Ruthless Cross

by Barbara Freethy

  He was so handsome, so sexy. She probably shouldn't be thinking about that now, but when he smiled at her and put his hand over hers, a rush of warmth ran through her. She was going to be okay. Flynn was here. But there was worry in his eyes and that bothered her.

  She vaguely remembered him telling her not to die. That she needed to stay with him. That he needed her.

  Did he need her? That random thought ran around her confused brain along with the idea that she might need him, too. But she didn't let herself need people, because then they usually needed her to do things for them, and she couldn't take anyone else on. Her mom's needs were consuming enough.

  "How are you doing, Callie?" His hand tightened around hers. "Your skin is warmer now."

  "I feel better. What happened, Flynn?"

  "You were knocked out. The doctor says you have a mild concussion, but no sign of a fracture, so that's good news. Are you in pain?"

  "Not as much as I was. Your eye is swollen."

  He put a hand to his face. "It's fine."

  "You were fighting. I wanted to help you, but I couldn’t get up. I'm sorry."

  He perched on the side of her bed. "The last thing you need to do is apologize to me. I never should have let you come with me. That was a big mistake."

  "I insisted. I wouldn't tell you the address or the code if you didn't let me come."

  "I should have figured it out another way."

  She could see the guilt in his eyes. "You said I'm going to be okay, so let's not fight about it."

  He gave her a small smile. "I don't want to fight with you. I just wish I could take away your pain."

  "Whatever the doctor gave me is doing a good job of that. Do you know who attacked us?"

  "His face was covered while he was in the house. He dropped his weapon, so we'll trace the gun and see if that gets us a lead. My team is also looking for video footage from security cameras in the area to see if we can locate the car."

  "Did he get the painting?"

  "No, he ran off before that."

  "Because of you. You should feel good about that."

  "Good? No way. I shouldn't have taken you there. I shouldn't have let you go upstairs alone. As soon as I saw the painting, I should have realized we were in danger."

  "Are you done beating yourself up?"

  "Not even close," he said grimly.

  "I'm all right, Flynn. Let's just look forward. Where is the painting now?"

  He picked up the canvas bag near his feet. "In here. Wyatt and Savannah are on their way down from LA to get it. I'm not letting it out of my sight until then."

  As he picked up the bag and pulled out the painting, a shiver ran down her spine. The flower looked more deadly now than it had before, maybe because she knew the story and because she'd almost been killed. "I think you need to put that down," she said, feeling suddenly afraid. "What if the legend rubs off on you—on us?"

  He frowned. "We weren't sent the painting."

  "But we have it now. You're holding it. What if whoever touches it, is the next to…" She didn't want to say the word, but it was echoing around in her head.

  "I'm not going to die, and neither are you," he said firmly, as he put the painting back into the bag.

  "You told me that before. I remember you saying I needed to fight."

  "I wasn't sure how badly you were hurt. You closed your eyes, and I couldn't get you to open them." He put his hand back on hers, squeezing her fingers. "You gave me a hell of a scare, Callie."

  "I was trying to stay awake, but the pain was so bad; I couldn't keep my eyes open. What did he hit me with?"

  "Probably the butt of his gun."

  "I guess I'm lucky he didn't shoot me." She paused. "I didn't hear him come into the house. I was trying to hear Dr. Clarke and then I felt someone behind me. I thought it was you. I started to turn around and then I felt this tremendous pain at the back of my head as I fell forward. I don't know how long I was out, but then I saw you and that guy fighting, and I wanted to help, but I couldn't move. I've never had anyone hit me like that before."

  "Hopefully, that was the last time it will ever happen."

  "That would be fine with me. I guess the house wasn't so secret after all."

  His lips tightened and anger entered his gaze. "Or we were followed. I kept an eye out on the way down. I didn't see a tail, but it's possible we led him to the house."

  She frowned as Flynn found more things to blame himself for. "I'm the one who messed this up, Flynn. I should have given you the address last night and let you come down with your team. I was just afraid you'd find something on my mom, and I wanted to be there if you did."

  "I know. I understood your motivation."

  "Ever since you asked me about the accident with my dad, I started wondering if my mom could be capable of murder. She can go a little crazy when it comes to a man. But if the painting is tied to the murder of four other victims over a period of five years in different locations across the country and abroad, she really can't be involved."

  "Unless she exposed Arthur's crimes to this mad lunatic and got someone else to go after him. She does work in a museum, and she is very involved in the art world. If the painting and the murder is meant to punish someone for their greed or their illicit activities, then someone had to know about Arthur's private collection or his affair."

  Her heart sank at his words. "I guess I still need to worry about her then."

  "I don't want you to worry; I just want to be up-front with you. You deserve that."

  "But the person who knocked me out, who went after the painting, who is he? How is he tied to this? Why don't you think he's the murderer?"

  "He could very well be."

  "We know my mother is not orchestrating anything from her hospital room."

  "No, she's not doing that."

  "My head is starting to hurt again," she said with a sigh.

  He gave her a compassionate smile. "Don't worry too much about your mom."

  "But you just said—"

  "I know. I made a good case for her to still be a person of interest, mostly because I was thinking it through as I was talking, but I could also make a good case for her being innocent. The timing and location of the other murders would make it doubtful, if not outright impossible, that your mother is the serial killer."

  "Well, I'm glad you believe that much. My mom cannot be a serial killer. And I don't believe she knows anything about this painting or is involved in Arthur's murder in any way."

  "We'll get to the truth, Callie."

  "I know. I want to go home, Flynn. The doctor said he would check me out one more time, and if I had someone willing to stay with me tonight, I could be released. I was thinking I could call Melissa or one of my other friends to come over."

  "I'll stay with you tonight. We'll go to my place. I have a good security system. You'll be safe there. I'll make sure of it. You might not believe that after what happened today, but—"

  "I do believe it," she interrupted. "I trust you, Flynn, and I promise not to play any more games with information. If I know something, I'll tell you."

  "Good."

  "I just realized I never finished my conversation with Dr. Clarke. I wonder what he thought when I just disappeared on the call."

  "He probably thought you didn't have a signal. Did he say anything about your mom before you got hit?"

  "He said she was doing better, that she understands Arthur is dead and that she needs to rest and regroup before she goes home. She's not fighting the hospital stay anymore, and he'd like to keep her at least another day or two. He said she'd like to see me tomorrow morning. That's the last thing I heard."

  "That's good news."

  "It is. I hope she really does want to see me and not because she wants to tell me what a lousy daughter I am for lying to her and putting her in the hospital."

  "She probably doesn't even remember how she got there. But the important thing is she's getting better, and you'll be able t
o see her tomorrow."

  "I'm not going to tell her about this. At least my bump is hidden in my hair, and I don't have a big bruise on my face like you."

  "You don't think it's sexy?"

  "Oh, I do," she admitted, as his blue gaze darkened. "I kind of think everything about you is sexy." She paused. "I shouldn't have said that; I'm going to blame the painkillers, even though I don't think they're that strong."

  He smiled. "I feel the same way about you, and I have no painkillers to blame my truth on."

  "This is a terrible time—there couldn't be a worse time, I don't think—to, you know, be attracted to each other."

  He smiled. "Don't overthink it."

  "I'm really good at overthinking. I like to forecast what's going to happen in advance, then I can be ready. I just don't know that any amount of planning would make me ready for you."

  His gaze clung to hers. "You are not like any woman I know."

  "I hope that's a compliment, and I hope I'm going to remember it tomorrow."

  "I'll tell you again if you don't." He got to his feet as the door opened, his wary expression easing as Savannah walked into the room, accompanied by a handsome man with brown hair and dark eyes.

  "Is it okay to come in?" Savannah asked, as they paused inside the doorway.

  "Yes," Flynn answered, motioning them inside. "Callie, you know Savannah. And this is Wyatt Tanner. He's on my team as well."

  "Is everyone on your team extremely good-looking?" she asked.

  "It's a requirement," he joked, adding to Wyatt and Savannah, "Callie is enjoying her painkillers."

  "Good for you," Savannah said. "I heard you took a rough hit on the head."

  "Yes. It was the most pain I've ever felt."

  "Sorry about that." Savannah gave her a sympathetic smile and then turned to Flynn. "How are you feeling, Flynn?"

  "I'm fine. Just wishing I hadn't let him get away."

  "We'll find him," Wyatt said firmly. "Do you have the painting?"

  Flynn took the painting out of the bag once more. "It's right here."

  "That's it?" Savannah asked, a note of disappointment in her voice. "That's the deadly calling card? It looks like something I'd hang in my kitchen."

  Callie laughed at her words, and Savannah sent her a smile.

  "I'm not much of an art critic," Savannah said.

  "Me, either," she replied. "But the story about that painting is crazy. Are you sure you want to take it? I think it's cursed."

  "I'm not worried about curses," she said. "The painting is our best clue to the murderer so far."

  "I spoke to Gil in Art Crime," Wyatt put in. "He's sending over all the files on the Belladonna murders, so Savannah and I can get up to speed. I know you've reviewed them before, so I'm guessing there's no clue to the identity of the artist or the owner of the painting?"

  Flynn shook his head. "No. There are a lot of rumors, speculation about who could be the mad artist serial killer, but no factual evidence. But someone knows something, and we have to figure out who."

  "We'll get on it," Wyatt said. "Are you returning to LA tonight?"

  "As soon as Callie is cleared. Thanks for driving down here. I didn't want to put Callie's life at risk again by keeping the painting in my possession."

  "Understandable," Wyatt said with a nod.

  "The police have sealed off Arthur's house here in Palm Springs, and they're packing up the stolen paintings. They'll be logged into evidence here and then the Art Crime Team will take over the task of getting them back to their rightful owners," Savannah said. "I will also look into Layana Vazquez, find out more about their affair."

  "You told them about Layana?" Callie asked.

  "I texted them everything we know so far while you were having your head scanned," he replied.

  "Lucas is checking security footage around the Palm Springs house," Wyatt put in. "As soon as he picks up the car, we should have a lead on your assailant. We're also tracing the gun to see what comes back on that."

  "Thanks for doing all that. I know I've taken over both your Sundays."

  "It's what we do," Savannah said with a shrug. She turned back to Callie. "I hope you feel better."

  "Thanks. I just want this to all be over. I want Arthur's killer caught and my mom to get back to normal." Although, even as she said all that, she couldn't help thinking that when this was over, she would probably never see Flynn again, and that did not make her happy.

  "We'll take off now," Wyatt said.

  "I'll talk to you later tonight," Flynn said.

  As they left, Flynn moved back to the bed.

  "You have good people working for you," she commented.

  "And with me."

  "When you filled them in, did you tell them about your dad being seen outside his former gallery in Laguna Beach?"

  "I should have, but I didn't. There are more concrete clues to follow first. Gretchen could have easily been lying." He paused. "Or maybe I'm just telling myself that, because I don't want to go there."

  "My brain is really muddled right now, but I know one thing for sure, Flynn."

  "What's that?" he asked, meeting her gaze.

  "Whatever your dad did, whoever he is, you're not him. You're a good man. And I trust you."

  He grabbed her hand once more, his fingers curling around hers, sending a rush of warmth right through her.

  "I hope I don't let you down, Callie."

  "I hope you don't, either." She paused, thinking that probably wasn't the best thing to say. "I should have said I know you won't, but these drugs are like a truth serum."

  He grinned. "Good to know. I'll have to see what other secrets I can get out of you on the way home."

  Chapter Seventeen

  Callie slept all the way back to Los Angeles. Flynn spent most of the two-hour drive dividing his gaze between her and the road. Part of him wanted to wake her up, just to make sure she was all right, but the doctor had said it was perfectly fine for her to sleep and that she needed rest to recover. He was grateful she would recover. She'd been lucky. She could have been shot instead of just knocked out. But her assailant probably hadn't wanted to alert him to his presence in the house.

  The man had to have seen their car out front, but that hadn't deterred him from entering the property. And they'd made it incredibly easy for him. He realized now that they'd left the patio doors open when they'd stepped outside. The guy hadn't even had to break in.

  He shook his head in self-disgust. All this was on him and there was nothing anyone could say that would change his mind.

  He'd made a tactical error taking Callie to Palm Springs. He couldn't let that happen again. Although, as much as he needed to push her away, he also needed to protect her. She wasn't just a witness to Arthur's murder anymore; she was also a witness to the attack in Palm Springs. He needed to make sure that no one came after her again, which meant he had to stay close. He just needed to be smarter about it.

  As he glanced over at her sweet face, something inside him shifted. He didn't know what it was about her that had gotten so deep under his skin, but he couldn't deny that she was becoming important to him in a way he'd never imagined. He needed to slow it all down, but all he really wanted to do was take her to bed and see how hot the flames could be.

  She might even want that, too. But she was injured and on painkillers, and he wouldn't take advantage of that. She trusted him.

  Her words rang once more through his head, and her trust touched him. He didn't know if he had earned it after everything that had happened, but he wanted it. And he wanted to trust her, too. So many people had let him down in his life. His father was at the top of that list and now Arthur was on it. He'd put them both on a pedestal of good, and they'd tumbled off, shattering into a thousand broken pieces. Maybe he'd been a fool to put them there in the first place. He needed to be more careful about who he chose to believe in.

  But he didn't think he needed to be careful with Callie. He knew her agenda. She wanted
to protect her mother, and he could understand why she was so fierce about that. He respected the depth of her love, her willingness to put her own needs aside for someone else. He just hoped they wouldn't come to a point where he would have to choose between getting justice and protecting Callie's mother.

  As much as he wanted to lean away from Juliette being involved in Arthur's death, every time he started to move in that direction, something changed. Like the fact that there were only a few people who knew about the house in Palm Springs. Like the fact that Juliette had been missing at the time of Arthur's murder, and that she'd received damning information about her husband having an affair. Like the fact that she had had access to the museum's security systems. She might have even been able to get someone in security to help her out.

  On the other hand, he didn't believe she was a serial killer or that she had painted the belladonna. There was no way she had had anything to do with the previous murders.

  But the pattern of this particular serial killer was to punish people in the art world. And he was starting to see why someone might have believed that Arthur needed to be punished.

  Did the serial killer get information about a potential victim before going after them? Was there always someone else involved? Someone else who had been damaged in some way? The first victim had also been having an affair. Had his wife wanted him punished? Had she gotten someone to help her do that?

  He still had too many questions to clear Juliette. Hopefully, tomorrow he could talk to her directly. Maybe she would be able to tell him something that would point him in another direction.

  And hopefully that direction wouldn't lead to his father.

  He was trying not to think about his dad, but two women had mentioned that his father might be back in business—Victoria and Gretchen. And both those women had known his father before he'd vanished into thin air. But Victoria had said her knowledge came from Arthur.

  Was it possible Arthur had been buying stolen art from his dad? That seemed impossible to believe. Arthur had seen firsthand how his father's crimes had affected him. If he'd been involved with his dad, why on earth would Arthur have asked him to come to the museum, to help him? It didn't make sense. He was missing a piece of the puzzle, something that would tie everything up, but he didn't have it yet, and he didn't know where to find it.