LITMIR.BIZ

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on the line. Another call was coming in. Another whispered warning.

      He scanned the number.

      Blocked.

      Damned cowards.

      But he was ready for them now. He trusted only three people in the world, and two of them knew about his dangerous plan. Even if he failed, Nell would be protected from the shadow world and those who refused to let him go.

      “Lunch tomorrow? That sounds fine, Nell. I want to hear all about Scotland. You haven’t said more than a few words about the climbs you and Eric made, and that’s not like you.”

      Jordan MacInnes was almost certain he wouldn’t be at that lunch, but he didn’t want to alarm Nell. She would be told all she needed to know in due course. His old friend would see to that.

      The white-haired thief with the aristocratic face stared out at the darkness, sensing the danger waiting in the shadows.

      There was no turning back. Now his death might be the only gift he had left for Nell.

      CHAPTER SIX

      THE WIND OFF THE BAY was freezing.

      Nell shivered as she rubbed her arms, glancing up at the fog that covered the Oakland Bay Bridge. For some reason the advancing white curtain reminded her of a gate opening slowly, swallowing all light and motion.

      Nell forced away her uneasiness. Her windows were all closed, her doors locked. Her workroom alarm was set, which made her absolutely safe.

      Of course you are. You always set your alarm when you work late. Stop dithering and finish the painting.

      She had been uneasy since her return from Scotland the week before, and to her great irritation she hadn’t been able to get Lieutenant Dakota Smith out of her mind, even during long days of intense restoration work.

      Now that project was almost done. Looking down at Tintoretto’s jewellike study of Saint George fighting a dragon, Nell didn’t want to let go. Living in the mind of a genius could be extremely addictive.

      But now the exquisite restoration was complete. She studied the area near the dragon’s head and then put down her fine Russian red sable brush.

      Done.

      There was nothing more to add, no detail that would intrude to place her vision over Tintoretto’s. No art restorer allowed personal technique to challenge the integrity of the original image.

      The moment Nell was finished, exhaustion struck. The restoration process required fanatical focus and patience. When you were hunched over a sixteenth-century masterpiece, you couldn’t afford even one slip of the hand. So you never let down your guard. Not ever.

      And that also happened to be one of Nell’s un-shakable life rules, right up there under don’t trust and don’t lean. If most people would consider that cynical, it was too damned bad.

      Life had not exactly been a kind teacher.

      She rubbed her face. After long hours of meticulous brushwork cleaning the canvas, her eyes burned, her fingers ached, and her shoulders felt as if they’d been impaled by razors.

      One more reason that Nell was looking forward to walking home after closing her workshop. San Francisco’s cool, salty air always helped her loosen up and put the work behind her.

      After that, she would call her father to check in. If she was lucky, she might get the truth about his urgent calls to her in Scotland. For the moment, he was sticking to his story of sudden chest pains that had made him panic and call her from the emergency room.

      Nell didn’t buy it—she knew her father well enough to know that he cared little about his own health. He was worrying about something else. She just didn’t know what.

      She locked her workshop door and triggered the alarms for active monitoring, jogging in place to warm up. So far she’d been lucky, with no robberies or thefts of any sort, but she made it a point not to take chances. Her alarm system was the best you could buy. Even her father had approved of it.

      She stretched from side to side, savoring the silence of the street while mist curled past in pale tendrils. The cool air felt good on her face as she settled into a stride up Geary Street.

      A few blocks later she noticed him, a lone figure in black. He’d been half a block behind her for almost five minutes now, which didn’t do much for the coincidence theory.

      Nell picked up her pace. Geary Street was deserted, its boutiques and wine bars closed for the night. There could be a good reason for a man to be following her; she just couldn’t think what it was.

      At least she had her pepper spray.

      Nell sprinted across the street and cut down an alley that led to an all-night coffee shop with poetry readings fuelled by unlimited caffeine. Right now she wanted bright lights and warm bodies.

      She was one block from the shop’s beckoning lights when she heard the snap of gravel behind her. A hand snaked around her neck, groping for her throat.

      She reacted before panic could set in, spraying him and then tucking her chin as she snapped forward and sent the man flying over her head. Blood geysered as he hit the dirty concrete and moaned brokenly.

      Nell kept on moving toward the end of the alley. Maybe the creep would think twice before hitting on another woman walking alone at night.

      Or not—given that more figures had appeared from behind a parked car. She sprinted to the wall at the far side of the street.

      One of her pursuers pulled something long and narrow from his pocket.

      A big cardboard box rustled near her feet. Nell recognized the homeless man who looked out of the torn box that was his current home. She had made a practice of leaving him a sandwich or a jar of his favorite honey maple almonds on her night walks.

      His grimy face creased in a smile. “How ya doin’, Legs?”

      “I’ve been better,” she muttered.

      Her first attacker was back on his feet now. The two men crossed the street, headed toward Nell.

      “What are you doing?” The old man stood up un-steadily, one hand on the graffiti-covered wall. “Leave her alone, you shits.”

      The closer man, a Caucasian with gang tattoos on one arm, gave two vicious kicks of his steel-toed boot and crumpled the old man onto the pavement.

      Nell reacted in fury, kicking his legs out from under him. When he toppled, she twisted sharply to the left and swung a piece of discarded plumber’s pipe toward the other man’s face. He was big, but Nell was quicker and she knew these streets and alleys well from her frequent walks home. Jumping onto a cement wall, she struck hard at the side of the man’s head, catching him unaware.

      Creep number two hit the alley, gurgling as his face slammed into the greasy pavement.

      That had to hurt.

      Something rolled across the ground near her feet. Nell realized it was a syringe. Had it been meant for her?

      She felt her hands start to shake. She tried to think, digging in her pocket for her cell phone to call 911.

      Off to her left, the homeless man gave a groan and spit out two decayed teeth. When he saw the attackers out cold, he gave Nell a crooked smile. “Hell, Legs, where were you when I needed you back in January ’68? My boys and me coulda used you when we stormed the crap out of Hue.”

      “A little before my time.” She helped the old man to his feet, dug in her dropped handbag and held out some bills. “Dessert’s on me tonight. Watch yourself out here.”

      “Count on it. Got my Purple Heart to protect me.” He pulled out a medal from beneath his stained jacket, the ribbon caught around his gnarled fingers.

      One of the nation’s highest honors, the medal was the only thing of value left to a forgotten hero. Talk

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