PART ONE: INSIDE THE FROZEN ZONE

Fourth Wednesday of November

12:41 p.m. to 6:59 p.m.

15 CPW

Sometimes the simplest things could be complicated.

Like enjoying an incredible moment.

Perched high above Central Park West, Evangeline Rossi had an unparalleled view of the city from the penthouse terrace. Straight ahead, the park was a fiery swath of oranges, yellows, and reds. To her right, she could trace the Manhattan skyline down to One World Trade Center. On her left, the rooftops of Harlem stretched in a wide arc. It was as expansive as the scene where Spider-Man swings, swirling and twirling, through the canyons of Manhattan. And every bit as dizzying.

Mind over matter, she told herself.

But the vertigo didn’t cooperate. More than a sensation that played cruel tricks on her, it was a reminder that the brain never controlled the body completely. She was at the mercy of a host of involuntary physical responses—from her rapid heartbeat to tingling skin to skewed and unsteady vision.

Control was just an illusion.

She glanced over to her host. Tall, lean, and unbothered by the fact that he was more than five hundred feet above street level, he let his elbows dangle over the railing edge.

Damned if she’d let him see her struggle.

She forced a relaxed smile, even though her world was spinning and her frozen fingers could no longer feel the railing she clutched. The flimsy metal-and-glass-panel was an insufficient barrier, anyway, against frigid, thirty-five-mile-per-hour winds. The temperature on the old CNN billboard might read 43°f, but today’s wind gusts had sent the real feel to below freezing.

“You were right,” she managed to say. “The view’s spectacular.”

“It’s even better from right here.” Tony Falcon’s dark eyes turned from the skyline to focus on Eve—and sparked with something primitive.

Seeing only the good-time blonde he’d met over drinks at the marble bar of the Modern, he placed a hand on top of hers—and Eve’s every nerve came alive, responding to his warmth. Another involuntary response.

A helicopter buzzed nearby, one of several security measures in place for tomorrow’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. Eve steadied herself, glanced down to the street, and saw dozens of officers on foot. Small as ants, they swarmed, and her equilibrium shifted awkwardly again.

“Hope they’ve got it in hand,” he said, shaking his head. “Three and a half million people crammed onto these streets. Every year, it’s a miracle when nothing happens.”

Eve focused on Tony. She didn’t have to look to envision the scene on the ground that created a frozen zone. Garbage cans had been removed. Bags were being searched. Barricades had been erected: concrete stanchions, reinforced by city sanitation trucks filled with sand, each strategically placed to block potential car bombs.

The goal was simple: to erect a secure cordon that would be as impenetrable as a medieval fort.

The helicopter approached, hovering directly above them.

“New York’s Finest sure know how to ruin a moment.” Tony snorted in disgust. He pulled his hand away, buried it in the pocket of his cardigan sweater with leather elbow patches. He stood, solid and steady—and Eve envied him.

“I’m cold, anyway,” she said. “Maybe we should go inside.”

“An excellent idea.” He moved to open the glass terrace door.

Six steps later, when her head cleared the threshold, she felt a rush of relief.

She found a smile. The illusion of control had returned.

Just inside, she stopped, lingered by a classic black Steinway piano. Scattered memories fell into place, of practices and concerts—all now seemed a lifetime ago.

“Do you play?” she asked him. She circled the piano, relishing how with every step her balance grew steadier.

He shook his head. “I keep it for guests. Sometimes, the boy.” He indicated one of the photos on top of the piano. The setting was a park—and the boy was bashful, poking his head out from behind a tree. The camera had focused on his long, dark lashes.

“Handsome. Your son?” She picked up the frame and studied it. The child appeared to be about seven or eight.

“No. Just a nephew.”

A lie. The likeness was too strong in the squared jaw. The broad nose. The expression of the boy’s mouth. It reminded her there was plenty she still didn’t know about her host.

She replaced the photograph. The man liked his secrets—almost as much as he liked his trophies.

The Steinway was just one of many. In the living room alone, Eve also recognized a Klimt, a Rembrandt—and a marble tribute to the female form by Rodin.

She walked toward him. “You’ve surrounded yourself with beautiful things.”

“Life can be tough. Beauty makes it easier to bear.”

Another lie. If Eve knew one thing about the man who’d invited her up, it was this: He was obsessed with collecting fine objects. When he was a child, he’d hoarded comic books and toy cars. Then he grew up, made a small fortune from a tech start-up, and began an acquisition spree like no other.

Vintage sports cars. Rare works of art. Exotic animals. And women. The harder to obtain, the better.

The fact that he wanted to possess her normally would have bothered her. But she liked him—much more than she expected to. Master-of-the-universe types were usually predictable: too one-dimensional for her taste.

Besides, they had things in common. She wasn’t his usual empty blonde. In fact, she was a collector, too—though what she collected was information. She observed human behavior and choices. Clues that told her volumes about a person. It was a habit she couldn’t kick; didn’t matter whether the subject was personal or professional.

From the way Tony moved, she knew that he was supremely confident, a risk-taker. From the clothes he wore, she knew that he favored quality over ostentation. When they talked, he focused on her with an intensity that made her feel she was the only one in the room who mattered. It was seductive—just like the man himself.

A man used to getting exactly what he wanted.

Which probably explained why when she peeled his hands off her thighs at lunch the day before, it only made him want her more.

“I should go.” Eve touched her leather jacket, which she’d casually draped on the back of the sofa, and made as if to put it on.

“Not yet.” He passed her a snifter of cognac. His hand brushed her own—strong and sure.

Be careful.

“It’s the afternoon before Thanksgiving,” he teased. “Where do you really have to be?”

Eve’s heartbeat quickened. “Company’s coming. I have to get ready.”

He reached over and brushed a blond curl from her forehead. His tanned body was solid and powerful under his monogrammed shirt. “Relax. I can have your whole Thanksgiving delivered on Haviland china.”

She put down the cognac after taking a small sip. She felt his gaze travel down her chest. She was wearing body-hugging jeans, high leather boots, and a red silk shirt with five buttons. The first was already undone.

She didn’t move. She let him stare.

“Stay awhile,” he breathed. His fingers traced the side of her face, down her neck, to the deep V of her silk shirt. Then he caught her arm, pushing up her hammered metal bracelet so he could kiss her wrist.

She grabbed his hand—held it—and took a step toward the bedroom.

He followed her six additional steps. Stopped.

With his free hand, he unbuttoned his own Egyptian cotton shirt and let it slip off his shoulders, revealing a smooth chest tapering down to a full six-pack.

Another four steps.

His fingers then made quick work of the buttons on Eve’s shirt, which fell to the floor, revealing a low-cut lace camisole.

“Magnificent,” he whispered.

Five final steps—and they were in his bedroom.

She took in what lay before her. It was everything she’d hoped to see.

Except for one thing.

By her count, there were three women in the room other than herself: one by Picasso, one by Degas, and another by Klimt.

“You do like unique women,” she breathed. He had just kissed her arm—long, slow.

“They mean very much to me.”

“But one is missing. The most important Lady. The one you’ve been telling me about.”

“The only woman I want now is you.” His breathing was heavy; his hands were moving fast.

But she had seen him steal a quick glance to his right. Where there was a door. It looked like the entry to an ordinary closet.

Eve knew better.

She slid her fingers around his arm. Tugged lightly, pulling him toward the closet that wasn’t a closet. “How about something different? Something I’ll bet even you haven’t done before?” She unzipped her left black-leather boot, tossed it aside.

He quirked an eyebrow. “What do you have in mind?”

She pressed her lips to his ear. “I want the Lady to watch.” She kicked her other boot off.

He grinned as he flicked the light switch on the wall—and suddenly what had appeared to be a television opposite the bed was revealed to be a computer screen with a security keypad. It required a code—as well as his voice command—before the closet door swung open.

Revealing a safe room.

It was rectangular, about eight feet by fifteen, clad in polished walnut. There was a chaise longue, a fully stocked bar, a four-foot-high steel safe, and an entire wall of masterpieces.

He led her to an emerald-green case with brass fittings that lay on top of the safe. Wrapping his body around hers, he kissed the nape of her neck. And opened the lid.

Eve couldn’t stop the delighted cry that escaped her lips.

Inside the case, nestled in a cushion of green silk, was the Lady Blunt Stradivarius from 1721. Named after the granddaughter of Lord Byron, the violin had last sold for nearly sixteen million dollars to an anonymous buyer.

She pulled Tony to the floor, next to the safe, right below the Lady Blunt.

She straddled him.

He took a noisy breath, then seemed to relax. His fingers reached for her blond curls.

“A masterpiece!” she said, intercepting Tony’s hand. She casually slipped the metal bracelet from her arm. Clapped it around his wrist. And activated it by pressing a small remote in her pocket.

The electromagnetic handcuff instantly bound Tony to the base of the steel safe with a force stronger than twenty-six men.

His eyes widened with surprise. Definitely not the good-time blonde he’d expected.

Eve was on her feet before he could react. She snatched the case holding the Lady Blunt. Enabled her earpiece.

And called for backup.

One minute, thirty-two seconds later, they were not alone. Three officers in body armor had joined them in the safe room, guns raised.

“Anthony Falcon, you’re under arrest,” she began calmly. She never lifted her eyes from his chest. He was like a dog: less threatened when no one made eye contact.

“FOTTITI!”

Tony’s accent wasn’t as charming when he cursed.

“On charges related to the theft of over one hundred nineteen million dollars’ worth of stolen art and musical instruments,” she finished.

“YOU BITCH!” he snarled.

The agents assisting Eve surrounded him. Deactivated the electromagnetic cuff still attaching him firmly to the steel safe. Pinned his arms behind his back.

First he resisted; then he looked around. Sized up the situation. Regained control of himself.

He was outnumbered and there was no way he could win. But he was a fighter who, even in retreat, was already planning his next battle. “Who are you? What’s your real name?”

“You lost. Do this the right way, Tony.”

“There’s nothing right about this.”

Eve’s three agents marched him out of the bedroom.

But before he was through the door, he wrenched his head back toward Eve.

His face was twisted with menace when he said, “I have eyes and ears all over this city. I’ll be in touch.”

Eve shrugged. “Guys always say they’re going to call. Then they never do.”