by Anne Stuart
Blackheart’s response was nothing more than an obscene, sibilant whisper in her ear.
“What makes you think your mother’s in any danger?” McNab countered stubbornly, and Ferris found her feelings for the tenacious policeman warm several degrees. “Blackheart’s never been involved in any form of assault. Cat burglars seldom are—it goes against their self-image. I’ll tell you again, I don’t believe Blackheart’s going to change his ways this late in the game. He’s not going to turn to art theft and he’s not going to beat up old ladies.”
“Are you willing to stake your career on that?” Phillip Merriam demanded. “And my mother’s safety?”
There was a pause. The two in the closet listened intently, and Ferris was aware of an intense, sudden dislike of charming, noble Phillip Merriam.
“I’m not willing to risk anyone’s safety without good reason,” McNab said finally. “Maybe you’re right. After all, you’re the one who got the tip. And a painting like The Hyacinths isn’t just a work of art, it’s the heist of a lifetime, and when it comes to gall Blackheart has no bounds. Don’t worry—we’ll be watching.”
“That’s all I ask, Detective,” Phillip said smoothly, all belated affability. “That’s all I ask.”
They waited in silence, shrouded by the silk wedding dress. As they listened the footsteps faded away, the heavy clang of the metal door at the top of the stairs reassuring them they were once more alone.
Blackheart, thorough as ever, reached for her again, but she was one step ahead of him, pushing through the wall of clothes and out into the dusty attic before he could make her forget everything once more. “What’s going on?” she demanded, keeping her voice down in case their visitors were still within earshot.
Blackheart shrugged, strolling over to get a closer look at the blinking, winking monolith that constituted the Van Gogh’s security system. “Sounds like I’m about to become an art thief. Except that our friend McNab is going to catch me in the act. What does it sound like to you?” He seemed no more than casually curious, but Ferris knew he was intent on her answer.
“It sounds to me like a setup.”
His smile across the expanse of the attic was beatific in the midday light. “Why, Francesca, you do trust me.”
“No, I don’t. I just agree with McNab. You’re not about to start ripping off paintings this late in your career. If you steal anything, you’ll steal Regina’s jewels.”
“She doesn’t have any to speak of,” he murmured absently, still watching her.
“You’d know that, of course.”
“Just force of habit. When you’ve spent as many years as I have in the business, it’s hard to let go of instincts. Besides, I’ve done security for Regina often enough to make it my business to know what’s of value in this house.”
“You don’t need to keep explaining,” Ferris said mildly.
“The hell I don’t. You’re enough to make a saint paranoid.”
“You’re no saint.”
“No, it sounds more like I’m a fool. And a patsy.”
“I can’t imagine why Phillip would think you’d be planning on robbing his mother. He’s usually such a fair, sensible man.”
“Is he? Maybe he’s got something else on his mind.”
“I don’t think he’s pining for me, if that’s what you’re suggesting. He was very gracious about our engagement.”
“Which engagement? Yours and his, or yours and mine?”
“Don’t be obtuse. His and mine, of course. So I don’t think his brain is clouded by latent jealousy. Especially now that you and I are no longer involved.”
“Aren’t we? What were you doing in the closet with me?”
She could only hope the shadows obscured the blush that rose to her face. “Kissing you,” she said flatly. “Small enclosed places turn me on. Anyone would do in a situation like that.”
If she’d hoped to goad him, and she had, it was obviously a waste of time, for he laughed, suddenly cheerful. “I’ll keep that in mind. So if Phillip isn’t intent on revenge, why is he setting me up and using Nelbert to do it?”
“Nelbert’s obvious. He’s your biggest competitor and he’s always been jealous of Blackheart and Company. McNab doesn’t even need an explanation—he’s determined to nail you. Maybe they’ve tricked Phillip into thinking you’re a danger.”
“I’m not overly impressed with politicians’ intellects, but Phillip isn’t that much of a dunce. He’s no one’s dupe. If anyone’s pulling the strings, he is.”
Ferris couldn’t rid herself of the suspicion that he just might be right. And since she could think of no motive for it but her own involvement with both men, she immediately denied it. “You’re the one who’s paranoid, Blackheart. Clearly you have nothing to worry about. If you’re not going to steal The Hyacinths and sell it to the highest bidder, then you don’t have to worry about what those three conspirators were doing. If they’re busy watching the Van Gogh, you won’t even run into them.”
“No, I can steal Regina’s jewels in relative peace and safety,” Blackheart drawled.
“I thought she didn’t have any jewels.”
“Just testing. Do you want to go back over the roof, or would you prefer the steps?”
“Wouldn’t we run into those three if we followed them into the house?”
“Maybe. Does that make a difference?”
“Not in the slightest. I’m not going back onto that roof for love or money.”
“We can take the stairs,” he agreed. “Regina knows what we’re doing, anyway. If we run into the three musketeers we can refer them to Phillip’s mother. That should put the fear of God into them.” He moved to the door, holding it open for her. There was no sign of anyone on the stairs leading down into the third-floor hallway and The Hyacinths, and no sound of voices filtered upward.
“You don’t like Phillip, do you?” she asked curiously, moving past him down the stairway. “I thought you two used to be friends.”
“Amiable acquaintances,” Blackheart corrected her, shutting the attic door behind them. “Polite relationships like that don’t stand up to sexual jealousy on either side. The first time I saw him put his hands on you, I wanted to murder him.”
That violent statement shouldn’t have started a small fire of pleasure burning in the pit of her stomach, but it did. She stopped on the bottom stairs, not even noticing the glowing, jewellike colors of the priceless painting, and looked up into his face. “Did you really want me that much?”
He put out his hand and she couldn’t move, mesmerized by the light in his warm brown eyes. “I did,” he murmured, his voice low and beguiling, the kind of voice that could seduce a mother superior. “I still do.” His fingers lightly touched her cheek, the rough texture of his skin sending tremors of heat across her face.
“Patrick,” she whispered, her husky voice equally beguiling. “I—”
“I didn’t realize you were around here.” Phillip’s smooth voice came booming into their concentration, shattering it like a crystal figurine.
Blackheart raised his head, and his expression was frankly inimical. “You weren’t supposed to,” he said.
Phillip’s response was the epitome of the professional politician: a hearty laugh, a genial smile, and all the charm that was second nature to him. It was hard to remember that that same cheerful voice had been implicating Blackheart only moments before. “I hadn’t realized you two were talking to each other. Is there any hope for a reconciliation? I know it would make my mother very happy.” An edge slipped into his voice, so slight that Ferris doubted he was even aware of it—anger for her, anger for Blackheart, anger for his mother? She opened her mouth to say something, but Blackheart’s hand caught hers and his fingers closed tightly over her palm, silencing her.
“No,” Blackhear
t said flatly. “Ferris tells me I’m a lost cause. She’s just been kind enough to help me check out some of the security on the house.”
Phillip’s blue eyes took on a slightly glassy tint. “I wouldn’t think there’d be anything worth that kind of trouble in the place. Mother disposed of most of her silver and jewelry years ago. Said they were too valuable to have sitting in the house. I believe she donated the proceeds to some AIDS organization. That’s my mother, the bleeding heart. There’s nothing anyone would want left in the house.”
“Except the Van Gogh,” Blackheart murmured.
“Except the Van Gogh. But then, artwork isn’t really in your line at all, is it, Blackheart?” Phillip said smoothly. “It’s the glittering colors of emeralds and rubies that excite your larcenous instincts, not the jewellike hues of a painting.”
“Oh, I don’t know, Merriam. A man shouldn’t be too set in his ways. A moment of avarice, a moment of anger, and a lifetime of rules can get swept away. Can’t it?” Blackheart’s voice was low and his tone taunting. Ferris listened with growing confusion. She tried to pull her hand away from his, but his grip was unrelenting. There was something going on between Blackheart and Phillip, something she didn’t understand, but whatever it was she didn’t like it. Something was simmering beneath the surface, and she didn’t want to accept the obvious answer.
“You tell me, Patrick,” Phillip said, his affability never faltering. “You’re the expert on breaking rules. And laws.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. Where’s your mother?”
“Going to tell on me?”
“What are you two talking about?” Ferris had had enough of this fencing. She yanked her hand free from Blackheart’s grip, moving down the last few steps and confronting Phillip.
“Tell her it’s nothing to worry her pretty little head about,” Blackheart suggested helpfully. “I’d like to see her deck you.”
Phillip reached out a hand. By sheer coincidence his smooth, well-manicured fingers brushed the same spot on her face that Blackheart’s rougher hand had. “I wouldn’t think of saying such a thing,” he murmured. “Ferris and I understood each other. We had a civilized relationship, based on mutual respect and caring. We could have it again.”
The touch of his flesh left her unmoved, except for a faint regret that it wiped away the memory of Blackheart’s touch. She swallowed, taking a step backward against Blackheart’s waiting body. “You’re very sweet,” she said, searching for the right words. “But I think you’re too good for me.”
Blackheart’s laugh was mocking. “Don’t you believe it, dear heart. Your golden senator has feet of clay.”
Phillip ignored him. “I’m sorry,” he murmured. “More than I can say.” His eyes met Blackheart’s for a brief, telling moment, and once more Ferris thought there was something more going on than she was aware of, something dark and wicked gliding beneath the surface. “I’ll tell Mother you’re looking for her.”
They watched him go, his broad shoulders and golden head disappearing down the next flight of stairs. “A graceful exit,” Blackheart drawled.
“Do you have to be such a rat?” Ferris snapped, guilt and regret for what couldn’t be slashing through her.
“Sorry, darling. We don’t have a civilized relationship based on mutual respect and caring. We’re rather savage about it, don’t you think?”
“Don’t, Blackheart.” But the words were murmured against his mouth as he hauled her back into his arms. His actions fitted his words. There was nothing civilized about his kiss, nothing civilized about her response. His hands threaded through her thick hair and held her still, his mouth caught hers in a bruising possession.
This time she didn’t hesitate. This time she shoved him with all her strength, catching him off guard so that he fell back against the attic steps. Seconds later she was gone, speeding down Regina Merriam’s broad marble staircase without looking back.
Blackheart watched her go. Slowly, ruefully he picked himself up off the stairs, shook himself off, and smiled. “Run, Francesca,” he whispered. “You can’t run away from yourself.” And with a jaunty little whistle he followed his erstwhile love down the stairs.
DANY MANAGED very well for most of the day, staying in the shadows, keeping her head down, her voice lowered, locking herself into the Winnebago with the accounts and keeping her back to the sun when anyone came to disturb her. At least Marco had made himself scarce. She had no illusions that he might be feeling remorse. His only regret might be that someone would notice the bruises. And while she was tempted to wash off her makeup, she controlled herself. That kind of petty revenge would only make things worse. A few more days, and she’d be home free.
She’d had more than a few curious looks, of course. Rocco, the old clown, had been around long enough to know what was going on, and without saying a word he went out of his way to be kind. He brought her coffee and fresh pastries and kept people away from her. If he hadn’t gone for an early supper, she would have made it safely through the day.
But there was no faithful Rocco guarding the tiny door to the van at five-thirty in the afternoon, no one to stop Stephen McNab from sticking his head in.
He couldn’t have chosen a worse moment. She’d let the room grow dark, not bothering to turn on a lamp, and as she sat there in the shadows, the account books no longer visible, she allowed herself the rare luxury of crying. Her head ached, her ribs ached, her entire face felt raw. And she felt alone, as she had always felt, alone and a stranger in a world of other people’s friends.
She saw McNab silhouetted in the doorway and held herself very still, hoping he wouldn’t realize she was in there. But her body betrayed her with a watery hiccup. McNab hit the lights, flooding the Winnebago with a bright electric glare, and his startled eyes met hers.
“What in God’s name happened to you?”
Chapter Thirteen
The Lady Vanishes
(Lime Grove 1938)
“GO AWAY,” DANY said, turning her face away. McNab paid no attention, slamming the door behind him and advancing into the cramped quarters. She was cowering behind the tiny built-in table, but he simply swept the papers out of the way, reached in and hauled her out.
He was quite a bit taller than she was. Quite a bit stronger, too, but she knew instinctively that unlike Marco he’d never use his strength to hurt anyone. Instead, with great gentleness, he caught her chin in one large hand and forced her to turn her battered face up to his.
His swiftly indrawn breath told her just how much of her makeup must have washed off during her bout of tears. “Porcini?” he demanded in a sharp voice, and she quickly revised her earlier opinion. He would never use his strength to hurt her, but she wasn’t sure Marco would be safe.
“I fell,” she said, repeating the lie she’d told Rocco. “I was working on an old acrobatic routine and I didn’t warm up properly. You don’t know circus people—bruises are part of the business.”
“And do they sit in the dark and cry about them?” McNab’s harsh tone was at odds with the gentleness in his hands.
“I fell, Detective.”
“Stephen,” he corrected her. “And you must have fallen into Porcini’s fists. We arrest wife beaters in this country, Dany. You don’t have to put up with that kind of abuse.”
“I don’t know much about American law, but I imagine you can’t arrest him if I don’t lay a complaint. And I’m not going to do that.” She felt calmer now, a coolness overlying her desperation. She was very close to blowing the whole thing. And she wanted to do just that, wanted to lay her head on Stephen’s broad shoulder and tell him everything. Then she’d be the one in jail, she reminded herself.
“Why not? Do you love him that much?”
“I hate him.”
“Then why don’t you leave him? Divorce him? We can get a restraining order to kee
p him away. You don’t have to stay with a brute like that.”
“I can’t get a divorce,” Dany said. “We’re not married.”
She was unprepared for his reaction. She expected disgust and anger, not a sudden, unexpected grin of delight. “That makes life easier. Get your things.”
“Why?”
“You’re getting out of here. At least for a couple of days, until lover boy manages to control his temper.”
“Where am I going?” She eyed him warily.
“Well, there are any number of shelters in the city for battered women. You’d be safe there. But I thought you might come with me.”
“Where?” she asked again.
“I have some time off coming. We could go north. And don’t jump to any conclusions. I’m not trying to get you into bed. That’s the last thing you need, after what you’ve been through. I just think you need to get away for a while.”
“How do you know what I need?” she muttered under her breath.
“I beg your pardon?” Luckily Stephen hadn’t heard her.
“I said I’ll go with you. For a couple of days. Just so I can have time to think.”
“Are you sure you won’t swear out a complaint . . . ?”
“I fell,” she said firmly, heading for the door.
“If you say so. Don’t you want to bring any clothes?” He stood still in the middle of the caravan, dwarfing its already cramped confines.
“I have a suitcase packed and stowed over by the tack tent. I like to be ready to leave at short notice.”
“Do you? I wonder why?”
For a moment she faltered. What in the world was she doing, turning to an enemy for help? Stephen McNab didn’t realize he was the enemy; he thought he was the only friend she had. How would he react when he found out the truth, as he was bound to, sooner or later? His determination to nail Blackheart would be nothing compared to his fury with her. She’d have to burrow very deep into the American heartland to get away from him.