Barbara Dunlop - Thunderbolt over Texas

“The Thunderbolt of the North?” Bradley continued. “That’s big even for us.”

She flicked her hair back from her sweaty forehead. “There is no us.” How had he found out so fast? Who did he bribe?

“Oh, there’s an us, Sydney,” said Bradley. “We’re inextricably connected, both cosmically and financially.”

“Get over yourself.”

“Where are you?”

She glanced back at Cole. He was watching her intently, his hand poised on the stick shift.

“None of your business,” she said.

“Gwen’s bush league, Sydney,” said Bradley.

“Gwen is brilliant.”

“What’s she found for you so far?”

Sydney clamped her jaw. She wasn’t giving Bradley a thing. Not a damn thing.

“Thought so,” said Bradley with a self-satisfied chuckle. “Team up with me. I know everybody who’s anybody from here to Istanbul.”

“Do the words ‘cold day in hell’ mean anything to you?”

His voice dropped to that reptilian level. “Together, babe, you and I can-”

She straightened, no longer caring if Cole or anyone else was listening. “Get this through your thick skull, Bradley. I will not work with you.”

“Sure you will,” he purred.

“No.”

“You know it’s just a matter of time.”

“Not now. Not ever-”

Cole snagged the phone from between her fingers.

“I think you heard the lady,” he said to Bradley.

Her jaw went slack in amazement.

“Really?” asked Cole mildly, his gaze drifting to Sydney. “Well, I doubt very much you know who you’re messing with, either.”

Then he took the phone from his ear and snapped it shut.

He plopped it back into her palm. “Who was that?”

“Bradley Slander,” she answered, staring at the compact phone, trying to decide whether he was being gentlemanly or controlling. In the end, she decided he was just being Cole. Which was…nice.

She had to admit, she’d experienced a momentary thrill when she pictured Bradley’s expression. But now she was thinking about the possible ramifications. Bradley was unpredictable, and they’d just waved a red flag in his face.

“Old boyfriend?” asked Cole, still watching her closely.

She shuddered at the very thought. “Antiquity snake. Now there’s a guy with contacts in the black market.”

“But you’re not willing to work with him?”

“I’d rather be dragged naked through an anthill.”

Cole quirked a half smile. “Thanks for the visual.”

She fought a grin, the tension finally dissipating. She was letting herself get paranoid here. Nothing terrible was going to happen. Bradley was far way, and he didn’t have a clue about Grandma’s secret.

“So what did he want?” asked Cole.

“He’s after the Thunderbolt.”

Cole’s hand tightened on the shift. “Why? It’s mine.”

“Possession is nine-tenths of the law.”

“That would make him a thief.”

“I know.” Sydney closed her eyes for a brief second. If Irene Cowan had sold it or given it away, especially if it was overseas, the ownership issue was going to get complicated.

“We need to find it before he does,” she said. “Keeps our life simple.”

Cole’s stare raked over her for a silent moment. “There’s something you’re not telling me.”

She tried not to flinch. She couldn’t let him see her fear. “There are plenty of things I’m not telling you,” she said, going on the offensive. “But I am doing everything in my power to find your brooch. I won’t lie to you, if the brooch is already on the black market, Bradley’s a threat.”

“How big of a threat?”

“He’s after it. But we’ve got Gwen. And Gwen is good.”

Cole’s expression turned speculative. “What about you, Sydney?”

“What about me?”

“Are you good?”

“At finding antiquities? I’m very good.”

He nodded toward the antique store they’d just left. “So why does this feel like amateur hour?”

She struggled to keep from squirming under his gaze. “Because we haven’t gotten started yet.”

“Then let’s get started.”

Sydney nodded. “Right.” She’d get the real search under way the very minute she ditched Cole.

He put the car into first gear and checked his side mirror. “Let’s start with what Bradley is to you.”

“A thorn in my ass.”

Cole grinned, and another layer of tension dissipated.

“Ever slept with him?” asked Cole conversationally as he pulled into traffic.

“No!” She folded her arms across her chest. “And, by the way, that’s none of your business.”

“Sure it’s my business.”

“Why? Because we-” She stopped herself short.

“Because I want to know how deep this guy’s vendetta goes.”

Sydney puzzled over that one. “Would it be better if I’d slept with him, or worse?”

“A scorned lover makes a powerful enemy.” He stopped at a red light.

She hesitated, then asked softly, “Are you my enemy, Cole?”

He turned his head. “Have I been scorned?”

She immediately realized her mistake. Reminding him of their lovemaking was a stupid idea. She cringed. “Sorry.”

“For what?”

“Bringing it up.”

The light changed and he pulled ahead. “What? You thought I’d forget?”

“This conversation is a bad idea.”

He flipped on his signal and took a right turn. They accelerated past a sandy beach lined with palm trees and colorful umbrellas.

“Sydney,” he said, keeping his attention fixed on the straight road. “Since you were there.” He shifted to third. “And I was there.” He pulled it into fourth. “And since we both have pretty damn good memories.” He climbed on the brake pedal and swerved around a minivan exiting a parking stall. “I don’t think it matters much whether we have this conversation or not.”

She gripped the door handle. He made a good point. She remembered everything in vivid detail. Everything.

“We had sex,” he said bluntly. “And that’s that.”

She pictured him mentally brushing his hands together. He was done with the subject and done with her.

Her stupid chest contracted. “Okay.”

He was silent for a split second. “No hard feelings?”

“No hard feelings.” None at all.

It took Sydney the entire next morning to convince Cole they needed to split up. But she finally sent him to some antique dealers across town, freeing her up to walk to city hall.

Hunched over a microfiche reader in the bowels of the building’s basement, she discovered Irene Cowan had paid taxes on a little house at Risotto Beach for ten years running. But Irene’s trail disappeared in the early eighties. She could have started renting, or she might have moved away.

Sydney moved on to utility records. But she found nothing new. Then, two hours later, just when she was sure she’d hit a dead end, it occurred to her to check marriage licenses.

She moved to the State offices upstairs. There, finally, she had another lead. Irene Cowan had become Irene Robertson. She and her husband had paid taxes in Oceanside for a further fifteen years. Then they’d died in a car accident in the mid-nineties.

But they’d raised one son, Rupert Cowan. And according to the Oceanside Gazette, he’d graduated from Edison High School and won a small scholarship to Southwestern State Fashion Design College. The Southwestern State alumni newsletter revealed that he’d received his degree then taken a job in New York.

Then Google picked up a local fashion show from last year in Miami. Rupert Cowan’s company, Zap, had been a contributing designer.

It was a break. A huge break.

Rupert could be in Miami.

Sydney needed to get there just as soon as possible. She began formulating a plan. She’d approach him the way she approached any other potential seller. Not on the phone, not with a letter, but in person. She needed to see his expression, gauge his mood, his interests, his weaknesses.

This was the most important antiquity purchase she’d ever make. She was doing it step by careful step.

Her heels clicked on the floor of the cavernous, marble foyer while she dialed Gwen’s number.

“Hello?” Gwen answered.

“I need you to send us to Miami.”

“Sydney?”

“Yeah. It’s me.”

“What’s in Miami?”

“I can’t explain, but you need to give us some kind of a lead for Miami.”

“Whoa. A false lead?”

“Yes.”

“What’s going on?”

“You know I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.”

“You’ve got something. What’ve you got?”

“I’ve got a name,” Sydney admitted.

“Who? Where? How?”

“I can’t tell you that. It would give away a confidence.”

“You have someone else working on this?”

“It’s, ah, complicated.”

“I’m reasonably intelligent.”

“I know.” But Sydney couldn’t tell Gwen. She couldn’t tell anybody Rupert’s name. She’d given her word to Grandma.

“So, what exactly is it that I’m doing here?”

“You’re sending us to Miami.”

Gwen’s tone hardened. “That’s not what I meant.”

Sydney sighed, not sure how to answer.

“So, what? I’m window decoration?”

“Right now. Yeah.”

Gwen’s voice rose, her exasperation coming through loud and clear. “You mean I can stop calling in favors from Edinburgh to Rome?”

“Yes.”

“Sydney!”

“I didn’t know until this very minute. I swear, I just found out-”

“Fine.”

Sydney felt like crud. “I’m sorry.”

Gwen’s voice was flat. “Call me if you need help.”

“I will. And, Gwen?”

“Yeah?”

“I’ll tell you what I can later. But this is important.”

“I hear you.”

“I’ll call you from Miami.”

“I’ll be asleep.” Gwen disconnected.

Sydney snapped the phone shut and pushed open the glass door.

Out on the wide, concrete staircase, she swore under her breath. Gwen was a good friend, and a consummate professional. Maybe it would be safe to tell her…

Sydney trotted down the steps, rubbing her thumb over the keypad of her phone, trying to decide how much she could afford to tell Gwen. As she ran through the facts, Grandma’s stricken expression flashed through her mind. Sydney heard her own heartfelt vow, and remembered her determination to do right by the woman.

Good friend or no good friend, she knew she’d take the secret to her grave.

“I gotta ask myself…” came a familiar, mocking voice.

Sydney blinked the world back into focus and stared directly into the face of Bradley Slander.

“…what does the Oceanside City Hall have to do with our little search?”

A cold wave of fear momentarily paralyzed her.

“This is the best one yet, Sydney.” He chuckled. “Come on, tell ol’ Bradley what you’ve got.”

“Nothing.” She gripped her phone, cursing herself as she increased her pace in an effort to get him away from the building.

She frantically cataloged her movements over the past few hours. Had she covered her tracks? Would the clerks remember her? Had she written anything down? Tossed evidence in the wastebasket?

How could she have been so careless as to let Bradley sneak up on her? He could have overheard her phone call to Gwen. He might already know about Miami.

“We can go fifty-fifty,” he said, pacing along beside her.

“Get lost.”

“Now, that’s just rude.”

Sydney stopped on the sidewalk and turned to stare at him, a horrible thought crossing her mind. What if he’d talked to Cole’s grandmother? What if he’d gone to the ranch, lied about who he was and pumped the family for information.

“If you’re so damn good, why do you need me anyway?” she asked, fishing to see how much he knew.

He moved in closer. “Because we’re a team, Wainsbrook. It wouldn’t be near as much fun without you.”

“You mean, you don’t want the entire profit?”

His beady eyes narrowed. “Yeah, right. You don’t think for one minute I’m going to find it.”

“Frankly,” said Sydney, with what she hoped was an unconcerned toss of her hair, “I don’t think either of us is going to find it.”

“They why are you wasting your time?”

“It’s my time to waste.”

“What’ve you got?”

“I’ve got a missing brooch.” She waited, hoping his ego would force him to give out his own information.

“We know the age of the fake,” he said.

“Of course we do.” She waited again.

“We know it’s the Erickson family.”

Sydney nodded, concentrating on keeping her expression neutral. Had he talked to Grandma? Had he been to Texas?

“You talked to them?” asked Bradley.

“I’ve got Cole Erickson with me now,” she admitted. Maybe if she focused on Cole, Bradley wouldn’t realize Grandma was of any significance.

If Bradley was surprised that she volunteered Cole’s name, he didn’t show it. He probably chalked it up to his superior interrogation techniques, thinking he had her right where he wanted her.