Drawn in Blood (Burbank and Parker 2)

She glanced at the photo of Meili that Xiao Long had given her. She remembered her cousin well—beautiful and vital, a turn-on for any man. There were definite similarities in their bone structure and coloring. Cindy had to make the most of those similarities.

Sitting patiently in front of the makeup mirror, she parted her glossy black hair on the right rather than the left side, letting it flow straight and loose past her shoulders. She applied a light amount of lip and eye makeup, being sure to emphasize her arresting almond-shaped eyes, dark and mysterious, and her high cheekbones.

She slipped into high-heeled pumps, since, like Meili, Cindy was petite, with a small-boned, dainty build.

Then she turned to Peggy. “What do you think?”

A smile curved her amah’s lips. “I think you’ve more than accomplished step one of our goal.”

Cindy acknowledged that statement by crossing her fingers and scooping up her purse. “Let’s hope you’re right.”

They would arrive in New York on schedule.

It had taken careful planning. Smuggling criminals into the United States was far more difficult than getting them across European and Asian borders. But with the right connections and enough money, anything was possible.

It helped that no one had seen their faces. It also helped that the concentrated efforts of Interpol and the various federal government agencies that were investigating the museum heists were all focused on Europe. Criminals for hire like the Black Eagles, despite being affiliated with Albanian organized crime in Europe, didn’t normally travel to the States.

But they had family in America. Family they could hide with, blend in with.

And, with one phone call, America had become the land of opportunity.

Wallace was in his Manhattan art gallery that morning. He’d come in early to review his finances. He was in trouble. Big trouble. But he couldn’t give up the paintings. If he did, he’d be left with nothing but the cavernous hole in his heart.

He had to make more money.

He’d spend most of the day in the gallery, where business hours presented the greatest likelihood of pedestrian traffic and potential sales. Then, he’d drive out to Long Island before rush hour and spend the evening at his East Hampton gallery, when the year-round residents were strolling the streets and browsing at the local shops. The affluent often bought on impulse.

Closing time would be at nine. That would allow him the entire long, empty night in his East Hampton estate, where he’d lose himself downstairs in his private sanctuary.

His anguish wasn’t the only thing that would keep him from sleeping. Nor was his escalating debt.

His entire body still ached from the beating he’d taken. He wasn’t a kid anymore, and his body didn’t heal the way it used to. The bruises on his throat had faded enough so he could switch from turtlenecks to buttoned dress shirts and ties. But he still flinched every time he shaved, as well as every time he stood up or made a sudden move.

He was worried sick about a repeat performance—or worse—now that Matthew had told the truth to the FBI. Wallace had agreed that it was the only way to go when Matthew had called. What else could he say without arousing suspicion, especially after Rosalyn’s harrowing experience? Only he knew that, even if Rosalyn were killed, her death would be quick and painless compared to the agonizing torture they’d inflict on him before slaughtering him for his betrayal. And there was no backing out now. He was in too deep. Plus, he needed those paintings. They were his lifeline.

The tinkling bell at the front of the gallery interrupted his musings, telling him that his first customer of the day had arrived. He went to the front, forcing a smile as a young Asian woman stepped inside. She brushed strands of hair off her face and raised her head, meeting his gaze head-on. “Mr. Johnson?”

Wallace felt as if his heart had dropped to his knees. “Meili?” he murmured in a choked voice.

The young woman looked puzzled. “Excuse me?”

He blinked. Her English was perfect, unaccented. And the way she was dressed, the way she carried herself—it wasn’t Meili. But, dear Lord, they could be twins.

“I apologize,” he managed. “I thought you were someone else.”

“I hope that someone is attractive and talented.” She smiled—Meili’s smile—and extended her hand, palm out. “I’m Cindy Liu. I believe you spoke to my uncle?”

Liu. He’d almost forgotten. His longtime business associate in Hong Kong had called to discuss his niece, and to ask for Wallace’s cooperation in advancing her career. Liu was a wealthy and influential man, whose transactions with Wallace in his prior career had escalated his success as an investment banker. Now, after Wallace had lost everything and was pouring whatever was left of his soul and his financial assets into his two galleries, Johnny Liu continued to be supportive. He had numerous affluent friends and business associates who were also patrons of the arts, and, when they were in New York, he made sure to send them Wallace’s way. He’d also personally bought paintings from Wallace, and sold a few of his own through Wallace’s galleries.

As a result, any favor Liu asked of Wallace was a favor done.

In this case, he’d asked Wallace to use any influence he still wielded in New York’s circle of the rich and famous to promote his niece, Cindy, and her new architectural business. Since that was the world Wallace still traveled in, it would be an easy task to accomplish. Especially now that he was seeing Cindy Liu in person. Like Meili, she was beautiful and he could already tell she was charismatic. He’d have no problems getting her in the right doors, and if she was as talented as her uncle professed, she’d be an instant sensation.

“Cindy.” Wallace recovered himself, clasping her hand and shaking it. “You’re the brilliant young architect your uncle spoke so highly of. Please, call me Wallace.”

“Thank you, Wallace. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” Cindy paused, eyeing him with a curious, concerned expression. “Are you all right?”

“Fine.” Wallace squelched the overpowering sense of déjà vu. “You just remind me of someone. The resemblance is striking.”