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  When the phone finally rang she nearly jumped out of her skin. “Hello?”

  “Erica,” the ambassador’s familiar voice said. “Good, I’m glad I reached you. I need to see you right away.”

  “You want me to fly back there?”

  “Not necessary. I’m in New Orleans.”

  “You’re here? Are you all right?”

  “I’m tired, but I’m recovering.”

  Erica’s mind raced. She picked up the pen, ready to take directions. The ambassador in New Orleans? She added a series of question marks. What had happened to bring him here? “Where are you?”

  “I’m in the lobby. Can you come down?”

  “Of course.” Erica grabbed her purse and jacket and flew out the door. So she didn’t have a return elevator key. She’d leave a message at the desk for Conner. He’d come for her.

  As she stepped off the elevator, two men moved up beside her. One was a stranger. The second man she recognized from Brighton’s dinner party—his secretary, Mr. Boykin. “Act natural,” he said in that familiar southern voice. “We may be watched.”

  Erica suddenly remembered where she’d heard that voice before—on the street when she’d been pushed. “Where is the ambassador?” Erica asked.

  “He’s in the limo outside.”

  “Just a minute,” she said, hesitating. “I need to leave a message for—”

  “No time!” Boykin said.

  Erica jerked away. “I don’t know what you think you’re doing, but I know you’re the one who pushed me. Let me go or I’ll scream!”

  “And if you do, the ambassador will die. Just look through the doors to the limo.”

  She followed his instructions and caught sight of the ambassador’s worried face through the open glass. He attempted a smile, then glanced to the seat in front as if he were telling her that someone was there.

  Erica had walked into a trap, just like Conner and Bart. She shivered, hoping that the result wouldn’t be the same. Conner, if you have ever had me watched, I hope it’s now. Erica gave one quick look behind her. No one seemed remotely interested in what was happening to her. So be it, she thought. I’m the one who caused all this to begin with, it’s up to me to end it.

  Her companions closed in and walked her toward the doors, one in front and one behind.

  “Miss Fallon?” One of the doormen started toward her. “Is everything all right?”

  “Get rid of him,” Boykin growled.

  “Yes, thanks,” she replied as her companion casually pushed her into the revolving glass door and out onto the sidewalk beyond.

  The limo door opened and she was thrust inside to the vacant seat opposite the wounded diplomat.

  “You shouldn’t have come, Ambassador.”

  “Once I heard you were in New Orleans with Preston, I had to come. I couldn’t let it go any further. But these men were waiting when I stepped off the plane.”

  At that moment Boykin closed the passenger door and slid into the front seat, opening the glass partition between.

  “Enjoy the ride,” Boykin said. “You have plenty of time to decide what you’re going to do before we get where we’re going.”

  “And where is that?” the ambassador demanded in a thready voice.

  “Just shut up, old man. Don’t make me give you another bullet wound.”

  Erica’s question slipped out before she could hold it back. “You’re the one who shot him in New York?”

  “No, but I’ll be the one who shoots him here.”

  The ambassador shook his head. “Don’t do anything foolish, Erica.”

  Erica looked around, studying the interior of the limo. She had to figure a way to alert someone to their plight.

  “Conner Preston will come after you,” she warned, searching for a way to distract Boykin. Maybe the door…

  “Don’t even think it,” he warned. “The panel up here overrides all the controls back there. Just be sensible and stay calm. Have something to drink.”

  “No thanks,” Erica shot back, then remembered the ambassador. “Unless you’d like something, sir?” Solicitously, she leaned forward, taking in the pallor of the man she’d served for the last nine years. She’d learned early on that he wasn’t a strong man, physically or mentally. Bolstering him up was one of the duties she’d taken on.

  “No—nothing, Erica. Just do what he says.”

  “And if I don’t?”

  “I’ll kill him,” the southern voice said, “then I’ll get the boyfriend.”

  “No. Don’t hurt Ambassador Collins.”

  The ambassador seemed to collect himself and leaned forward. “I won’t sit here and let anyone be hurt.”

  “Don’t worry, sir,” Erica reassured him. “I’m sure that Conner will come for us.”

  The ambassador gave her an odd smile. “Sometimes, my dear, the best laid plans fall apart.”

  Conner, sitting at the bar in the Napoleon House, glanced at his watch for the dozenth time, He’d been waiting for more than an hour. It was obvious that his informant wasn’t coming. Throwing a couple of bills on the counter, Conner left the restaurant and started back to the hotel.

  It had taken all the fortitude he possessed to make himself leave Erica that morning. He’d ordered coffee and muffins, then showered, resolved that Erica should get some rest after their night of lovemaking. When the phone had rung, he’d assumed it would be Mac or Sterling, either of whom would be soundly rewarded if they accomplished what he hadn’t allowed himself to do—wake Erica.

  The caller was neither. The voice was low and unidentifiable. “Mr. Preston, I have information about your brother’s death. Are you interested?”

  “Who is this?”

  “Doesn’t matter. It’s what I have to say that you’ll want to hear.”

  “Say it.”

  “Not on the phone. Come to the Napoleon House. Wait at the bar for further instructions.”

  “Give me half an hour.”

  “You have fifteen minutes.”

  The phone went dead and Conner was left with no choice but to follow the order he’d been given. Behind him, Erica was still sleeping. He toyed with waking her, then decided to leave a note. Pushing his time limit, he scrawled a second note, dropped it and the snapshots of the statue into an envelope addressed to Mac, and tossed it at the desk clerk to be mailed as he jogged past.

  Now Conner glanced at his watch. He’d been gone too long. Christmas Eve, he thought, eyeing the tourists moving through the Quarter. He wondered if Erica was up yet. What would she think when she found herself alone?

  Alone!

  Damn! He’d been set up—again. It was so obvious, even a schoolboy would have seen it. He would have seen it, too, if he hadn’t spent most of the night making love to Erica. If his mind hadn’t been so filled with her.

  Love?

  Yes, dammit. Love. He’d been crazy in love with her ten years ago when he’d walked straight into an ambush and he was still in love with her. He’d never stopped loving her. And she felt the same about him. Or she had, until now. Whoever called him had wanted him away from the hotel.

  From Erica.

  Conner broke into a run, brushing aside the people who were in his way, feeling his heart slam against his lungs. In the lobby, he ran past the doorman and into the elevator, ignoring the voice calling out to him from behind. The parlor was unoccupied, though he could see where Erica had drunk coffee and eaten a muffin.

  And the bedroom was empty. No Erica. Her jacket and purse were gone. His eyes covered the area, zeroing in on the notepad. He saw their names, surrounded by the heart. Then The ambassador—in New Orleans??? Damn! They’d gotten to her in the only way she wouldn’t have suspected. “Where are you, Erica?”

  There was a knock at the door. Conner opened it.

  “Mr. Preston?” It was the doorman.

  “If you’re looking for Miss Fallon, I saw her in the lobby with two men earlier. I called out to her, but she assured me that she w
as okay. Should I have stopped her?”

  “Yes, but you couldn’t have known. Tell me about the men.”

  The doorman described the two kidnappers, but nothing he said helped identify them until he got to the soft-spoken man with a southern accent.

  Kilgore’s secretary. “Where did they go?” Conner asked.

  “They got into a limo and drove away.”

  “Anything else you can think of? Anything at all?”

  “Only that there was a man inside the limo.”

  “Tall, blondish, thin?” Brighton Kilgore, Conner was thinking.

  “No. Tall maybe, but his hair was almost gray. And he looked ill.”

  The ambassador? That made no sense. If the ambassador had left Shangrila, Mac would have told him. Unless something had happened to Mac. Conner turned back to the elevator. He needed to consider every possibility. This was no search and rescue operation that he’d spent months planning. This was Erica, who still loved him. He couldn’t afford any mistakes.

  Yesterday he might have wondered if she was setting a trap for him, an elaborate trap that had been planned down to the minute, including the note with their names written in a heart. Today he didn’t give the idea a second thought.

  “Don’t guess you got a license number, did you?”

  “No, but I believe it was the same limo that came for you last evening. There aren’t many made by that manufacturer in New Orleans.”

  “Thanks,” Conner said, turning back inside.

  “Shall I call the police, sir?”

  “No. No, not yet.”

  Conner moved back to Erica’s desk, where he discovered the red message button pulsating. He studied Erica’s note until the operator came back on the line.

  “A Mr. MacAllister returned Ms. Fallon’s call,” she said. “He says it’s urgent that he reach either Mr. Preston or Ms. Fallon. His number is—”

  “Never mind,” Conner interrupted, disconnected the operator, and punched in the numbers.

  “Lincoln MacAllister here.”

  “Mac, Conner. Erica’s missing.”

  “So is the ambassador,” Mac said.

  “How did he get away from your stronghold?”

  “He talked to Brighton Kilgore and learned that you and Erica were in New Orleans. Then he suddenly packed his clothes and demanded that he be flown there.”

  “So, she was right. He is here. Is he well enough to travel?”

  “Technically, yes. But he’s very weak and worried. What have you learned?”

  “The night before the wedding Bart thought he was being followed. He may have gone to the embassy for protection. Is there any way you can check that?”

  “Hmm. Don’t know. I’ll check the log. Didn’t he say anything to you?”

  “He tried. But I was celebrating and I put him off.”

  “I’ll get back to you,” Mac promised. “What’s your next move?”

  “I’m going to see Kilgore,” Conner answered.

  “What do you want from him?”

  “Information. I suspect that he’s already providing southern hospitality to a very diverse Christmas gathering.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  Conner gave a strained, “Ho! Ho! Ho! I’m going to play Santa Claus.”

  TEN

  Erica refused to be intimidated by the sly smile of William Boykin, who was watching them through the open glass partition. The more she saw of him, the more like a weasel he became.

  “If you want my cooperation,” she snapped, “you’ll allow me to talk to the ambassador in private.”

  “As long as we get what we want, you can have whatever you like, princess,” Boykin agreed.

  A moment later an opaque glass slid down between the two compartments and Erica and the ambassador were alone. She located the intercom and turned it off, though after Boykin’s comment about the control panel, she couldn’t be certain that their conversation was blocked.

  “Are you really all right, sir?”

  “A bit weak, but I’m getting stronger.”

  He might say he was recovering, but Erica could see the strain in his face. “What made you decide to come here?”

  “I was worried about you. I couldn’t hide out inside some mountain while you’re risking your life. What have you and Preston learned?”

  Erica could have told him about being pushed on the sidewalk and about their suite being searched, but there was no point in worrying him more. “So far, nothing. The only thing I’m certain of is that one of our kidnappers is Brighton Kilgore’s secretary, William Boykin.”

  The ambassador was clearly surprised. “Kilgore’s secretary?”

  “Do you think Mr. Kilgore is behind all this? Didn’t we have security reports run on the committee?”

  “The report that came to me said he was a successful businessman and an avid art collector. There was no suggestion that he was engaged in anything illegal.”

  “Then why is this happening?”

  “Erica, I hate to say this, but I’m beginning to wonder if our benefactor, Mr. MacAllister, might be involved in it somehow. How else could these men know I was coming and be waiting for me when I stepped off the plane?”

  That question stopped her for a moment. Conner had been rescued by Mac. Mac had been the one to investigate what had happened ten years ago and the ambassador had been in Mac’s care. “No.” She shook her head. “I don’t believe that for a moment.”

  “Neither do I, really,” the ambassador admitted. “From the beginning it’s been the book, Erica. They expect me to convince you to turn it over to them.”

  “But I don’t have it, I don’t even know what it is.” Erica said. “And I wouldn’t give it to them if I did.”

  “Of course not. But if the committee could get hold of it, maybe we could make some sense of what’s happening here.”

  “It’s all so hopeless,” she said. “I don’t believe it exists.”

  Ambassador Collins shot a worried look over his shoulder at the men up front, then slipped across to the seat next to Erica. He leaned close and said in a low whisper, “I think it might exist, Erica. I know Bart had some secret he was hiding.”

  Erica felt her gut clench. “A secret?”

  “Yes. The night before you and Preston were to be married, Bart came to the embassy. He believed that someone was following him, asked all kinds of questions about what happened to Americans who broke German law. He seemed worried.”

  “Why didn’t you say anything before?”

  “I was just a junior staff member at the time, and the situation in West Berlin was volatile. Then Bart was killed and I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t want to make trouble for the boy. I tried to reach Preston, but he’d been sent back to the States. Then I was sent to Paris and I let it slide. Now I’ve put you in danger.”

  Ambassador Collins let out a weary sigh, leaned his head against the seat back, and closed his eyes. He looked so pale. Maybe a drink would help. She quickly located a bottle of wine in the little bar and filled a glass for the ambassador.

  “Here, drink this.” She forced the glass into his hand. “It will make you feel better.”

  “No.” He pushed it away. “I’ll be fine. Really I will. I just need to rest for a moment. You drink it.”

  Erica looked around helplessly. Somehow, possibly because of her, the man who’d come to her rescue ten years ago had been shot. She took a swallow of wine and said a silent prayer that Conner knew where they were.

  She glanced at the partition separating them from their kidnappers, drained the glass, and under the cover of returning the bar to its proper position searched for a phone. There wasn’t one.

  “Please,” she said, trying unsuccessfully to lower the side window. “You mustn’t hold yourself responsible. We simply have to find a way to convince them there is no book.”

  “I don’t believe they’ll accept that, Erica. Think. Think hard. Don’t you ever remember Bart keeping a diary?”
>
  “Never. What do they think the book is supposed to reveal?”

  The ambassador sat up and took Erica’s hand. “I’ve been pondering that. What if Bart found something valuable, something he documented. But if he had, you’d know about that, wouldn’t you?”

  “Of course I would. He and I were partners. If Bart had—” But then she stopped. During the last weeks she hadn’t been with Bart. She’d fallen in love with Conner and nothing else had mattered.

  Erica suddenly felt as if thousands of spiders were crawling over her skin. The truth was, she didn’t know. She drew in a raspy breath, facing the final truth.

  “No, at the end I was with Conner. Bart continued his research alone. I knew he was working hard, but if he discovered something, he never told me.”

  “What about Preston?” Ambassador Collins asked. “When Bart left my office that night, he was going to talk with his brother. Did you see Bart the night before the wedding?”

  “Yes. He came to my apartment, but when he learned that Conner had already gone back to the base, he left. He said he had something to do the next morning and he’d see me at the church. I never saw Bart again.”

  “When those men kidnapped you and took your notes and Bart’s portfolio, there was no book or you would have seen it.” He cut his eyes in her direction. “And you didn’t.”

  “No. But if it was a private diary, it could have been there and I wouldn’t have recognized it for what it was.”

  “Maybe.”

  Clearly her employer was skeptical. “Why, after all these years, are people suddenly looking for this book?”

  “Because of Kilgore’s statue. It was listed as one of the stolen pieces and suddenly it turns up.”

  The night before still weighed heavily on Erica’s mind. “Why do you suppose Kilgore showed us the statue? If it was stolen, wouldn’t he want that kept quiet?”

  “He and Ernst thought it might draw out the. thief. If he thought he could sell others with no reprisal, the culprit might contact Kilgore.”

  “So why doesn’t Mr. Kilgore tell the committee where the statue came from? Then we’ll know who has the book.”

  The ambassador glanced uneasily at the divider, then checked the intercom again to make certain it was off. “We know where he got it. That soldier of fortune he hired located it for him—the man called Shadow.”