by Nancy Warren
He was going to kill Duncan the minute she’d closed out any possibility of a neighbor witnessing the murder. But he couldn’t kill Duncan. She loved Duncan and hadn’t even had time to tell him. “Eric, please. There has to be another way.”
“Do it,” Eric said, and pointed the gun at her.
“Do what he says, Alex,” Duncan told her. She glanced at him and saw the same message in his eyes that must be burning in hers. He loved her. She was as certain of that as she was of her own name. Emotion burned as she thought of how foolish they’d been to be given the precious gift of each other’s love and not to have shared it openly.
Duncan sent her the ghost of a wink and she blinked, pulling herself together as best she could. If they were going to die, at least they knew they loved each other, even if the words remained unspoken.
“I’m sorry, Duncan,” she said, putting defeat into the slump of her shoulders. “I’ll close the curtains now, Eric.”
She turned away, as though not wanting to witness Duncan’s demise, took one step toward the window, thinking all they needed was a tiny break. Please, let someone be outside coming up the path. Let the Tafts arrive with a pie or some cookies. She got closer to the window and peered out. But there was no one.
“Hurry up, Al—” She heard the beginnings of a sneeze and knew this was the biggest break they were going to get. Before the aah had given way to the choo, she flung her grandmother’s needlepoint sampler on its wooden stretcher frame at Eric. She was good at Frisbee, always had been. She sent the frame spinning, Ninja style through the air.
Eric was in the process of honking into his hankie while still leveling the gun at Duncan. He started as The Family is the Heart of the Home missile came flying, cracking into the side of his face.
Duncan wasted no time. He launched himself across the room.
He wasn’t going to be fast enough. Eric deflected the flying hearts and aimed the gun at Duncan. With a scream, she threw herself into the fray even though she was certain she’d be too late.
The sound of a gunshot blasted through the room.
“No!” she screamed in fury and fear.
Duncan knocked Eric to the floor, holding the Swiss Army Knife corkscrew to his neck like he was going to decant him.
He was alive, thank God. Then she noticed a grim expression on his face and a bloom of red widening on his shoulder.
“Oh, God. You’re hurt.”
“I could use some help here, Alex,” Duncan said, and she realized that Eric still had the gun in his hand, that he was struggling madly, getting liberally splattered by red blood that had to be coming from Duncan, and that Duncan couldn’t hold him off much longer.
She picked up her grandfather’s ancient brass gong. It was the closest item with any heft. He’d bought it at auction years earlier. When Gillian and Alex played their music so loud in their rooms they didn’t hear their grandmother calling them for dinner, sometimes she would ring the gong to get their attention.
She ran forward and gonged Eric on the head. In spite of the satisfying sound, he didn’t drop the firearm.
Knowing Duncan was weakening fast, she stepped on Eric’s arm and ground her stiletto heel into his wrist. The result was much more satisfying than hitting him with the gong.
Eric screamed as another shot was fired and the front door blasted open.
Her first thought was that Eric’s friends had arrived and, knowing Duncan was hurt and Eric deadly dangerous, she grabbed the gun that had rolled out of Eric’s hand.
She was shaking all over, the gun wavering crazily, when Tom and Gillian rushed in.
Tom took one look at the scene, pointed his own weapon at Eric, and scooped the gun out of Alex’s hand as he went by.
While Tom read Eric his rights, Alex threw herself to the hardwood floor beside Duncan, who slumped, his back against a blue velvet wing chair. “Duncan? Are you okay?”
“Yeah. He got my shoulder. Nothing serious.”
“I love you,” she said, so glad she could say the words aloud.
“I know. I love you, too,” he said softly, and she could see he was going gray around the mouth.
“You’re bleeding,” she said. She put her hand on his shoulder and felt the blood oozing, warm and sticky. Of course he’d pretend it was nothing. What action hero ever admitted he was badly hurt?
She pressed her hand against the wound, ignoring her lover’s swearing as he protested.
“Gill, I need some cloths to stop the bleeding.”
Behind her, Tom was calling for an ambulance. Gillian ran out of the room and returned with a stack of tea towels. She folded two and passed them to Alex. “Thanks,” she said, and pressed the pad against Duncan’s shoulder as hard as she could.
“How long till the ambulance gets here?” she yelled to Tom, who was on the radio to someone or other.
“Don’t fuss,” Duncan said, his forehead damp and his breathing shallow. “I’ll go to the doctor and get a few stitches. I’ll be fine.”
“You’re going to be difficult about this, aren’t you?”
“And you’re going to be a pain in the ass.”
They smiled at each other and she kissed him softly.
Duncan was still yelling at her as he was hauled into an ambulance.
“He can’t be seriously hurt if he can still call you a know-it-all bookworm,” Gillian said.
“No. I think he’s going to be okay. I’ll follow in my own car to the hospital. She gulped. “No. You’ll have to drive me. We came on Duncan’s new motorcycle.”
“Of course I’ll drive you.”
“As soon as I change my shirt. His blood is all over it.”And with that, Alex lost it. She threw herself into her cousin’s arms and burst into tears. Gill hugged her back.
“I was so scared, Allie.” Gillian used a nickname she hadn’t used in years. “When I heard that shot, I thought I’d lost you.”
29
The sun shone in a rare good mood for late October. It wasn’t south of France warm but she liked the omen anyway. Alex had her arm around Duncan as they stepped into the private cubicle behind the Evergreen Savings and Loan employee who placed the gray metal box on the table and left.
She told herself she was helping to support Duncan, though in truth his bullet wound was healing nicely. Mostly she liked to have her arms around him. When she thought about how close she’d come to losing him, she needed to reach out and touch him.
He’d been out of the hospital for ten days, with a sling that made him look unbelievably romantic—when she could bully him into wearing it. She doubted, wound and all, if he’d still be here in town had it not been for the sting operation he’d helped mount, which had led to the arrest of Hector Mendes.
Was there really a Van Gogh hidden in Swiftcurrent? Or had a man died for nothing? In order to keep absolute secrecy about the actual location of the painting, they hadn’t come to the bank and see for themselves. Duncan had said it was in the safest place. And Duncan was a man who knew these things.
Finally, they were here.
“Well,” she said, pulling the key from around her neck, “here goes.”
Duncan kissed her. “For good luck.”
She threw her arms around him and kissed him back, deepening the kiss until they were both a little unsteady on their feet. “For more luck,” she said.
Her hand wasn’t quite steady as she opened the box. It was one of the larger safety deposit boxes, which seemed very hopeful.
“Would you like to go first?” she asked Duncan, seeing the light of anticipation in his eyes.
He shook his head, jutting his chin in the direction of his sling, which he’d finally agreed to wear when she told him she wouldn’t take him with her to the bank without it. “You do it,” he said.
So she reached in and removed the single item. The canvas was tacked on a board, but the frame had been removed so it would fit into the safety deposit box, she assumed.
They stood staring at
Olive Trees and Farmhouse and all the colors jumped out. The burnt orange of the heavy, south-of-France sun, the dull, dusty green of late-summer olive trees, the golden stone farmhouse.
And the simple signature. Vincent.
For several minutes they stared at the painting, neither willing to speak and break the spell of holding a long-lost masterpiece.
“To think a man was murdered over this, and Eric almost—” She still couldn’t bear to think of it. “As soon as he was clear of the drugs, I know he never would have—”
“I think he’ll have some time in prison to dry out.”
“And he’ll get a much lighter sentence for helping out with the sting on the Mendes operation in L.A.”
“My phony Van Gogh got Eric and his FBI handlers into that shark’s private sanctum. A few stolen treasures were returned as a result.”
“You sound pretty pleased with yourself.”
“I am.” She had a feeling he was as delighted that his painting had passed for a real Van Gogh as he was that they’d arrested a vicious criminal—and in the process, liberated a few more stolen treasures that would now be returned to their rightful owners.
“Gillian and I talked it over. We don’t want any reward. We only want this painting to go back where it belongs.”
“I’m waiving my finder’s fee, too,” he said.
“But it’s how you get paid. It’s different for you.”
He shook his head. “The family isn’t keeping the painting. They’ve decided to donate the picture to a gallery, in memory of Louis.”
“Oh, that’s so wonderful. Maybe we could go and see it sometime. I mean,” she mumbled, cursing herself for the we, “maybe I could–”
“Alex?”
“Yes?”
“I got my own treasure hiding in plain sight,” he said. He touched a finger to her cheek. “Marry me?”
Shock held her motionless. Outside, she knew were the busy comings and goings of a bank. Her neighbors and fellow citizens depositing and withdrawing money, making mortgage payments, arranging loans. But in here it was so quiet. “You’re proposing to me in a bank vault?” She tried to laugh but it came out sounding like a sigh.
“Vincent’s here. He was a pretty romantic guy.”
“But,” she took a deep breath. “I love you, but I don’t know if this can work.”
“I love you. You love me. What’s not going to work?”
She touched his cheek. “I spent so much of my life moving around because of my father’s job.” She shook her head. “I can’t do that again. And then, ever since my grandfather died, I’ve been thinking about moving away, but I—”
“You’re a homebody.” His blue eyes twinkled at her and she saw so much understanding there that her heart squeezed. “If you can’t see this is your home and the place you belong, you’re probably the only one who can’t.”
“What are you saying?”
He leaned against the wall of the small room. “I haven’t worked out all the details, but I know that in spite of the fact that you stick out like a call girl in a nunnery in this crazy town, this is your place. I had some time to think in the hospital. I can get a job teaching out here.”
“What about your adventurous life chasing stolen art?”
He shrugged, then winced with pain. “I’m giving it up. I’ll stay home with my wife—and hopefully, my family.”
“You’d give up chasing stolen art for me?” Her heart was beating so hard she was amazed she didn’t hear it echoing around the tiny space.
“Alex, we both almost got killed. It makes a man think. My life is nothing without you, and you don’t want a wandering man.”
He was giving her everything she’d dreamed of but still, she hesitated. “Will you have enough to do?”
“Well, there’s also my painting career,” he said, shooting her a teasing glance that had warmth spiking.
“Don’t tell me, more nudes.”
“But always with the same model.”
“Naturally.”
“Of course, we’ll have to find somewhere to live. Your apartment’s too small for a family.”
“Gillian and I have talked a lot lately.” And she realized how much they enjoyed each other, now that they’d accepted who they were and that the past was done. “As soon as she and Tom get married, they’re moving into his place. We could–” As she started to articulate her idea, she realized it wasn’t new. She’d been toying with this in the back of her mind while Duncan recovered.
“We could what?” His good hand reached out to rub her arm lightly, encouraging her.
“I was wondering how you’d feel if we bought out Gill’s half of our grandparents’ house and lived there?”
“It sounds perfect,” he said, as though there was nothing he’d rather do than live in a house that needed renovating, decorating, and a new roof.
A man who was willing to go through so much for her deserved something in return.
“You know, if you give up being the Indiana Jones of the art world, I’m going to start wearing sweatshirts and polyester stretchy pants.”
“You wouldn’t. I love the way you look. It’s part of who you are.”
“And tracking down treasure is part of who you are. We’ll work it out. Maybe I can go along sometimes. Maybe you don’t have to take on so many quests.”
He kissed her again, a deep, sweet kiss that promised so much. She doubted theirs would be a smooth ride, but she thought it would be a passionate and primarily happy one.
“Have I told you today that I love you?”
She kissed him back, and leaned in so she could whisper in his ear, “Have I ever told you about this fantasy I have?”
“Refresh my memory.”
“I’m working in the library, returning a book to a high shelf, and I notice a man looking up my skirt.”
“The dog. I hope you kick his teeth in.”
She smiled slowly, running her tongue around the edge of his ear before continuing. “No. In this fantasy, I part my legs so he can see my panties.”
“Tell me you’re wearing the black thong. I love that one.”
“You’re very good. That’s exactly what I’m wearing.”
“Then what happens?”
“I don’t know yet. As soon as your shoulder heals, we’ve got a date at the library, and we’ll both find out.”
“I’m going to take you up against the stacks. You know you’ve been longing for it.” He nuzzled her neck and she smelled dust and paint, and she was almost certain she could smell lemon and bougainvillea, lavender and the heady scent of grapes heavy on gnarled vines. One of these days, they were going to make their pilgrimage to France and see this painting hanging where it was meant to, in a public gallery to be enjoyed by everyone.
“As soon as you’re healed,” she reminded him.
“Alex?”
“Mmm?”
“I’m a fast healer.”
Try these other Titles by Nancy Warren
If you’ve enjoyed Wild Ride, you might like to try some more fun, sexy stories by Nancy:
The Changing Gears series:
Crazy Ride
Fast Ride
Take a Chance series:
Kiss a Girl in the Rain, Take a Chance Book 1
Toni Diamond Mysteries:
Frosted Shadow
Let it Snow
Unwrapping Santa
The Christmas Grandma Ran Away from Home
A Romance in Four Seasons:
Border Collie Christmas
_A Dog Named Cupid, Part 2 of A Romance in Four Seasons
A Midsummer Night’s Wedding, Part 3 in A Romance in Four Seasons
The 12 Dates of Christmas
Author's Note
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