I really want to thank the people who reviewed and favorited this, I hope you continue to enjoy it.

I should note updates will not continue to be so prompt…I've just moved to a new city, so I have no social life (I hope this will change) and started a new job, so I don't have many work projects (it would be nice if that continued, but I doubt it).

Chapter 2- Damascus

It was sweltering in Damascus, made even more uncomfortable by the fact that the role she was playing, the young widow of Sheikh Rashad Al-Tahimi, would wear a veil. That turned out to be for the best, because she very nearly gave herself away when she saw Nathan Ford. Her mark (Luc Cosineau, a French Canadian businessman) had said something about his insurance company insisting on overseeing the transport of the paintings, but she hadn't paid all that much attention to that- some insurance company desk jockey was hardly going to interfere with her plan.

Sophie had heard of Nathan Ford before Prague, of course. She'd heard he was good, but at the time she'd been more worried about Jim Sterling, who had been investigating the case of the mysterious theft of the first David from the Vatican Museum. Naturally, Sterling had never gotten anywhere near her, but she had to abandon her Jenny alias, and that had been one of her favorites. She'd heard Ford was among the best, and she'd actually had fun teasing him in Prague. And when he'd nearly caught her just as she was leaving…well, she liked a challenge.

But not when she was inches away from pulling off a gorgeous con she'd spent two months setting up. The widow of Sheikh Rashad Al-Tahimi was an excellent cover…there was no doubt Al-Tahimi was a (rather bad) compulsive gambler, and no one wanted to question a grieving widow who was selling art to pay off some embarrassing debts left by her husband. Obviously humiliated by her late husband's indiscretions, she rarely even had to speak, letting a secretary speak for her. If someone did happen to ask an inconvenient question, she would promptly burst into tears, and they would slink away awkwardly. Actually, she'd found that was a pretty effective strategy with men universally.

She had been ten years old the first time she tried this, taking on a new identity, and even after all these years, she was always a little amazed by how easily people believed her.

Now fifteen years later, she was obscenely wealthy, and the thrill had gotten into her blood. She still sometimes wanted to be the actress her mother had hoped for, but this…this was what she was good at, possibly the best in the world.

And she decided Nathan Ford had no idea who he was going up against.

She was fairly sure he didn't recognize her, but she stayed in the background anyway, eyes cast down, while Cosineau's art expert examined the paintings, making sure they were genuine. They were, but that didn't mean she intended to let him leave with the real ones, she had plans for those. Even Cosineau was not stupid enough to pay millions for paintings without having them looked at by an independent expert, she had to show him the real thing.

She tried to keep her attention on the three paintings she was selling to Cosineau. Some of the Dadaists appealed to her sense of irony, but the Duchamp was not one of her favorites, and she found the Braque piece a little too dark. She didn't mind parting with them, especially for several million dollars. But Mattise's "Sunlit Interior" was one of her favorites, it made her warm just looking at it. She was a little sad to sell it, but she reminded herself that this was business.

She couldn't help occasionally stealing glances at Ford. His expression was one of polite boredom, but she was willing to bet he was still missing nothing. Perhaps he felt her gaze, because he suddenly turned his head and met her eyes. It was only a split second before she looked away, but she saw that flash of recognition. It was subtle, but there was a very slight change in his posture, a sudden alertness, and she knew he had recognized her. She waited for him to say something, to sounds the alarm, but nothing happened. He sidled a bit closer to her, giving an impression of impatient fidgeting, while she considered and discarded various escape plans…none of them seemed possible without creating quite a scene.

When he spoke, it was from so close that she shivered.

"How are you planning to switch them?" he murmured, almost under his breath, so that no one else in the room even noticed.

She gave him a wide-eyed, innocent, confused look. Even as she did knowing he wouldn't buy it, but what did he expect her to do? Confess? Give him the details of her plan?

"I'm not an expert on forgeries," he went on, so low he couldn't be heard over Cosineau's conversation with his expert, "but I'm married to one, so I have a pretty good eye, and I'm pretty sure those are real. Therefore, I can only assume you're planning to switch them and leave him with forgeries."

"Very good forgeries," she pointed out, in an equally low voice. There was no point pretending, he had her. "He'll never know the difference."

He rubbed a hand over his mouth like he was concealing a smile. "Mhm, well, there are two ways this can go. Option one, let Cosineau take the real paintings. I know they're not really yours to sell, but that's not really my problem. Option two, we can call the police and have them sort this out."

She didn't answer immediately, mind working. She was trapped, she didn't see an exit, but he seemed to be saying he'd let her go, if she let the paintings go.

"I'd strongly suggest the first option. Surely you're pragmatic enough you can see that you still get paid that way."

It killed her to see that Matisse go to a man like Cosineau, but she didn't see any alternative that didn't end in her arrest. She sighed a little, and he sensed her agreement.

"Good choice."

It would be an understatement to say Nate was in a bad mood when he got back to his hotel that evening. He shouldn't have been, everything had worked out perfectly for IYS- their client was safely on his way to Montreal with the real paintings, and some excellent forgeries (she had been right, they were very convincing) were off the market. But Nate was furious that she'd slipped away from him again while the paintings were being loaded. That was twice she'd slipped away when he nearly had her. He was good at his job, he wasn't used to losing.

And when the taxi dropped him off at his hotel, he realized she'd taken his wallet.

He stepped into his hotel room, and stopped. A faint hint of perfume lingered in the air, an (opened) bottle of champagne sat in an ice bucket on the table, and the sliding door to his balcony stood open, gauzy curtains moving slightly with an evening breeze. She was leaning against the railing, studying the view, but she turned when she heard his footsteps. No longer playing her role, she was wearing a simple blue sundress and sandals, her hair loose.

"Hello Nathan."

"You broke into my hotel room?"

"Broke in is a little harsh, don't you think? I didn't take anything. We keep running into each other, it seemed like time we officially met. I'm Sophie Devereaux."

He raised an eyebrow. "Your real name?"

She shrugged. "As much as anything is."

"I could arrest you right now," he pointed out.

"Yes, I suppose, but what would be the point? Now that the widow of Sheikh Rashad Al-Tahimi has disappeared and the paintings are gone, you can't prove anything," she said, taking one of the chairs next to a small table placed on the balcony.

"You want to test that theory, Miss Devereaux? I imagine the authorities in pretty much any European country have some things they'd like to ask you about."

She frowned, considering that. "Not Denmark, I've never stolen anything in Denmark. There was this really lovely necklace in Copenhagen, but then it was loaned to a museum in Norway, so…well, nevermind. Really Nathan, you know I'd just have to give you the slip again. Have a drink instead. After all, you got the paintings, so I suppose we're celebrating your success."

"I suppose we're celebrating your clean escape as well," he returned, and did pour himself a glass of champagne. Partly because she had him so off-balance he felt like he needed a drink, and partly because it was expensive and probably on his room bill, so he might as well enjoy it. He joined her on the balcony, as though there was nothing odd about having a drink with a criminal after work.

"Can I have my wallet back?" he asked, and she tossed it to him. "Was that really necessary?"

"No, but it amused me," she said, with a shrug. "I like to keep in practice. Your little boy is cute. How old is he?"

"He's three."

"What's his name?"

He studied her, but couldn't see any motive other than genuine curiosity.

"His name is Sam."

She smiled faintly. "Sam. I like that. And your wife?"

"Maggie."

"She's very pretty."

"I happen to think so."

"Don't you mind, being away from them so much?"

That was straying a little too close to the truth, she really was good at reading people, and so he didn't answer, and for awhile a silence fell between them. It should have been uncomfortable, but it wasn't.

"It really is a crime for Cosineau to have that Matisse," she said, breaking the silence and changing the subject. "It's one of my favorites, I've been looking for it for years… it's been moving among private collections."

"You're hardly the victim here, Sophie. You stole them from the sheikh."

"I inherited them," she corrected primly.

"You didn't actually have to marry him before he died, did you?" he asked, wondering how far she would go for a con.

"Oh, he's not dead. He's taking a tour around the Greek islands on his yacht. But he's with a…special friend…whose identity he would rather keep secret. So he's unreachable for the moment."

"The lady is not his wife, I take it?"

"Well, it's not a lady."

"Ah."

"Indeed."

He had to hand it to her, the plan was clever. Brilliant even. If not for the random accident of IYS sending him, she would have gotten away with it. And that in itself was a fluke, it wasn't the sort of thing he normally handled, but he'd just wrapped up a case and was the only one who was free.

They lapsed into comfortable silence again, and he let himself study her in the light coming from his hotel room. He saw how she could play both an English aristocrat and a Middle Eastern widow (and probably anyone else) with just a change of clothes. She had an international beauty, and a French name, but judging by the accent she used when she wasn't playing someone else, she really was English. He desperately wanted to know more about her, but he understood direct questions would be met by non-answers.

She set down her glass, and stood, and while he had been trying to be a gentleman up until that point…it was a very short skirt she was wearing. She laughed faintly.

"You're staring quite a lot for a married man, Mr. Ford."

He dragged his eyes back up to her face, and then stood as well. "Married. Not blind," he said, and she smiled at the implied compliment. "Leaving so soon?"

"I'm afraid I have a previous engagement," she said. The balcony was small, and as she moved to pass him, there was a moment where she was so close, so incredibly, terribly close that he could smell her perfume and feel the brush of her dress, and he clenched his hands to keep from touching her, to keep from grabbing her and pressing her back against the railing and…

From her slight smile, she knew exactly what she was doing to him, but she stepped past then, and he felt dizzy.

"Don't worry though," she said. "I'm sure we'll meet again."

She turned to go, but he said "Sophie?"

She turned back.

"Don't think this means I'll let you go next time."

She laughed. "Nate, I'd be disappointed if you did."