Page 38 of Fastest Kill

She had no idea what he would do, but she had no doubt that he would sort it out. She could rely on him, like she had when she had found herself in a jail in Crete.

She counted fifteen seconds, and then heard a crash from the far end of the building. It sounded like something expensive meeting a marble floor, followed by raised voices. Then a louder crash, followed by a sound she could only describe as a man having an extremely committed personal crisis in a public space.

Don't overdo it and get yourself arrested, Colleoni.

The security guard stopped walking and turned toward the noise. His radio crackled. He listened, said something she couldn't hear, and he walked quickly back the way he had come, breaking into a jog at the far end of the corridor.

Frederica was through the gallery door and moving past the catering station within ten seconds.

The scene Dario had created was genuinely impressive in its commitment. There was an overturned drinks table, a spreading puddle of red wine, and Dario in what appeared to be the third act of a very loud argument with a man in his sixties.

Both security guards from this end of the building had converged on the situation. The museum director—she recognized Polat from his photograph—was trying to intervene as the man, visibly distressed, watched his fundraiser turn into a scene.

Definitely overdid it, big bear.

Frederica needed to get Dario out before Polat called the actual police, which he would do in minutes if the situation didn't resolve.

Cursing, she took off the catering jacket as she moved, tucking it behind a display stand. She was in a fitted black sleeveless top and black trousers, but she always had a plan. Frederica stopped in the dark alcove near the gallery entrance and stripped.

The trousers had zips running the full length of each outer seam. It was a modification she had made to most of her field clothing, because a change of outfit was a useful thing. Zips went down, the panels came away, and folded into the interior pockets.

The top was actually a tight dress that she pulled down to end mid-thigh. She had worn heeled ankle boots that night instead of sensible shoes, just in case she needed the change.

Frederica pulled her braid out, ran her hands through its waves, and shook it loose. Emergency red lipstick came from the bag's exterior pocket.

Frederica breathed out, straightened her shoulders, and crossed the gallery floor at a walk, heels clicking angrily. She was aware of heads turning.

When Frederica really wanted to be seen, she made sure to draw attention to herself. It was all in the attitude, the walk, the dominance, and the way she used her size to take up space.

She would have to be very convincing because Dario was currently being held by one arm by a security guard while the older man he had been arguing with pointed a finger at him and said something in Turkish that she didn't need to translate.

Dario saw her, and his expression turned to a slack-jawed 'holy shit' look. She could work with that and reached them in ten seconds.

"Dio mio! Ma che cazzo!" she demanded and grabbed Dario's free arm. She turned the full force of her attention on the security guard. "I'm so sorry. My husband… Please… I'm so sorry. He didn't eat today, and he had too much to drink. He gets very… How you say… Obnoxious." She gestured expressively at the disaster area. "We will, of course, pay for whatever he did. Please, I'm so embarrassed. He isn't usually this embarrassing when I take him out in public⁠—"

She turned to Dario, switched back to Italian, and hissed in a rapid whisper, "You are an enormous idiot, and I'll deal with you properly at the hotel. You are going to look very sorry right now, and let me manage this, or I'm going to bend you over and spank the stupid out of you right here and now.

Dario stared at her like something in his brain had snagged on the image and was working to catch up. Then he arranged his face into something sheepish and considerably more pitiful than he usually was.

"Tesoro mio," he said, with impressive pathos, reaching for her.

"Don't you 'tesoro' me," she snapped in English and turned back to the security guard. "Please. We will go. I am so sorry for this idiota's behavior."

Polat had appeared. She aimed the full weight of her apology at him, a mortified foreign wife, completely sincere, absolutely going to make this right. His anger wavered into pity as he sighed.

The security guards, who had been doing a job that involved a drunk foreigner and were now looking at a domestic situation, stepped back in self-preservation. The older man Dario had been arguing with was being talked down to by a colleague.

Polat said something to Dario in Turkish which made his position very clear. Dario nodded earnestly and said something back. Whatever it was, Polat's expression shifted fractionally toward a more mollified expression. Frederica got them moving with the promise of a large donation to make up for the blunder.

She was aware of Dario at her left shoulder, keeping pace with her through the gallery, out through the entrance, down the steps to the dark street. The reliquary was in the velvet bag between her breasts.

Just keep walking, don't look back.

In the street outside the museum, Frederica checked over her shoulder and spotted another security staff member standing in the museum doorway watching them go.

"You idiot! You almost got your ass kicked by security and arrested in another foreign country! I'm so mad I could just—" Frederica turned on Dario, pushed him against the stone wall, and kissed him angrily.

His hand buried deep in her loose hair, and he kissed her back. She grabbed the lapels of his jacket, pulling him closer, needing all of his muscled chest against her again. His other hand dropped to her ass before sliding down her thigh and dragging her up against him.