.

      “You think she qualifies?” Mercedes asked Devin, as if Pagan wasn’t standing right there.

      “As a criminal?” Devin shook his head. “She lacks the killer instinct.”

      Pagan blinked at them. “But I...”

      “She’s got a thing for the criminal type, though,” Mercedes said.

      “Obviously,” said Devin, turning back to her. “Now this man in gray you saw following you. Can you describe him?” He ushered Mercedes to take the gold brocade chair behind him. “I ordered steaks for you both, by the way. The hotel cook’s pretty good.”

      “Hooray,” Pagan said, still trying to deal with the two most important people in her life bonding without her. “I’m starving.”

      She took the sofa while Mercedes lowered herself into the chair and said, “He was young, maybe early or midtwenties, over six feet, white, reasonably handsome with reddish brown hair under a light gray fedora. Gray suit, white shirt, narrow gray tie.”

      “Thorough,” said Devin. “And what made you think he wasn’t a fellow tourist?”

      Mercedes squinted, thinking. “He wasn’t looking around. He had no curiosity about the things or people around him. No guidebook. He kept staring at Pagan.”

      Pagan straightened. Devin said, “He wasn’t some fan of her movies, maybe?”

      Mercedes shook her head. “I thought of that. But he didn’t want an autograph, and not because he’s shy. He was intent, focused, and he didn’t want her, or me, to see him.”

      Pagan was impressed, and convinced, and Devin was taking everything Mercedes said very seriously. “Will you let me know if you see him again?” he asked.

      “Sure. Do you know who it is?”

      It was like being at a tennis match, her eyes bouncing back and forth between them.

      “No,” Devin said. “But we’ll find out.”

      Mercedes nodded. “He’ll be back.”

      “I knew Berlin was a garrison of spies,” Pagan said, turning to Mercedes. “But Devin says Buenos Aires is, too, even more so since the Israelis kidnapped that war criminal Eichmann back in ’60.”

      “I did some research for my school report that said there’s a large Jewish population here,” Mercedes said. “But also a large German ex-patriot population.”

      “Exactly,” said Devin. “And those are only two of the factions that come into conflict. Many of the old aristocracy resent elements within the German community and the former Perónist government, which harbored Nazis like Eichmann and Mengele. Then there are local gangs who follow various brands of fascism and Perónism, who agitate against the current government and target Jews. Not to mention that the Israelis and other foreign agencies are still active, all with their own agendas.”

      “Why would any of them want to tail Pagan?” Mercedes asked. “For all they know she’s a harebrained movie star. Sorry.” She shot an apologetic look at Pagan.

      Pagan grinned. “I drank a lot of martinis to give that impression. Glad they didn’t all go to waste.”

      “Much as I’d like to discuss this with you in more detail, and much as I appreciate your sharp eye,” Devin said to Mercedes, “I can’t officially talk to Pagan about her job for us with you here.” He turned to Pagan. “Shall we adjourn to my room, perhaps? It’s down the hall.”

      Pagan was on her feet. “You’re staying down the hall?” It was silly how that news made her pulse race.

      “Don’t leave,” Mercedes said, getting up. “Pagan needs her steak, and it’s coming here. Send mine in when it comes.” And she sailed into her adjoining bedroom and shut the door.

      Pagan was alone again with Devin Black.

       CHAPTER SEVEN

      Alvear Palace Hotel, Buenos Aires

      January 10, 1962

      CORTINA

      Curtain. A brief musical interlude between dance sets.

      “Alone at last,” said Pagan, echoing Devin’s words back to him as she sat back down with a thump. Devin took the chair beside the sofa with his usual careless grace, an arm’s length away.

      Now that Mercedes was gone Pagan was free to notice how the long, powerful muscles in his shoulders pressed against the fine cotton lawn of his white shirt, and how narrow his waist was where the shirt was tucked neatly into his pants. She pulled her eyes away so he wouldn’t see her staring.

      “Sorry it took me a little while to get in touch,” he said. “I had some background research to do before I talked to you and...”

      He broke off, staring at her. His eyes, normally layered sapphire and indigo, caught sunlight coming through the hotel window and glowed nearly royal blue. His high cheekbones and long straight nose had tanned since she’d seen him at Sinatra’s house in December. He looked fit and coiled for action.

      “Are you all right?” he asked. “You seem agitated.”

      She relaxed slightly. “I’m fine, but this morning wasn’t fun. The wardrobe is derivative, dated and way too tight, which is exactly how this whole movie’s going to be. The script is terrible. I keep hearing the director’s a jerk, and my costar thought dance rehearsals back in California were the right time to proposition me.”

      He didn’t move, but something behind his eyes tightened. “Which costar?”

      The protective note in his voice was strong, immediate. She looked down so he wouldn’t see how happy it made her. “Tony Perry. He’s...” She wanted to tell him how Tony’s assumptions about how “easy” she was had made her feel awful, to hear Devin’s reassurance that he didn’t see her that way, but instead she trailed off and finished, lamely, “He’s just a jerk.”

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