Hidden Dane (Hidden Alphas Book 4) Read online

  Hidden Dane

  Victoria Pinder

  Hidden Dane

  Copyright©2018

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemble to actual events, business establishments, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials.

  Your support of author’s rights is appreciated.

  Published in the United States of America.

  Copyright © 2018 Victoria Pinder Love in a Book

  All rights reserved.

  Contents

  Series information

  Join Victoria Pinder

  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

  Hidden Rocco Preview

  Also by Victoria Pinder

  About the Author

  This book is dedicated to my friend Aidy A, an author here in Colorado whose awesome. I admire her dedication so much and her passion for helping other authors.

  Please check out the entire Hidden Alphas Series

  A Frosted Game of Hearts

  Hidden Gabriel

  Hidden Raphael

  Hidden Michael

  Hidden Dane

  Hidden Rocco

  Hidden Alphas Boxed Set

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  Chapter 1

  Uriel Dalligatti, Harvard professor, checked the time on his pocket watch. It had a tiny triangular remnant of the hidden pyramid he’d helped uncover on his last dig in Cairo embedded at the twelve.

  The gloomy winds of winter in Cambridge, Massachusetts blew past the glass windows where he taught archeology 101 to students looking to get out of a science credit. He would much prefer solving a historical mystery out in the field, but his tenure meant teaching and the squeak of his black soles against Harvard’s wooden floors echoed his resentment as he headed into class.

  He ignored the students, who sometimes assumed he was one of them until he began his lecture, when his knowledge of the subject overcame his youth. He kept his watch open on the podium and waited for the minute hand to hit the eleven. Lecture over.

  He closed the watch and said, “Class dismissed.” Now he could return to his research paper and fill out the forms for his next sabbatical in the spring: Newfoundland in Canada, to continue the search for remnants of Viking settlements.

  However, as he made his way across the room toward the door, a young girl with black eyeliner jumped in his way. “Professor!”

  Students. The worst part of being faculty wasn’t getting into the dirt, but grading. He nodded, dodged around her, and held the door. “The ten pages are due next class.”

  “But I was hoping for an extension.” She stayed hot on his heels.

  At the end of the corridor, he saw his coworker, Doctor Brady Booker, a colleague and friend, almost running in his direction. Uriel eyed the young girl. “Life doesn’t give us extensions.”

  She put her lips out in a pout. “But professor-”

  “See you next class.” He saluted and rushed down the hall, eager to get away from her emotional outburst.

  As he met Brady, he ran his hand through his hair and wished he had already filed the papers for his sabbatical, or had a secretary who filled out forms for him so he could just pack and start on his next research project.

  Anything would be better than being here. Brady, a young computer scientist who was also newly tenured faculty, turned and walked next to him. “I was waiting for your class to end. We have to talk.”

  Uriel’s mind switched on and for the first time today. His coworker had never looked for him in the halls, so something exciting must have happened. They exited the building and stepped into the autumn air. Red leaves rustled on the trees from the cold wind that was ushering in the change of seasons. “I’m glad to see you, Brady—what a surprise.”

  Brady stayed beside him as they crossed the barren lawn. The dark sky gave no hint of ending the bitter cold and soon the colors would all just fade away. “I didn’t expect to be here. You have some interesting visitors from the CIA.”

  Strange. Uriel opened the door to the archeology department, taking the second interior door on the right. “The CIA?” He entered his cluttered domain. Two men in black rain coats stood and took off their felt hats. Uriel ignored the adrenaline that rushed through him and turned toward his friend. “Why… are they in my office?”

  “Mr. Uriel Dalligatti?” The blue-eyed older man had skin so pale he’d bet it hadn’t seen the sun in years.

  Uriel pushed his pocket watch in his side pocket of his tailored jeans. “That’s me.”

  The second man, an African American fellow with a Georgian accent and a dark gray suit, asked, “Do you also know a Dane Pearce?”

  Uriel’s entire body stilled. He’d done everything he could to not be Dane. He met his friend’s gaze with a casual shrug. “Brady, let me talk to the officers alone.”

  The always amiable Brady smiled and held the door handle. “I’ll wait for you outside in the hall.”

  As Brady shut the door, Uriel asked, “Can I see your badges?” His mind raced. No one needed to remember Dane.

  Both men showed their badges, which seemed legitimate. Uriel didn’t move until he heard the handle click, and then he walked over and locked it. He’d spent years trying to forget his past and it wasn’t something he wanted his friends to know. Once he was sure no one could hear him, he turned toward the two officers and asked, “Why is the CIA interested in Dane?”

  The older white man motioned for them to sit. Uriel took his seat behind his desk as the man sat in one of two chairs opposite the desk. “Dane Pearce inherited a safety deposit box that we think holds the Irish Crown Jewels.”

  He realized that the CIA had tracked him down and dispensed with games. “I have?” He immediately assumed this had to do with his murderous father—technically, Edmond Pearce was his stepfather, but Uriel hadn’t known that until the day his mother had died at Edmond’s hand. His biological father had been sent to jail for a crime he hadn’t committed.

  Could Edmond Pearce have knowingly kept stolen property that would have bought him a place in European nobility if he’d returned the crown jewels? It would be one more crime to add to the others. Greed. Surely his stepfather must be burning in an afterlife, if such a punishment even existed.
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  In a soft accent, the younger officer leaned on the desk and pounded it lightly. “You admit to being Dane Pearce.”

  “I filed for my name change through the courts, which is, I assume, how you found me.” Uriel glanced at both men. Neither should think he’d had anything to do with a crime that had happened over a century ago. He adjusted his chair and pretended to be comfortable. “Changing my name isn’t a federal charge, officer, and my father isn’t someone I want to associate with.”

  The younger man went to say something else, but the older agent put his hand up, nodded and then said, “We’re not here about your name, but we’d like your help in returning the Irish Crown Jewels to England as a good-will gesture.”

  Uriel had always liked figuring out mysteries, and though not archeology, the Irish theft had been one of the most expensive heists in history. He folded his hands on the desk. “They were stolen in some homosexual scandal with the Vicar. How would Edmond Pearce have what was probably sold off in Amsterdam in 1907 and never recovered?”

  The younger officer straightened and smoothed his jacket. “We believe one of your father’s ancestors bought the set in auction in 1907 and has kept them in a Paris bank until World War Two, when they were placed in a London bank.”

  The Irish Crown Jewels would technically be English, and if they were located in London, this seemed like a UK problem. Uriel picked up a pen that had fallen off his desk and set it back in the cup holder. “Why haven’t the London police just raided the box and taken back their stolen goods?”

  The older man explained, “The trail doesn’t have a lot of evidence to back it up.” His pale cheeks turned pink.

  Which meant they didn’t have a warrant to technically raid something he’d inherited. He wanted no part of the theft or jewels. “No, it probably wouldn’t.”

  He stood to show the CIA officers out. If they were right and he owned this box, he’d discover the contents on his own time. First, he needed to finish the paperwork and head to Canada.

  The two men also rose, but then the older agent asked, “Do you know a Ted Vet San?”

  Ted. The blond man in his thirties whose scarred face made him seem much, much older, loved to torment him, taunting Uriel, spreading rumors, saying that Uriel would never truly be a great archeologist. He could ignore all of that, but weeks ago, Ted had stolen the Incan statue destined for a museum in Peru, then disappeared. Uriel widened his stance with a curt nod. “Yes. I know him. Why?”

  The African American agent flicked the cuffs on his dark gray suit. His accent deepened. “He tried to break into your father’s box and is now likely going to wherever you stored this necklace, as it’s supposedly the key.”

  They knew about that necklace?

  The officer took out his phone and showed him the rose garland, which was five blossoms with pavé-set diamond petals, old-cut diamond collet stamens, and emerald detail, linked by pavé-set diamond twigs and leaves, enhanced by emerald berries, mounted in platinum. He’d inherited the piece after his mother’s murder and it wasn’t famous stolen jewelry. His entire body was cold.

  On Emily’s prom night, he’d given that to her in lieu of traditional flowers as she’d admired it.

  Emily Mira’s blue eyes still haunted him years later, though he hadn’t been in touch since. Something zipped inside him that he now had an excuse to see her. “My mother’s necklace.”

  “Do you have this in your possession?” the older agent asked.

  Uriel narrowed his gaze. “Why would that matter?”

  A hint of pink flushed his face. “We believe Ted is on his way to the US with a team of his people to retrieve the necklace.”

  His pulse skipped. Emily was in danger. This was all his fault. His chest ached so badly that he felt like the tin man about to get a heart. He lifted his chin. “I’m not saying another word until I know what you want.”

  The older man said, “Our country is willing to pay you for your private property.”

  Just compensation was part of the constitution, so they weren’t offering anything special. He looked at both officers. “And you want to give it back to England?”

  “Yes.” The younger man pocketed his phone inside the gray suit jacket.

  “Okay. I’ll help, but I need information.” And if Ted was on his way to Emily, then he needed to extract her from any danger. Which meant see her again. His hairs on his arms stood straight up. “What does the Belle Epogue Diamond and Emerald Egalantine necklace created by Cartier have to do with the bank?”

  The younger man shrugged and drawled in a low voice, “It’s the key. You need to present this as a means to get in the bank box.”

  “What happened to pins, finger prints, eye retina scans, and modern security?” Uriel thought a necklace seemed like a silly answer for security.

  The older man answered, “This was arranged long before computers. The bank honors its agreements, though if you show up with the necklace, they’ll want you to update your security settings. We believe Ted Vet San is actively trying to take it from wherever you stashed your necklace as we speak so he can access your vault and steal the Irish Crown Jewels.”

  The CIA certainly knew a lot about his box—more than he did. But the necklace didn’t matter. First he’d save Emily, get his mother’s necklace and then head to England and open the box himself. If they were right, he’d give it to the CIA or directly to the British Crown. The English Crown Jewels would be displayed and he’d have helped solve a crime from over a century ago. All he needed to do was be fast, but he had his own jet. What he’d say to Emily was the only question, but for now he nodded. “I’ll have to beat him then. I’ll call you once we return.”

  Without another word, he left the officers in his office behind him and motioned toward Brady, who often traveled with him on sabbaticals to handle computer scans and modern questions regarding archeology. Brady had been sitting patiently on a wooden bench in the hall and clearly texting with Henry about going on another adventure to stop Ted Vet San. “Brady, let’s go.”

  “Where are we going?” Brady asked as the two men walked back out into the cool fall air.

  Emily, in an emerald green silk prom dress, floated to his mind. “To Gainesville, Florida.”

  Brady wore the look of horror that only a true Harvard professor might have for even mentioning a public university. “What’s there? I thought we needed to go to London for something already in your possession.”

  Brady had obviously listened to the conversation in his office. Would he say anything? If Uriel could keep his past a secret from his colleagues then no one might judge him as the son of a man whose father murdered his mother. Uriel directed them toward his black Mercedes. “I don’t know what’s in that box. I’ll go find out for the CIA, but first I need to get the necklace back.”

  “You don’t have it.” Brady opened his own door. Once Uriel was in the driver’s seat he asked, “What did you do with it then?”

  Uriel started the car and for the third time in broad daylight, he had another memory of Emily and her warm inviting kiss. He shook it off and focused on the road as he drove. “I gave it to a woman.”

  His friend laughed and laughed like Uriel had just told him the punchline of a joke. He even held his stomach as he asked, “What woman ever turned your head, Uriel?”

  Right. His hands clutched the steering wheel. This was too much. He swallowed, and his face stung from an imagined slap Emily might give his cheek. Leaving after her prom night was probably not the nice-guy move he’d mastered in later years. Emily had been there the day his mother died and she was probably the reason he’d lived through it.

  She deserved better than anything he’d offer. He turned on his blinker and headed toward the airport. Right now he needed to face her at least one more time. “One from a long, long time ago. She’s not going to be happy to see me again.”

  Brady stopped laughing. “Well, try some charm, Uriel. You’re handsome enough but you never try to just
smile at women and start conversations. Your one-night-stands are something I’ve never understood. You literally do nothing to attract women and yet they follow you around—like that poor girl you left crying in the hall.”

  “Nothing isn’t going to work with Emily.” Uriel felt the air drain from his lungs. Emily had every reason in the world to slam the door in his face and tell him to leave.

  He owed her his life and he’d taken advantage of her in exchange. He never should have claimed her virginity, or her kisses, all those years ago. She deserved far more and he hadn’t even offered friendship in return.

  Now she was in trouble and it was because of him—he’d make this right and disappear from her life, fast. It was the best thing he could do.

  Chapter 2

  Emily Mira adjusted her black graduation hat and proudly flounced her blue tassel as she stepped from her red Jeep Wrangler. She smoothed any wrinkles from her short, same blue as the tassel, dress and walked toward the bar a block away.

  Everyone at the bar would know she’d graduated today. She and her friends had big plans of pictures with their caps that they’d only wear once. She’d finished her PhD and never had to work on her thesis again.

  As she headed toward the night club to meet her friends, she hummed to herself. She imagined her mother, Monica, in heaven, happy with Emily on graduation day.

  If she’d lived and hadn’t died in a car accident when Emily had been fifteen, she’d have been proud.

  Real life began soon, though, as college ended. No more scholarly papers on history.