Neither of them spoke until they hit Wichita Falls.

At a traffic light in the heart of downtown, Cole turned on the left turn signal and waited for a space in traffic. “This is it.”

Despite his brooding presence, Sydney’s stomach leaped in anticipation. “Which one?”

He pointed to a tall, gray office tower as he angled into a parking spot in front.

Sydney scanned the building. This was it. The treasure of a lifetime was waiting inside for her. Despite her anger with Cole, she felt like a kid on Christmas morning.

They entered the building and took an elevator to the tenth floor. The brass sign on the oversize office doors read Neely And Smythe, Attorneys-At-Law.

“Auspicious,” said Sydney.

“It’s been the family firm for four generations.”

“And the Thunderbolt’s been here the whole time?”

“Most of it.”

“I’m getting goose bumps.”

As he opened the door, Cole gave her his first smile in three days.

It felt good. Way too good. Pathetically good.

She preceded him into the reception area, and a smiling brunette woman greeted them warmly. She sat behind a marble counter in a room decorated with leather furniture and fine art.

“Mr. Neely can see you right away,” she said to Cole.

Cole moved to open another doorway that took them to a private hall.

A balding man met them at the far end of the hallway. He shook hands with Cole then turned to Sydney. “Joseph Neely.” He offered his hand to her. “I understand you’re here to see the Thunderbolt.”

“I am,” she agreed. “Sydney Wainsbrook.”

“I enjoy an excuse to look at it myself,” he said, turning his key in the lock and pushing the door inward.

“It’s pretty exciting,” she admitted.

“I’ll leave you two alone then.” Joseph Neely gestured to the interior of the office.

Sydney went in first, blinking to adjust her vision to the dimmer light.

Cole came in behind her and pointed to a round, mahogany meeting table.

She followed his signal and everything inside her turned still. Laid majestically out on a purple, velvet cloth, was the Thunderbolt of the North. The brooch of kings. The stuff of legends.

Sydney sucked in a breath. It was large, boldly crafted, magnificent in every way. The polished-gold lightning bolt was scattered almost randomly with rubies, emeralds and diamonds. It was big. It was audacious. It was everything she’d ever hoped for.

She circled it, running her fingers across the soft cloth, letting them get close, but not touching the treasure. “You are one lucky man,” she said in a reverent, husky voice.

His voice was equally hushed. “Sometimes I think so.”

“This is the thrill of a lifetime.”

“You can touch it, you know.”

She rubbed her fingertips together, sensitizing them. Then she leaned in ever so slowly, resting her hips against the edge of the table.

After a long minute she dared to touch the bottom point of the brooch.

She immediately snatched her hand back, a chill creeping into her veins. She felt it again, and her world came to a screeching halt.

“Cole?” she ventured slowly, stomach clenching.

“Yeah?” He’d moved closer, but his voice seemed to come from a long way off.

She tested the bottom diamond one more time and her heart went flat, dead cold.

“This is a fake.”


“Don’t be absurd,” said Cole, studying Sydney’s shocked expression.

“It’s a fake,” she repeated more passionately.

“Right,” Cole drawled, glancing down at the brooch. Somebody had bypassed the alarm and broken into the lawyer’s safe to reproduce the Thunderbolt without anyone noticing. That was likely.

“When was it last appraised?”

Cole tried to figure out where she was going with this.

“When?” she demanded.

“It’s been closely guarded for hundreds of years.” The odds of it being a fake were ridiculously slim.

Had Kyle been right about her? Was this some kind of an elaborate con?

“What are you up to?” he demanded.

“I’m up to giving you my professional opinion.”

“Uh, huh.” He struggled to figure out her angle. How she could turn this little ruse to her advantage?

She pointed to the brooch. “See those diamonds? The little ones on the points?”

He glanced down. “Sure.”

“They’re cut.”

“So what?”

“So, nobody faceted diamonds until the fourteenth century. They didn’t have the tools. The process hadn’t been invented. I don’t know who made this brooch, but it sure wasn’t the ancient Vikings.”

Cole’s gaze shot back to the Thunderbolt. He’d seen it dozens of times. It looked the same. It always looked the same.

But she was sounding alarmingly credible, and he couldn’t for the life of him figure out how lying about its authenticity would help her get her hands on it. His stomach sank. He had to allow for the possibility that she was telling the truth.

Her voice went up an octave. “Cole, you’re not reacting.”

He lifted it, holding the glittering gold to the light, speaking to himself. “Who would fake it?”

“We need more information,” said Sydney, squinting at the jewel. “I have a friend who’s a conservator. She could pinpoint the date more closely, give us somewhere to start.”

Ah. Okay. There it was. He could see the scam now.

“You have a friend,” he mocked, palming the brooch.

“Gwen Parks. She’s worked at the Laurent for-”

“And your friend is going to come out and value my brooch?”

Sydney’s eyes narrowed. “She’s not going to value it-”

Cole let out a chopped laugh. “Let me guess.” He took a pace forward. “It’ll be worthless. You’ll offer to take it off my hands. And the next thing I know it’ll be on display in New York.”

Sydney’s expression lengthened in apparent horror. “Cole, I’d never-”

“Never what?” He stepped closer to her again. “Never try anything and everything to get your hands on the Thunderbolt? Never lie? Never cheat? Never marry me or sleep with me?”

She clenched her hands into small fists. “I really don’t give a damn what you think of me right now. But the brooch is a fake. Get my expert. Get your own expert. Take it to the Louvre. But if you don’t find out when it was faked, you’re never going to find out why it was faked, you are never, ever going to have a hope in hell of getting the real one back.”

Cole stared at her in silence. Was she serious? She looked serious.

He opened his palm and inspected the brooch.

“Think about it, Cole,” she stressed. “Run it through your suspicious, little mind. How could I possibly get away with it? How, in the world, could I think for one minute that I could get away pretending the Thunderbolt was a fake?”

Cole closed his hand again, letting the points of the brooch dig into his palm.

She was right. But who would fake it? Who could fake it? And who could do it so well that nobody had ever noticed?

There were no pictures of it in circulation. It would have to be somebody who had access to it for more than-

A light bulb exploded in his brain. He stomped his way to the office door, flinging it open.

“Joseph!” he bellowed.

The lawyer appeared almost immediately, bustling his way down the corridor. “Mr. Erickson?” His voice betrayed his obvious concern.

Cole stepped back into the office and closed the door for privacy. “We need an appraiser. Now.”

“A conservator,” said Sydney.

Both men turned to look at her.

“A museum conservator,” she repeated. “One who specializes in gems and jewelry.”

“Is something wrong?” asked Joseph Neely.

“The brooch has been faked,” said Cole, watching the man closely. Somebody at the firm could easily be the culprit.

Neely was silent for a long moment. He didn’t look guilty, but his lawyer brain was obviously clicking through the implications. When he finally spoke, his voice was a rasp. “I don’t see how it could have-”

“We need to find out when and how and why,” said Cole, accepting that Sydney was telling the truth.

This was a catastrophe.

His chest tightened at the thought of his grandmother’s distress. He had to help her. He had to protect her.

No matter what happened, she could never find out.


In Neely’s office eight hours later, the words on the newly penned conservator’s report blurred in front of Cole’s tired eyes. Joseph had offered the use of the facilities as long as they needed them. It was probably half generosity, half concern for the firm’s liability. Cole didn’t particularly care which one. He just wanted some answers.

After gauging the level of expertise at the local museum, he’d given in and flown Sydney’s colleague Gwen Parks down from New York. The two women had talked technical for a couple of hours, quickly losing Cole. But it didn’t matter. The only thing important to him was the final verdict.

Gwen had just confirmed that the brooch was indeed a reproduction, and that it was made sometime between nineteen fifty and nineteen seventy-five. It didn’t tell them who, and it didn’t tell them why, but it did tell them that they had at least a small hope of finding the real one.

“I can put out some feelers,” Gwen was saying to Sydney while Joseph put the brooch back in its box to be returned to the safe.

Cole dimly wondered why he bothered. Sure the jewels themselves were valuable, but they were also replaceable. A fifty-year-old ruby, emerald and diamond reproduction was hardly something to lock up in titanium.

He clenched his fist, crumpling it around the report.

“If anybody’s ever sold it, or offered it for sale…” Gwen continued, leaning against Joseph’s wide mahogany desk “…somebody out there will know something.”

Gwen might be dressed in blue jeans and a Mets T-shirt, but the woman had convinced Cole she knew her stuff.

“You got a way into the black market?” asked Sydney.

Gwen nodded her pixie blond head.

Both women were silent for a moment. Sydney didn’t ask any questions, and Gwen didn’t offer an explanation.

Sydney turned her attention to Cole. “I think we should go talk to Grandma now.”

Cole jerked his head up. “What?”

“Gwen’s going to try her contacts, but we need to get information from Grandma. The sooner, the better.”

“We’re not telling Grandma.” That point was nonnegotiable.

Sydney brought her hands to her hips. “Of course we are.”

Cole dropped the report on the desk. “Do you have any idea how much this will upset her?”

Sydney took a couple of paces toward him, gesturing with an open palm. “Of course it’ll upset her. But never finding the Thunderbolt will upset her a whole lot more.”

Cole clenched his jaw. “We’ll find it without her.”

“She had it during the years it was copied. She’s our best lead.”

“No.”

“Cole. Be reasonable. She can tell us where it was, during what time periods.”

“The lawyer’s records will tell us that.”

“All they can tell us is when it was or was not in their safe. Grandma can tell us if it was ever missing, if anybody borrowed it-”

“My answer is no.”

Sydney moved directly in front of him and crossed her arms over her chest. “What makes this your decision?”

A pulse leaped to life in Cole’s temple. He straightened to his full height, matching her posture. “You will not go behind my back and talk to my grandmother.”

“The police might. A crime has been committed here, Cole.”

“We’ll take care of it privately.” There was no way in the world Cole was losing control of the investigation, having it dumped into the lap of some overworked police precinct.

“Cole,” came Gwen’s voice.

Sydney and Cole both turned. Gwen straightened away from the desk, tucking her blond hair behind her ears and moving her small frame into the thick of the conversation.

“Sydney’s right. No matter who you talk to, who you ask for help, public, private or otherwise, the first thing they’re going to want to do is talk to your grandma. And if they don’t, you should fire them for incompetence.”

Sydney spoke up again. “She’s our only lead.”

It didn’t matter. “She’s seventy years old.”

“She’s tough as nails.”

“The stress could kill her.”

Sydney stared at him levelly with those penetrating green eyes. “It’s not going to kill her.”

They were intelligent eyes, Cole acknowledged. Clear-thinking, logical eyes. He’d never doubted she was smart. Never doubted she was capable. And this was definitely her field of expertise.

Damn.

If he wanted to keep the police out of it, he needed to keep Sydney and Gwen in, which meant he needed to take their advice.