"We suspect this is the work of the Sgambati brothers, whom I've been investigating for two years. They run a complex operation of white collar crimes, and the FBI is building a case against them. That's why I'm here in Charleston, to follow them, gather evidence and to get our warrants for arrest. We know that they go after people that owe them gambling debts but often, they launder their money through another pipeline. I suspect," and he paused, taking a drink of his own water, "there are more players involved. Perhaps Nina Alexis Gallery is hiding something the Sgambatis' either want or have."
"Nina would never be involved in something like that!"
He smirked and arched an eyebrow. "How well do you know Nina, really? Her background?"
"I know that she's not involved with them. She couldn't be," I said, staring into my water as I mentally fast-forwarded through the memories of Nina, from when we first met to the first time I saw her at her gallery. None of it lined-up with living a double life.
"Have the Sgambatis ever contacted you? Been inside the gallery?"
My eyes narrowed. "No. I don't know them, if that's what you're implying, and neither does Nina."
"Emma." He leaned forward. He touched my arm, sending sparks of electricity through me, eyes the color of amber filled with both question and concern held my attention. "I have to ask these things, look at this from all angles and consider every possibility. These men are now targeting you, and you happen to have a connection to the same gallery they just robbed. It's not at all a strange coincidence. It's my job to figure out how they're connected, hopefully before anyone else dies."
I nodded slowly. I wanted to ask him more but refrained, both out of manners and the exhaustion that was settling in. "If you don't mind, I'm pretty tired," I yawned, covering my mouth. "Can you take me home?"
"You're staying here tonight. It's the safest option."
"That's not necessary; I'm sure it's fine for me to go home," I protested. Even as the words left my mouth, I felt all resolve and courage leaving me. I had a panic attack earlier, and who was I kidding, thinking it was fine to go back to my small apartment where I lived alone?
I thought about the man in the garage and how he had been waiting with every intention of killing me. The aftereffects of my panic attack were sinking in, and exhaustion enveloped me. The idea of sleeping alone with a target on my back was less than appealing.
"You're staying here," he insisted and extended a hand to me as he stood. "I'll give you my room," he told me.
"No, you don't have to do that. I'll be good on the couch."
"My mother would skin me alive if she found out you'd slept on the couch." He slipped his fingers through mine and led me to the bedroom. I let him pull me along, curious about seeing his private space. The room was basic, functional, yet pleasant, with queen-sized bed and a nightstand and lamp next to it.
"Here we are, let me grab you something to change into." He disappeared into the closet, returning with a folded set of clothing in his hands. "I'm sure it's big, but it's clean and not what you wore to work today.”
I took the clothes, looking up at him. "Really, thank you. You didn't have to do all this for me." This situation had all the awkwardness of a one-night stand or a first date sleepover, yet without the sex. It reminded me how alone I was in the world, without a single family member or reliable friend to call on. Even Caty had abandoned me.
"You're welcome. Get some rest." Connor squeezed my shoulder and disappeared from the bedroom.
✽✽✽
Connor ran his hands over his face and reclined back in the arm chair, staring listlessly into the fireplace. He loved the scent of wood-burning fireplaces and the mesmerizing nature of a fire at home. Christ, it’s not like he'd enjoyed a fire at home in years. If he even had a place to call home. He gripped the rocks glass in his hand and took another slow sip of the single malt scotch he’d poured for himself.
And after tonight's attack in the parking garage, he was concerned himself for Emma's safety.
Connor shook his head at himself and watched the flames die down. He needed to stay focused on the investigation and avoid the attractive artist down the hall.
Eight
Chloe was seven. I was twelve. Sometimes I pretended we were all a real family, and for a few minutes during those sweet daydreams, it seemed real. Chloe would wake me up with a gentle finger tapping my arm. Solemn faced, she would stare at me until I got out of bed. But that morning was Thanksgiving, and I was excited for the big day. Our foster mother, Eileen, was already busy in the kitchen preparing supper for the day. Chloe and I had snuck out of bed to check out the morning scene.
There were several other foster children staying with the Rysfords. They had one biological son, Trent, or T.R. as everyone called him. He was a year older, however we still ended up in many of the same classes. He was popular in school, and the girls seemed to flock to him. He was decent looking with dark brown hair and eyes to match. He was an inch or so shorter than me, but he made up for it in muscle. I thought he was obnoxious. I disliked him immediately. He wore a perpetual smug look that said he was skirting the rules and getting away with it. I didn't like the way he watched me with a malevolent glint in his eye.
I had overheard Eileen lament to her husband, Greg, that her sister wouldn't be able to make it. And I had cheered silently at this. It would be just the five of us for Thanksgiving, no strangers giving us inquiring looks. I could keep pretending for a few minutes that we were a real family. I was so desperate for this holiday fantasy that I would even put up with T.R.
Greg put the Thanksgiving parade on the small TV in the living room. He would change the channels, grumbling, then hitting the top of the set, so the reception would come in clearly. Chloe and I watched in rapt attention, holding hands with our legs tucked snugly under nightgowns. The smells from the kitchen hinted at what was to come later that day. For those few minutes, that brief time, I could pretend we were okay. That Chloe and I were true sisters and with a nice life with loving parents.
While we waited for dinner, we munched on snacks and took advantage of the warm November weather by playing games in the yard. Eileen was a fan of oldies, so the local radio station was usually heard throughout the house playing the Temptations or early Beatles. It was a Rockwellesque, holiday-perfect scene.
The truth? The truth was we didn't know what could happen next, or when. A new family meant keeping your guard up, reserving trust. The dad who drank too much. The friendly neighbors always popping over at inopportune times. The distracted mother. Mean foster siblings or even the kids at school. I made it my business to stay out of sight, and keep my head down. I also tried to watch out for Chloe. She was younger than me, and so naive. I loved Chloe as my own sister, and did my best to protect her at home and in school. She was pretty, with long straight brown hair and eyes, and a shy personality.
✽✽✽
I was suffocating. His fingers were digging into my arms, bringing to life the bruises that were already in place. I stood motionless in his powerful hold. Sweat flooded my nostrils. My stomach churned. The coppery taste of blood filled my mouth and panic took residence.
"No! No! Please!" Gunshots, shouting and footsteps reverberated in my ears. Adrenaline spiked and my instincts screamed...run! I was trapped.
"Emma! Wake up! Emma! You're dreaming." Connor said, gently shaking me. I opened my eyes in a flash, arms swinging until he restrained them, holding my wrists in one hand. The warmth of his firm grasp grounded me.
"Oh my God. No." I closed my eyes, taking a deep breath and willing the dream to leave. I was suddenly all too aware I was soaked in sweat. The trapped feeling was because of the sheets tangled around my legs, which I couldn't disengage from as Connor was sitting on my bedside, carefully observing me. This was bad.
As I opened my eyes again, he released his grip slowly. "Nightmares, huh?" He unraveled the sheets that held my legs, laying them gently over me.
"Yeah, I guess so." Dream fog clo
uded my mind.
"It's pretty normal for witnesses to experience post-traumatic stress." Light from the hallway bathed the room and illuminated his shirtless silhouette. Tilting forward, his hand propped over my legs, Connor's body language spoke of concern. His features were slightly shadowed from the light behind him, but it was his big frame that caught my attention. Jesus Christ, he was huge.
"I'm okay. Sorry about waking you." I exhaled, releasing any residual tension. He remained unconvinced. His eyes bored into mine and he was frowning. "Really, I'm fine," I repeated. This couldn't be more embarrassing, and I just needed a moment to wipe off the sweat. Still unconvinced, Connor held his place, half-naked, and making my brain even hazier. Absently I twisted my hair off my neck and coiled it down my back.
"How about a cup of tea?" His eyes glinted in the light and a hint of a smile whispered across on his face.
"Really? You make tea?"
"I do. My sister always brewed some after a nightmare." He shrugged, unapologetically. "It helped me forget the bad dreams when I was a kid and go back to bed. It could help."
Huh. That statement alone made me wonder about Connor. Where was his mother during those bad dreams as a boy? He had a sister? I filed this away, telling myself I'd come back to it later. I smiled at Connor and his boyish demeanor—one part cool, FBI agent, one part tea-making nurse. "Sounds like your sister is a smart lady. A cup of tea makes everything better."
"C'mon. We'll talk about it." He stood and I followed him into the kitchen.
Taking a seat on the counter stool, I watched Connor preparing his magic brew. The sweatpants and Navy T-shirt he had lent me were huge, but I was glad the shirt was so big it hid my braless state.
From my perch I could see him go through the familiar motions of making a cup of tea. Filling the kettle and heating it on the stove before placing tea bags in the mugs. Milk, honey, sugar.
"Milk or lemon?" he asked?
"Milk."
"Honey or sugar?"
"Sugar." I replied.
The tough exterior he projected to the world gave way to performing an ordinary, domestic task. I found it sweet and...sexy, and blushed, ignoring the voice in my head telling me I was too young for him. I could enjoy looking, dammit.
He wore pajama bottoms and was shirtless. He was muscular, but not in a go-to-the-gym way. More of a fighting the bad guys way. It was clear he'd been in a few nasty fights from the scars on his back. One was an angry line three inches just below his shoulder. His ever-present gun rested on the counter, which made me wonder, what kind of job training makes keeping your gun with you a habit?
Connor placed the mugs on the counter as he slid onto the adjacent stool, swiveling it to face me, his knee knocking into my leg.
Once again, I avoided looking at his defined bare chest, sculpted shoulders and rock-hard abs. Could he see the flush spreading across my face and neck? I stirred my tea, perhaps longer than necessary.
"What is it, Emma Elliott?"
"Nothing." I said, staring hard at the brew in front of me.
Don't stare, don't stare, don't stare.
"You realize I miss nothing, right?" Connor reached over and squeezed my hand, prompting me to look at him. "Blushing looks good on you. It's sweet." That half smile of his appeared again.
"I'm not used to being taken care of. Thank you." I cleared my throat nervously and changed the subject. "How long have you lived here?"
"A little over a year now."
"Oh. I never would have known."
"How do you mean?"
"Well, there's no personality here." I sipped and set the mug down, gesturing to the kitchen and living room. "You know, nothing about life. Your life."
"There's no need. I'm here temporarily until this investigation wraps up, then I'll head back to headquarters. This place is just a rental."
"Where's headquarters?"
Connor extracted the tea bag and set it down on the plate, glancing up at me. "FBI headquarters in DC."
"I didn't know that. I just assumed you worked with the police here, as a detective or something."
"Or something would be right."
We sipped silently for a few minutes as I pondered this new information about him. He had a sister and was an FBI agent who lived in DC. That summed up what I knew about him. That explained the scars, even if it made me think of a more gruesome way he obtained them.
"You've got a reporter's name. Emma Elliott," he said, breaking the silence.
I smiled. "Guess I do. Lots of alliteration."
"I know your story. You came here for the gallery, but what's the story behind the story?" He asked, eyes soft with interest and concern.
I shrugged, thinking of the struggle it had been to make the move and make ends meet. "It's a fresh start."
"A fresh start implies something didn't work out?" Connor drained his mug and sat back, crossing his arms over his chest and my eyes tracked his movements, stopping briefly on his arms.
I wasn't ready to divulge all the details of my life in Leeds or explain Nina's role as my ticket out of Alabama. Growing up in a small Southern town with no family, no money, and the whole world against you was the quickest way to trouble. And I didn't want trouble.
"It didn't," I replied softly. His eyes fixed on me, but I averted his gaze, tucking my hair behind my ears. I hated talking about my background as an orphan.
"Who is T.R.?"
I snapped my head up at the mention of the name that haunted my dreams. "Where did you hear that name?"
"You were screaming it in your sleep. You seemed pretty frightened."
"I don't know," I said, averting my eyes from his. "Just a bad dream, I guess."
Blessedly, he didn't go any further. "We should talk about a game plan for you, Alabama."
Detecting his shift in tone, I listened intently.
"You're a key witness, with a price on your head. I'm recommending protective custody for the time being."
I was stunned and a wave of mixed emotions washed over me: anger, fear, defiance.
"Are you serious? I can't do that."
"I have little choice. Ensuring your safety is part of my job."
"And what exactly is going on? I'm in the dark, even after tonight in the garage. I saw something frighteningly unexpected on Friday and now you're telling me I can't go home?"
"The Sgambati brothers are probably watching your home." Connor leaned forward and braced the back of my stool, his face inches from mine. I raised my chin and held his narrowed gaze. The easygoing, caring stranger had gone and been replaced by a law enforcement professional.
"They do?"
"They do," he confirmed. "And at your office at Whitley Kennington, where you park your car, as you learned last night, and definitely Nina's gallery, though I doubt they're returning there anytime soon. They must have seen you Friday at the scene of the murder."
He deposited both mugs in the sink and coolly added, "They need to get rid of any witnesses."
Goosebumps broke out down my arms as I digested this.
"There are two possibilities," Connor continued. "One of your paintings was stolen, which makes me wonder about the coincidence of you being at the scene of the crime, a convenient witness to the theft of her own work."
"Are we back to that again? I have nothing to do with any of this and clueless as to what they would want with my painting."
"Your extensive inside knowledge of the collections and inner workings at Nina Alexis Gallery makes for a convenient cover. You just happened to be there, and now you're a witness. It gives me pause is all I'm saying."
I was speechless. How did I get into this mess? No self-pity, just confusion and frustration at how life threw obstacles my way every time I was getting ahead. "I have nothing to do with it," I said quietly, tears filling my eyes. I blinked them back, swallowing my emotion.
He nodded. "The second possibility is you witnessed the crime and the Sgambati brothers are looking to eliminate you."
/>
I stared hard at my hands, cold realization sinking in. What was I going to do? What happened to the simple, quiet life I had crafted when I moved here? I didn't have anyone to go to. Nina was well, Nina. She was my mentor, in a professional capacity. She was also at the center of this focus, this investigation. I couldn't ask her for help after all she'd done for me. I didn't have a good relationship with any of the foster families I lived with growing up. The T.R. situation solidified that. I couldn't pin Caty down for pizza, nevermind asking her for help.
"What about protective custody? I can have you out of here within twenty-four hours."
"I'm not leaving Charleston. I just got here." And I have nowhere else to go.
"Any family you can stay with?"
I just shook my head, not wanting to answer that any further. No family. No good friends. Nobody.
"Emma, I can't let you go back to your apartment on your own. It's non-negotiable. You'll stay here until the protective custody paperwork has been processed. It shouldn't be more than a day."
"What about my New York trip? I can't just drop everything and hide! I have my canvases I'm working on for a show and my supplies, and..." I trailed off and considered the magnitude of this situation.
"It'd be best if you skipped New York and laid low. Going anywhere right now, outside of protective custody, is off the table."
"Wait, you don't get to decide that for me!" My temper rose at his clipped tone, his assumption of making my decisions. The entire situation was infuriating.
"When this is my investigation, I do. I'm securing my witness." He eyed me, a silent dare to challenge him. He posed an intimidating package, not just from his stance and the tension that was emanating from him, but the don't-fuck-with-me demeanor.
I'd witnessed a murder and theft, lost a painting, endured an assault, lived through attempted murder and a panic attack, been abandoned by my only friend, and now, was being robbed of my independence.
Hot tears streamed down my face as I retreated to the bedroom and buried myself in the duvet.
The Art of Murder Page 6