Page 8 of Undercover Star
He had.
In Interpol's monthly bulletin of stolen art, where the piece had been described as a cross-shaped locket fashioned for Cesare Borgia on the orders of his father, Pope Alexander.
Two days before Paul's death, the piece had been stolen from the Vatican.
Had Paul recognised it for what it was? Had he known what he held before his life was so suddenly torn from him? Had he died because he'd gotten in the middle of a transfer of stolen goods, because someone—the thief or the collector—had seen him as a threat?
Nobody knew. They had no way to ever find out, but—
"Are you sleeping with your eyes open? I'm sure that's a health hazard."
Josh turned so fast, he gave himself whiplash. "Jesus. Warn a guy."
Matisse's mouth turned down at the corners. "I've been talking to you for five minutes straight. Distracted much?"
Josh sighed. "Rock star with attitude. Great."
"I don't fucking do rock. Jerk." Matisse turned his back on him.
Josh had been teasing to hide his own embarrassment, only to offend the temperamental musician. Matisse hadn't just brought the attitude. He'd dressed for the part, too. Shit-kicker boots, jeans with more rips than fabric, and a black T-shirt and hoodie... it wasn't surprising the look reminded Josh of a moody, defiant rocker rather than a pop icon.
"Remember, I'm only here because you need to get inside this overdecorated heap. Piss me off and I leave your sorry arse and go back home."
"Sorry. Sorry." Josh held up his hands in mock surrender. "Slip of the tongue. Honest. Don't run off." He looked up and down the street, taking in the scant traffic and handful of pedestrians. "Where are your minders? And the limo?"
"Don't need them today. I've got nothing official and I'm not exactly dressed, either."
Josh disagreed with the second half of that statement. Matisse was definitelydressed.In a way that pushed quite a few of Josh's buttons. "I thought we had an appointment."
"Yes. But it doesn't include permission to drive in and park on the premises."
"You're kidding me."
"Nope. Mixing with royalty is easier than getting anywhere with those three."
"I don't hear a great deal of love and affection in your tone," Josh teased gently. "How did you wrangle an appointment?"
"I'm presenting one of the awards." Matisse didn't sound as if he looked forward to the prospect.
"What's wrong?"
"The Levingtons are a bunch of jerks. They want to pat themselves on the back for their charitable work, but they make damned sure they have other people's money to do it with." He shrugged. "Sticks in my craw, that attitude. I wanted to tell them where to get off when they called. Fortunately, Marissa is eternally polite and she blamed my reluctance on scheduling constraints."
"Which is the polite way to say you're washing your hair?"
"You can also spell itpiss off," Matisse agreed. "Those three, they don't ask. They demand. I have no issue with helping good causes, but I like to choose the charities I support. Anyway.... When Marissa called them, they almost fell over themselves trying to be helpful. That doesn't bode well."
"I don't follow."
"When you visited the house last year, whom did you meet?"
"The property manager."
"Ah. Today, you might get to see one of the three owners. Not sure which one, but it's a brother and two sisters, and they're a vindictive bunch. I didn't come running when they crooked a finger, so...."
"Your manager is going to meet us here. Right?"
"Yeah. I'd burn bridges and she knows it. She prefers pre-empting damage to fixing it later."
