All he covets, p.1
All He Covets, page 1
ALL HE COVETS
(A Vivian Fox Suspense Thriller —Book 3)
Ella Swift
Ella Swift
Ella Swift is author of the VIVIAN FOX suspense thriller series, comprising five books (and counting); PEYTON RISK mystery series, comprising five books (and counting); and of the new COOPER TRACE mystery series, comprising five books (and counting).
An avid reader and lifelong fan of the mystery and thriller genres, Ella loves to hear from you, so please feel free to visit ellaswiftauthor.com to learn more and stay in touch.
Copyright © 2024 by Ella Swift. All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior permission of the author. This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
BOOKS BY ELLA SWIFT
PEYTON RISK MYSTERY SERIES
WHAT’S HIS (Book #1)
WHAT’S LEFT (Book #2)
WHAT’S WISHED (Book #3)
WHAT’S GONE (Book #4)
WHAT’S MINE (Book #5)
COOPER TRACE MYSTERY SERIES
SHATTERED MIND (Book #1)
SHATTERED LIFE (Book #2)
SHATTERED HOPE (Book #3)
SHATTERED DREAM (Book #4)
SHATTERED FATE (Book #5)
VIVIAN FOX MYSTERY SERIES
ALL HE TAKES (Book #1)
ALL HE HIDES (Book #2)
ALL HE COVETS (Book #3)
ALL HE NEEDS (Book #4)
ALL HE DESTROYS (Book #5)
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE
PROLOGUE
Nina Caldwell paced the expanse of her penthouse, her heels clicking on the marble floor like strange music. Evening sun spilled in through the large windows, casting elongated shadows across the den. Behind Nina, a small group of caterers moved quietly along the back wall. They murmured to one another but remained mostly silent.
Nina was a cocktail of emotions as she walked back and forth—from the den to the kitchen, from the kitchen to the foyer, then back into the den. Once in the den, she would stop walking for a moment and look at the wall. Her gaze was fixated on the painting that hung with quiet dignity on the far wall, a place that had remained empty for a very long time because she’d known this painting would eventually occupy the space.
It was an arresting piece, mostly muted colors swirling together in a dance of light and shadow, a masterpiece that had captured her heart as a child. The hum of activity behind her faded into insignificance; none of it mattered next to this work of art that had been a permanent fixture in her memory for most of her life.
Nina's breath hitched as she drew closer to the artwork; she could hardly believe it was now in her home. It was almost surreal. Her eyes traced the lines and curves she had memorized long ago during those treasured trips to Paris with her mother. They would stand before it in the museum, hand in hand, lost in its beauty. Now, years later, the painting was hers, hanging in her own home. But the joy of the moment was undercut by a well of emotion that threatened to spill over.
Her mother would be weeping with joy right now. Sadly, she passed away two years ago, from breast cancer. But as Nina stared at the painting, she could nearly feel her mother there with her. It was an odd feeling—one that brought both joy and pain in equal measure.
"Ms. Caldwell?" a voice called from behind her.
Nina didn't turn, couldn't tear her eyes away from the painting or the memory of her mother. "Yes?" Her voice was barely a whisper, carried away by the vastness of the room, a large room in a large apartment that she had no one to share with.
"We’ve finished setting up the food," the caterer said. There was a note of respect in his tone for the woman who had made a fortune before most people figured out any part of their lives. Nina Caldwell had made her first million at twenty-eight and then her first ten million at thirty.
“Thank you,” Nina said.
"Is there anything else you need?" he tried again, a bit louder this time. “It’s not a lot of food for a party.”
Nina finally turned, offering a smile. “It’s not really a party, just a few friends coming over.”
“Oh, I see.” But his expression still seemed confused. And Nina understood it, she supposed. What sort of oddball hired caterers just for a night at home with four friends? But there was no way to explain it. This painting meant a lot to her. She wanted to share it, to share the stories about her mother and their trips to Paris just to stand in front of this painting.
"Thank you," Nina replied again, her words automatic, her mind elsewhere. "That will be all."
The caterers exchanged glances, sensing the weight of their employer's mood. With nothing more to do, they quietly gathered their things and filed out of the penthouse, leaving Nina alone with the painting.
The door clicked shut, and Nina was left in the gathering dusk. Something about the way the scant evening light spilled into the den's muted colors made her think of a very large blanket: warm, inviting, soft. Soon, her guests, friends of influence and affluence, would arrive to revel in the success that seemed to trail her like a shadow. But in this moment, with twilight caressing the edges of the room, Nina wished for nothing more than to share the triumph with the one person who could no longer join her.
"I wish you could see this, Mom."
As she stood in front of the painting, she began to feel like the room had grown larger somehow, quieter. She checked the time; her phone told her it was 7:30 p.m. Half an hour until her guests would arrive. Just a few friends, but friends whose opinions mattered in the circles she moved. Friends she wanted to share this moment with, not just to subtly brag about the expensive painting she’d managed to acquire but because it truly was a work of art worth sharing.
She crossed the penthouse to the minimal lines and angles of her kitchen, its modern appliances gleaming under recessed lights. Opening the stainless-steel refrigerator, she smiled at the row of champagne bottles. Yes, there would only be five of them, but they would certainly enjoy themselves and maybe deal with small headaches tomorrow morning.
Nina selected one—a vintage brut, the label elegant in its simplicity—and removed the wire cage. She held her breath as she twisted the bottle, feeling the cork give way with a muffled pop. The sound seemed loud in the quiet of her home, and she exhaled slowly, watching the mist escape the bottle's neck.
Pouring the champagne with care, the liquid fizzed and bubbled into the flute. As the bubbles settled, she lifted the glass, the cool crystal against her lips offering a momentary distraction.
"Here's to you, Mom," she whispered, her voice little more than a breath. The crisp taste of the champagne brought back a flood of memories: Parisian summers, laughter echoing through art galleries, her mother's warm hand clasping hers as they marveled at the masterpieces. Those days seemed distant now, wrapped in the golden haze of nostalgia. How her mother would have loved to see her, hosting an event in her own penthouse with a prized painting they had once admired together.
Nina took another sip, allowing the bubbles to dance on her tongue. She turned to glance back at the painting, pleased to find that it still felt as if she was seeing it for the first time. Art had always spoken to her in this way, but this painting in particular was powerful.
The canvas was five feet tall and four feet wide. It showed four workers in a hay field. Three were in the distance, turned away, while the fourth was extremely close to the viewer. His head was cocked down, as if studying the ground he was cultivating. The setting sun cast light like fire across the field, giving off one of the eeriest yet calming tones of yellow Nina had ever seen.
For her, this wasn't just art. It was a piece of her soul, a link to a past that grew more precious with each passing year.
Nina placed the flute on the counter, the crystal chiming softly against the granite. She ran her fingers through her hair, smoothing it back into place, checking her image in the reflective surfaces of the appliances. She looked the part: the successful entrepreneur, the gracious hostess. Yet beneath the surface, there was a tremor of something else; was it excitement? An xiety? Or perhaps the stirring of old ghosts, which often happened when she focused on memories of her mother?
Her gaze was momentarily broken by the sound of the front door opening. It wouldn't be any of her friends; they would knock. It was likely one of the caterers, returning due to something left behind. Without turning to face the direction of the door, she said, "Did you forget something?"
It took a handful of seconds for her to realize no one answered. When she did realize it, the silence that followed was thick, heavy with anticipation. Nina's brows furrowed, a crease forming between them as the quiet stretched on, unbroken. Slowly, she turned, her gaze sweeping across the expansive den toward the entryway.
"Hello?" Her voice was firmer now, edged with concern. The champagne glass she’d picked up again felt cool and fragile in her grasp as her heartbeat quickened a bit.
And then she saw him—a stranger framed by the doorway. Not a caterer, but a man whose presence was as dark and imposing as the shadows that stretched behind him. His eyes found hers, and for a moment, time seemed to suspend itself, the air charged with an electric current. Everything about the man screamed danger.
"Lovely painting," he said, his voice low and smooth, a serpent's hiss wrapped in velvet. The words slithered into the room, wrapping around Nina like barbed wire.
Her heart stumbled, then raced, pounding a frantic rhythm against her ribs. The glass in her hand wavered, droplets falling to the floor like tiny, shattered stars.
"Who are you?" The question emerged as a whisper, a futile attempt to mask the fear that clawed its way up her throat. Every instinct screamed at her to flee; but this was her home, so fleeing seemed strange.
Not that it mattered; before she could move, before she could even think to scream, he was upon her. His movements were swift, a blur of motion that left no time for resistance. There was only the sharp intake of breath, the glint of malice in his eyes, and then the blinding flash of pain that started at her neck and seemed to avalanche its way through her body.
The champagne glass shattered on the floor, the sound lost amid the chaos. And as Nina Caldwell's world spun wildly out of control, the fourth figure standing closest to the viewer in her painting—her beautiful, beloved painting—watched on as a silent witness to the violence unfolding below.
CHAPTER ONE
Vivian looked at the suitcase, only half-packed, and realized that she was a bit more hesitant about the trip ahead of her than she’d thought. In planning, she’d assumed it would take no longer than two days, so her return trip was two nights from now. The digital tickets were saved to her phone and she’d already looked at them twice today as if to make sure she’d really done it…that she was really going.
It was both strange and terrifying to know that in about six hours, she could be sitting across from her sister somewhere in Geneva. That was, of course, if Olivia didn’t run away the moment they crossed paths. The thought sent a shiver down her spine, not from the early morning chill, but from a cocktail of anticipation and dread.
As children, back before their mother had died and their father, Rupert Fox, had fully committed himself to a life of heists and illegal adventures, she and her sister had been referred to as Viv and Liv. Like they were some sort of pop group or cartoon pairing. A duo inseparable by heart, if not by destiny. Now, Vivian silently rehearsed the words she had imagined saying to Olivia for years, each syllable heavy with the weight of unspoken history. That cute little nickname sounded more like a curse, and she was afraid there was no way to repair the rift between them.
Olivia had moved away so she wouldn’t be found. That had been apparent. And since Vivian had found her…what now?
That’s what this trip was supposed to answer.
She glanced at the clock; it was barely past seven in the morning. The flight was a bit after eleven. Time seemed to both drag and sprint in these last hours before departure.
Vivian moved around her living room, ensuring windows were locked, electronics unplugged. She couldn't shake off the feeling that she was forgetting something crucial, a nagging whisper that there was more to prepare than just securing her home.
Her mind drifted to Nils Carlson, the retired Interpol agent who had finally given her what years of searching couldn’t—Olivia's location. It was Nils's meticulous nature and his old contacts that had traced Olivia to a quiet life in an often-overlooked town in Europe. A life devoid of crime and, painfully, devoid of Vivian.
The Foxes were known for their artistry in theft, a lineage of larceny that Vivian had inherited and honed to perfection. To her father’s credit, he’d at least waited until his wife had passed away at the early age of forty-three before fully committing himself. Vivian had found the lifestyle alluring and, in an odd way, fulfilling. Setting your own hours, defying the law, taking advantage of systems that overpriced certain works of art just to stuff the pockets of those already rich. Her father had only argued a single time when Vivian had wanted to learn the trade. And then, when she’d gotten very good, Rupert had distance himself from his daughter, not wanting to bring her down with him. This had proved a stroke of genius, as he’d been convicted of murder during an attempted heist where he’d been caught and apprehended.
Vivian had turned her back on her surviving family long before all of this, though. All it had taken was her first successful heist—a job that had only netted her fifteen grand. Once Olivia had seen that her sister had also fallen by the wayside, she left home. More than that, she left the country.
And up until now, Vivian had no idea where Olivia was staying. But that had all changed now, thanks to Nils. Her little sister had chosen to walk away rather than be tainted by the family business.
Somehow, with all her pacing around the apartment, Vivian had come back to her suitcase. She’d packed enough for four days even though she only planned to be gone for two. Even if things went incredibly well, she knew she’d have to come back to Lyon. While Director Garnett had okayed this trip, she’d stressed that Vivan needed to be back quickly. After all, Vivian had only been with Interpol for five weeks now; it would do neither of them any good if others began to take note of the special attention and certain privileges Vivian was getting.
You’re done packing, she told herself. You know you are. Zip the damned suitcase and be done with it. No sense in being scared about this…
The zipper hummed its final note as Vivian smoothed the fabric edges of her suitcase, ensuring nothing was caught in its teeth. Her hand hovered above the case, ready to snap it shut when the shrill cry of her phone sliced through the silence of the room.
It was an intrusion, an unwelcome one, and Vivian's heart sank even before she glanced at the caller ID. It would be the airline, telling her the flight was canceled. Or maybe it would be Nils, telling her that he’d gotten some new intel and he’d been wrong about Geneva.
But when she looked at the caller display, she saw that it was Director Garnett. The name alone set off alarm bells in her mind, stirring a mix of respect and resentment.
She answered cautiously. “This is Vivian Fox.”
"Fox…there's been a development," Garnett's voice came through, brisk and unyielding as always.
“Okay…”
Vivian was waiting for the rest of the comment. A development. But here she was, on the verge of leaving for a trip that Garnett herself had given the green light. But apparently, Garnett didn’t feel like explaining herself today. Vivian couldn’t stand the silence, so she said the very thing that was on her mind.
"Director, I'm due to be on a plane in just over three hours," Vivian reminded her, the grip on her phone tightening. She could feel the trip slowly slipping away. And as she came to terms with this, it was then that she realized just how badly she wanted to go.
"I approved your leave, yes," Garnett acknowledged. "But that was before this situation arose."
Vivian’s stomach clenched. "What situation?"
"An urgent case," Garnett replied, her tone uncompromising. "I need you and Sterling on it immediately. Whether you and Sterling have figured it out yet, you’ve basically become my go-to team for all art-related matters."
