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  Treacherous

  On the Run Book Six

  Sara Rosett

  Sara Rosett

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  Copyright © 2017 by Sara Rosett

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  All rights are reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this work may be used, stored, transmitted, or reproduced in any manner or form whatsoever without express written permission from the author and publisher.

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  This is a work of fiction and names, characters, incidents, and places are products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, incidents, and places is coincidental.

  Created with Vellum

  About Treacherous

  Book Six in the On the Run series

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  A mysterious package, a rumor about a missing painting, and a dangerous game of hide and seek…

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  Zoe loves working as a consultant for a company that specializes in the recovery of stolen art. Her only complaint is that the jobs are few and far between, so when she meets an eccentric collector who is on the hunt for a painting of a blue butterfly that might—or might not—exist, she jumps at the chance to look for it. She comes across shady dealers and a confusion of clues as her search for the elusive painting takes her from tropical destinations to the cobblestone streets of Madrid.

  Treacherous is the sixth installment of the lighthearted On The Run series from USA Today best-selling author Sara Rosett, which features globetrotting art heists and international intrigue.

  To Alicia, reader extraordinaire

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Epilogue

  The Story Behind the Story

  About the Author

  Also by Sara Rosett

  Prologue

  Robert Novall didn’t need to wait until his last colleague left the room for lunch. No one suspected anything, but it wouldn’t do to make a mistake at this point.

  The printer whirred to life, and Rob picked up the five pages from its tray. It was laughable really, the amount of time and money the company put into monitoring their activities while completely overlooking one thing—paper.

  Footsteps sounded in the hall, someone coming back. The new guy darted in, grabbed his jacket, and asked if Rob was coming with them. Rob tossed the stack of pages on his desk to deal with later. The first four pages were various memos and reports that he needed, but the page on the bottom was different. He left it with the others at the side of his desk and went to lunch.

  On his way out, he passed through the metal detector as well as the full body scanner, then retrieved his personal phone from his locker, and dropped off his lanyard. The whole process had to be repeated in reverse when he returned. No personal phones, cameras, or any other sort of digital equipment were allowed inside the office. Computer activity was highly monitored—files accessed, search queries, downloads—it was all tracked, but they were so focused on plugging any digital holes that they didn’t even think about someone going analog.

  No one monitored or cared what was printed, and his current work project gave him legitimate access to the files, so what he was doing didn’t raise any red flags. In fact, it couldn’t raise any flags. No flags were in place to be raised. No one had set any warnings connected to what came off the printers. Who would bother to print anything sensitive—especially at their company?

  Rob made sure he was back from lunch before everyone else.

  He settled at his desk and removed the bottom page from the stack. He folded the paper into fourths lengthwise, then leaned over, lifted his pant leg, and slipped it inside his sock. It stayed there for the rest of the day, tucked against his calf. He logged off his computer at the end of his shift and headed to the elevator. He rode the elevator down, then walked through the metal detector and the body scanner. The single sheet of paper didn’t create a wrinkle or bulge that could be picked up on the screens. The security guard waved him through with a bored nod.

  Rob kept up his easy pace as he walked to the Metro, then stopped for a calamari sandwich on his way home. When he arrived at his apartment, he closed all the curtains before removing the paper. He smoothed the creases, took a tube of lip balm from the drawer of his desk and removed the cap, revealing the port of a flash drive. He plugged it into his laptop, and quickly transcribed the single page of text. He hit save, then added the printed page to the growing stack on the corner of his desk under the Rubik’s cube.

  Rob disconnected the flash drive, replaced the cap on the lip balm, and dropped it in the desk drawer. He stretched his arms over his head then logged into the forum. “Tuck05” was online, discussing the latest article from a tech blogger. Rob jumped into the discussion, hitting a couple of threads, then he transitioned to a secure, private connection and sent a message. Rbn: I’m close. Another week or two and I’ll have it all.

  A few seconds later a reply popped up. Tuck05: Glad to hear it. No problems?

  Rbn: None. Easy.

  Tuck05: Watch yourself.

  Rbn: No worries. No one has any idea what I’m doing.

  1

  Monday

  Zoe could feel him gaining on her, his steps pounding on the asphalt, seconds behind her. She forced her legs to pump faster. In one last burst of speed, she flew by the mailbox at the curb in front of the house. She thrust her arms into the air as if she were breaking the tape at the end of a marathon instead of finishing her afternoon jog. Jack came alongside her, his hand raised for a high-five. “You beat me today, but I’ll get you tomorrow.”

  She slapped his raised palm. “You’re sure confident for someone who just lost.”

  Hands linked, they slowed to a walk. Jack tilted his head in the direction of the brown delivery truck that had pulled away from the curb in front of their house a few moments earlier. “It was the incentive of a package that gave you that final kick of speed. If you hadn’t seen a package being dropped off on our porch, I would have beaten you. I know how much you love opening boxes.”

  They turned and headed back to their house. “So you’re saying I have no impulse control, that I have some sort of Pavlovian response to a sealed box?”

  Jack raised his arm and used the sleeve around his bicep to wipe the sweat away from his forehead. “Boxes, gift bags, letters, junk mail. You’re not a girl who likes to wait around and savor the anticipation of opening something later.”

  “Why would you want to wait?” Zoe asked as they walked into the shade under the cottonwood tree in their front yard. “That’s no fun.”

  “So what’s in the box today?” Jack opened the mailbox and removed several flyers and a catalog then handed them all to Zoe. “Office supplies? Clothes? A gal
lon of milk?”

  “I know I order a lot online, but I do draw the line at dairy products—at least for now. If we get one of those services that delivers in an hour, then all bets are off.”

  “I’d expect nothing less.”

  They walked up the sidewalk to the porch, and Zoe picked up the box as Jack opened the door. “It’s those hanging file folders I ordered the other day,” Zoe said. “And to show you I do have self-control, I’m not opening it right now. I’ll wait—until we get in the kitchen, at least.”

  Jack grinned and stepped back so she could go inside first. “I’ll stay out of your way then.”

  She swatted him on the arm with the catalog and transferred the box to a better position in her arms. “This seems awfully heavy for twenty hanging file folders.” She tilted the box so she could read the label as she walked into the kitchen. “Did you order something from Spar Eon? Is this yours?”

  “No, I don’t have anything being shipped here.”

  Zoe put the box down on the island and reached for a pair of scissors to cut the tape. Her phone, which she’d left on the island, buzzed with a call. It was Harrington Throckmorton, owner of Throckmorton Enquiries.

  Zoe put down the scissors. “I better get this. He may have an update on the Milam file.” Since Harrington was based in London, they usually spoke in the morning, Zoe’s time. It was late afternoon now, but if he had news he’d call immediately.

  The Milam home—or a more accurate description would be mansion—in Highland Park, one of Dallas’s most expensive neighborhoods, had been broken into last week. A Miró had been stolen along with some rare coins. The Milams had hired Harrington’s firm, which specialized in discreet recoveries of art and other valuables. Zoe worked for Harrington as a consultant and was handling their search for the missing art and coins. Zoe had been in touch with every contact she and Harrington had in the art world. So far, she hadn’t uncovered so much as a whisper about any of the stolen items.

  “I have that late meeting,” Jack said. They exchanged a quick sweaty kiss before Jack trotted up the stairs to shower. Zoe sat down on a barstool at the island, which was her work area, and answered the call.

  Harrington’s crisp British accent came over the line. “Hello, Zoe. Do you have a moment?”

  “Of course.” As ever, Harrington was infallibly polite. Zoe hitched the barstool closer to the island. With the phone tucked between her ear and her shoulder, she pushed the cardboard box aside and pulled her laptop closer. A few clicks brought up the Milam file.

  “So how is everything in Dallas?” Harrington asked.

  Zoe thought he meant how is everything going with the Milam case, and she was about to launch into a list of who she’d talked to recently, but then Harrington went on, “Jack is well?”

  “Yes. He’s fine. If you want to speak to him, I can have him call you back.” Zoe glanced at the clock. As fast as Jack showered, he might actually be back in the kitchen before she hung up. “He’s planning security for a new skyscraper that’s going in downtown, so if you had something for him he might not be able to take it on right now.” A few times in the past, Harrington had asked Jack to step in as a consultant when clients were interested in making their valuables more secure.

  “Oh, no. Nothing like that on my agenda at the moment. How is Dallas? Are you enjoying some cooler weather, now that it is September?”

  A thread of unease twisted through Zoe. It wasn’t like Harrington to beat around the bush. He always was polite and asked how she was doing, but then he moved on to business. “Yes, it’s so nice that Jack and I just got back from an afternoon run.” During the summer the humidity was so intense that the only time they could run was in the late evening—or in an air conditioned gym.

  “Excellent. Right.” Harrington cleared his throat. “I spoke to Mr. Milam this afternoon…”

  Zoe sagged. She could tell from his tone what he was struggling to say. “They want you to work their case, not me.”

  “Er—well, that is a stark way to phrase it…but, yes, they do.” Harrington sighed. “I’m sorry. I tried to convince them that my plate is full, but Russell insisted.”

  Russell. Of course Russell Milam and Harrington communicated on a first-name basis. Zoe would never be able to call a man forty years older than her “Russell.” She just couldn’t do it. It would feel disrespectful. But Harrington could do it, and do it genuinely. Russell Milam and Harrington Throckmorton had known each other socially before the Miró was stolen. The flat in London was just one of several properties that the Milam family owned around the world, not to mention their yacht in the Mediterranean. Russell Milam and Harrington had dinner together when the Milams were in London.

  Zoe rubbed her forehead then straightened and forced an upbeat tone into her voice. “It’s okay.” She closed the computer file with the data on the Milam robbery. “I know you did everything you could to convince them to stay with me as the lead in the case.”

  “Oh, I did. I’d much rather have you working this than me, but well…”

  “Yes, I know. And I understand, too.” Who wouldn’t rather have the famous art recovery expert Harrington Throckmorton work their case instead of the unknown consultant, Zoe Andrews? Well, actually that wasn’t true. She was known. Unfortunately, when anyone searched her name online, her history of being a participant on a reality show popped up first. The fact that it was when she was a kid and her stage mom had engineered the whole thing wasn’t highlighted. If someone scrolled down, then they’d find out she’d been linked to a multi-million dollar fraud case that had been under FBI investigation. It had all worked out. She’d been an innocent person caught up in an international incident, but the articles that reported the happy resolution that cleared her name ranked much lower in the search results than the ones from early in the investigation that shouted about her possible guilt.

  “I’ll send you everything I have.”

  “That would be helpful. I’ll get in touch if I have any questions. I may have some admin tasks for you next week.”

  “Sure. I’m happy to help.” It would be what she’d been doing for months for Harrington, mostly administrative tasks with a little research and background work thrown in. She was happy to do it, but what she really wanted was to lead the search for the missing valuables. So far, she’d been in charge of one successful recovery. She wanted to get more cases under her belt. Besides the fact that Harrington wanted to transfer some of his workload to her, she wanted to establish herself in the field. A thought whispered through her mind. And prove that her one and only successful recovery hadn’t been a fluke. Zoe shook off that thought and reached for a pen. “Is there anything I can do for you right now?”

  “As a matter of fact, there is.” Harrington sounded relieved. Zoe was sure he was glad he’d gotten through breaking the bad news about the Milam case. “It’s about that Jenson case,” he said briskly. “One small detail…”

  Zoe grabbed one of the flyers from the mail, flipped it over, and made some notes on the white space around the address.

  While she was writing, Jack walked into the kitchen, his dark hair still damp from the shower. He was in his business casual attire, an open-collared blue dress shirt and dark pants. He took one look at her and raised his eyebrows. “Everything okay?”

  With the phone still pressed to her ear, she raised a shoulder and made a face that she thought expressed her feelings: not great, but nothing tragic. Zoe mouthed the word, Later. Having a client who preferred to work with your well-known boss wasn’t anything that should hold up Jack. She waved a hand, motioning him to the back door.

  Jack pressed a kiss to her forehead then picked up his keys and computer bag. Zoe went back to making notes. After Harrington ran through several small tasks that Zoe could do for him, he said, “That’s it for now. I’ll be in touch again after I read your notes.”

  “I’m sending them to you right now. I’ll start on these other things. I’ll probably have them done
in a few hours.”

  “Yes. I know,” Harrington said. “They are rather pedestrian.” He paused. “I am sorry about the situation with the Milam family.”

  “It’s not your fault,” Zoe said. After a beat, she added, “This is the third time, though.”

  “A run of bad luck, is all—well, or…” he lowered his voice, “…bad people, rather. Samantha Bascom is an old woman who likes to make as much trouble as possible. She insisted on working exclusively with me simply because she knew it would inconvenience me. She quite likes to make life difficult for everyone around her, even her art recovery specialist. And the Robbie case, you and I both know that was a power play on the husband’s part. His wife wanted to work with you, so he insisted on working with me to annoy her. I wasn’t at all surprised to hear they filed for divorce.”

  “I wasn’t either.” That case had been a nightmare and, truthfully, Zoe had been glad to step down. Recovering valuables is difficult enough without adding relationship issues to the mix. “But you can’t deny it’s a pattern.”

  “A string of bad luck.” His tone was firm. “You’re not to let it bother you.” He sighed. “Sometimes dealing with people is more difficult than finding a stolen painting. You’re a valuable asset to Throckmorton Enquiries, and I know that in time others will recognize that as well.”