Crumbs of phyllo dough flaked onto her sweater, and she brushed them off the shelf that her new bra size had created. Things used to fall straight into her lap onto her napkin, and now this embarrassing move had to happen. Her face burned, both with the fire of embarrassment and the jealousy she ached not to feel. If she’d dared, she would have excused herself and called a taxi from the popcorn store next door. However, an even bigger burning desire flared in her to be a good sport. After all, it’s not like Kellen waved dollar bills at the dancer and got her to come and choose him out of the crowd.
And then, after she’d only had three bites of the baklava, Kellen was back at the table beside her, with his hand extended. “Come on, gorgeous. We’re doing this together.”
Ava’s mind flashed back to the dream she’d had of being lifted from a seat at a table in a smoky room and pulling her to a stage. She hadn’t resisted then, in the dream, and something threw down all her resistance now. In a second, Ava was on the stage beside Kellen doing the hippy-hippy shake. The veiled woman placed a veil over Ava’s face while she danced, making it so she could peer out at Kellen from above it. Then she draped several swaths of gauzy fabric over Ava’s shoulders and around her waist. Ava spun to let them encircle her, while she slid the finger cymbals onto her hands.
The crowd was going wild, especially because Kellen didn’t let the women do all the belly undulations alone. Behind them the musicians struck up a quick tempo tune and Ava and Kellen shook it together. Ava peered over her veil. This had to be some out of body experience. She, Ava Young, would never, ever in a million years be doing belly dancing before a crowd of cheering strangers alongside a billionaire playboy.
She laughed out loud, but it was eclipsed by the other joyful noise of the restaurant. How did she end up here, after the incredibly long day she’d had? It was the most healing thing she could have possibly done, but who’d have imagined so?
The music ended at last, and when it did, Kellen pounced on her, lifted the veil and planted a heavy kiss on her lips. Her eyes popped wide open, then fluttered closed, much to the delight of the restaurant patrons. A few voices from the side near the front windows chanted, “Kellen! Kellen! Kellen!” As he moved his mouth around hers, Ava’s mind couldn’t help chanting it as well. Kellen, Kellen, Kellen. Mmm.
Luckily, she wasn’t taking any of this too much to heart. Or she could get very used to it.
A few minutes later, he took her arm and led her to the seat of his car. While he went around to the driver’s side, Ava gazed up at the hookah shop. What exactly was hookah? Some kind of smoking? Smoking seemed so gross to her.
“What’s hookah?” She decided to ask Kellen. Sometimes his breadth of knowledge caught her off guard.
“Not that I’ve ever done it, but it’s smoking with a long pipe and some kind of steam pot. A ‘session’ of hookah ends up being as much tobacco as about a hundred cigarettes, if that’s your kind of thing. Wait, is it? You want to check it out?”
“Oh, no. Not a bit.” She shuddered.
“Good. Because you’d have to go with someone else. I’m not your man for hookah.”
That, too, was noted. And in the plus column.
As Kellen fired up the engine to a soft purr, Ava stared into the shop window where the smokers lounged with the curved bronze pipes in their mouths. Two men came and sat down across from each other. One of them looked odd—all white hair and a black, pointy Confucius beard-goatee combo. Man, he’d be hard pressed to get a date with that kind of facial hair. It was hard to stop staring at it. But then, his buddy plopped down and ripped Ava’s attention clean away.
Nigel.
And he looked ten times more nervous than he had this morning.
Chapter 10
Ava the next morning was ashamed to admit that she’d closed her eyes during her good night kiss with Kellen and seen Nigel’s worried face floating there. It had truly detracted from what might have been a more beautiful moment.
Now as she pulled the lemon bars from the oven, the pasty Brit’s face still bobbed in her mind. Poor fellow. Some people smoked to unwind; Nigel suffered from enough nerves he needed a hundred cigarettes to relax. Of course, almost anyone would’ve needed a sedative of some kind to feel at ease next to creep-a-thon beard man. Ava could have sworn the guy had a missing little finger too.
Man, the things some coworkers did after hours left her in shock.
Then again, she’d been the one belly-dancing in front of strangers.
She checked the internet again to see if anything new had broken in the story on the theft. Not much. A plea for information and a proffered reward. A vague we’re-following-leads statement. Wait. Whoa. The reward for information was listed as up to a million dollars. Ava choked a little on her sesame bagel. Then she went to brush her teeth and slink into the red wrap dress she’d set out for today’s meetings.
According to her online research, certain colors put forth subconscious messages. If someone wore blue, they’d be seen as trustworthy and loyal. Purple, creative. Yellow, friendly and upbeat. Red, authoritative. That’s why red was the color of a power tie for pairing with a man’s suit.
Today Ava needed the museum staff to look at her like she was in charge during the staff meeting.
And she didn’t mind pairing that bit of psychology with what she’d heard about men finding a woman in red more attractive than in any other color. After all, Agent Ford might be dropping by today as he continued his investigation into the theft.
Which was why she also wore Zoe’s red pumps with the stiletto heels.
Of course, Zoe’s 1950s book stressed the need for softness. With that in mind, Ava resisted the urge to strain her hair into its old, daily bun at the nape of her neck. Instead, she took the ridiculous amount of time—a full forty-five minutes—and put soft curls all over the style. Hair as long as Ava’s required all forty-five minutes to make those curls happen. But when she looked in the mirror and saw the full effect of red dress and pumps, soft curls and a plate of beautiful lemon bars, she could step out the door with confidence (leaving a dish of lemony squares on Mrs. Chowder’s stoop and snagging her trash bag as she went.)
Today’s look was destined to turn Harmony Billows into a raging maniac if Agent Riccardo also appeared at the museum. A little smile tugged at the side of Ava’s mouth as the light rail doors slid closed and the train hummed along the tracks.
* * *
For the first time in her life, Ava was the recipient of a wolf whistle. Right there in the morning sun and dry heat of a Phoenix summer day, it shrilled out at her from a passing taxicab near the light rail station. Ava’s cheeks burned when she looked around and realized she was the only female in the one-block area, still a full three blocks from her office.
Which might have been a mistake. The lemon bars might lose their set if she kept them out of refrigeration this long. But she didn’t want to sacrifice her exercise. She turned a short moment on a heel and considered heading back to the light rail station and taking the train the rest of the way to the stop nearest the museum.
Just then, a black sedan pulled up.
“Miss Young?” A man’s voice floated through the rear passenger side window at her. She couldn’t see who spoke, so she stepped a little closer. “If you’re heading to the museum, I’d like to intercept you.” A face accompanied the disembodied voice. Agent Ford. An involuntary smile spread over Ava’s lips. He really did have a masculine beauty. The car door swung open, and she slid in beside him.
“This is Agent Yslas,” the driver, “and Agent Poole.” Yslas and Poole stared at her from the front seat. “I’m swinging around and heading back to HQ, Yslas. Boys, this is Ava Young, of the Phoenix Metropolitan Museum.”
They nodded at her, but Ava saw Poole, who sat in the front passenger seat, flip open a file that exposed that “before” photo of herself. Then Poole shot a puzzled look at Ford, who gave a faint nod. Their wordless communication skills impressed her.
; “HQ?” she asked and then offered each of them a lemon square. The men accepted and Poole, especially, voiced murmurs of appreciation at the taste. “But it’s nearly eight. I have a meeting with the staff and then work to do on the exhibit.” The before picture of Ava caught a glare from the sun. Man, sometimes she thought this makeover was causing her more trouble than it was worth. Now she was being picked up by the FBI for it? She missed her Danskos and their anonymity-bestowing effects with intensity right about now.
“I’ve asked Mr. Phelps to handle that. He said someone named Madge will direct the staff meeting.”
Hm. Madge would probably handle it well, but it didn’t sit well in the meantime. Who was the FBI to say who should run her staff meeting? She shot a quick text to Mr. Phelps to tell him where she was detained.
“My, Agent Ford. You’ve thought of every detail.” A twinge of annoyance attempted to seep into her voice, but she told herself to tame it immediately. She had to keep her feminine demeanor—once she was in, she was all in. “Another lemon bar?” she asked sweetly, tamping down her irritation at Riccardo. He was just doing his job. Unfortunately, his job interfered with hers. Whatever. She had no choice, so she might as well look at the silver lining: she was with Riccardo. Poor Harmony, if she found out.
At FBI headquarters, the air conditioning was set much lower than at the museum. An arctic blast ruffled the skirts of her dress and gave her legs goose bumps as her shoes tapped across the shiny tiles. High ceilings, sterile faces on security, echoes of each footstep, frigid air. This place was a cold, white cavern. Ava rubbed her arms and tried to keep up with the phalanx of agents who led her into the belly of the beast.
“You’re not cold, are you? I can turn up the thermostat.” Agent Ford invited Ava to sit down in a metal chair as he closed the door to his office. He’d dismissed his entourage, sending them back to the museum and saying he’d come in later, after this interview.
Just being in Riccardo’s presence gave Ava a boost in thermostat. She shook her head at the question, but when she shivered, he took off his coat and placed it over her shoulders. It was warm. It smelled of a woodsy aftershave. She hugged it around her and smiled a genuine thanks at him. He caught it, then dipped his head quickly, like he probably shouldn’t have noticed, and got back to business right quick.
He was filtering through some files. “I’m glad I ran into you downtown.”
“Why did you need to intercept me, Agent F? You could’ve called. I mean, didn’t you have my number?” She watched as he glanced at his hand then squeezed it shut—the hand where she’d written her number on his palm.
“It just cropped up as we were driving in to the museum. Running into you was a bit serendipitous.” He stopped and looked up at her.
She stared into those eyes for a moment. They were brown, a deep dark chocolate. Did he feel the electric charge surging between the two of them? Was it possible for her to be the only one getting sizzled by it?
Serendipitous. He didn’t have a bad vocabulary for a cop. She looked around the office. His walls dripped with certificates, diplomas, commendations. He had photographs shaking the hand of the governor, the president, even the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, who was ten times cooler than the president and everyone knew it. This was one valiant federal agent. No wonder good old Dwight Huggins demanded him for the job. She’d demand him for the job too. Almost any job.
“So your first name is Riccardo?” She ran her fingers along the nameplate that sat on the front of his desk. “Are you part Hispanic?”
“No.” He shook himself free of her gaze and scrubbed his hand over his face. That seemed like a sign—a good sign—he might be attracted to her. “Would you tell me where you were last night?”
“Uh…” Ava didn’t care to say she’d been belly dancing with Kellen McMullen. Kellen and the FBI had a history—one she intended to uncover, but not by telling Riccardo about Kellen, the only man she’d ever kissed. “On a date. Why?”
His face did fall a bit. “We are keeping tabs on all the museum employees.”
Oh, was that so? So, did that mean she was on a suspect list? That rankled her somewhere inside, but only a bit. Agent Ford didn’t actually suspect her of the crime all of a sudden. He couldn’t. Could he? Either way, she was going to have to keep up this flirting act through the questioning, even when her tendency was to revert to her uber-professional self. Somehow, though, Riccardo, so sigh-worthy, made it easy to be the new Ava.
“Are you having them all come down here? To your office?” She raised an eyebrow. What he said next would either confirm or destroy her suspicions.
“Er, no.”
Ha! He was guilty. She suppressed a smile at catching him. He wanted to talk with her alone on his own turf. Now why would a handsome, single FBI agent bring her down here alone on a fine, hot morning such as this. And dismiss his staff. Hmm? What kind of elaborate explanation would he concoct for this?
“Miss Young—”
But as he was speaking her eyes lit on a photograph in the montage hanging on the wall behind him. Ava got to her feet and walked toward it. She’d recognize that weird beard anywhere.
“I’m sorry, Riccardo? Who is this man?” She’d let the first name slip out in the rush of the moment. Her finger hovered over the photograph of the creepy icky man from the hookah place last night. In the photo, clearly taken from a distance unseen, his beard floated over his shoulder and he was hailing a cab downtown.
Agent Ford was beside her in a moment. Rather close beside her. Closer than was professionally necessary. She could feel his warmth and hear his breath.
“That? It’s Umberto Iglesias.”
She stared at the face, studying it. Beneath the photograph were printed statistics, including the word “Benito Family” and “Sicilian.” Whoa. Never trust the unhandsome Italian man, either.
“Mafia,” she breathed. She had watched the movies, knew that sometimes dirty money was laundered by buying and selling art, but it hadn’t ever occurred to her that the Phoenix Metropolitan Art Museum could somehow be touched by these people. They lived in Chicago and Sicily and other far-flung locales.
“Tell me, have you seen this man at the museum?” Riccardo’s face was very, very close to hers. That clean shave of early morning had already started to sprout stubble she could see out of the corner of her eye.
“No. Not at the museum.” For some reason all of a sudden she didn’t want to tell Agent Ford everything she’d seen last night. Maybe because she didn’t want him to think she’d been near the hookah place. Maybe it was something else that stopped her. But she’d learned in life to trust her instincts. “Never.” She cocked her chin. That was true. She hadn’t ever seen him at the Phoenix Metropolitan. “But he has a highly unusual look. It would be easy to spot him if he ever did come in.”
“Right. And that’s exactly why I wanted to ask you down here this morning. Overnight I prepared a series of photographs of known art fences in the region. Some do have distinctive appearances, like Umberto here.” He touched the photograph and his arm brushed against hers. A muffled shock sailed down her spine.
“These must have taken hours to assemble.” Maybe all night. He’d been thinking about her—maybe all night. “All for me?”
He colored. “We didn’t have ten thousand hours to filter through all the security footage from the museum security cameras, so we decided to check human memory first. We, er, expected you’d be one of the staff at the museum who had a keen eye and a good memory.”
Flattery would get him everywhere. Even when she was focused on the serious business of finding the stolen art.
“Show me the whole array of criminals, Agent Ford. I’ll tell you which ones I’ve seen.” For all the flirting she was doing, locating the stolen Frederic Edwin Church painting mattered deeply to her. Whether she connived Riccardo into taking her to dinner or not was exciting but of infinitesimally small importance compared to whether that masterpiece turned up agai
n. Not just for the museum’s sake or for her job’s sake. It was the larger art world’s loss that mattered. And she knew it.
But getting Agent Ford a little discombobulated in the process did have its charms.
He placed a thick file of photographs in front of her. She didn’t mind, especially because he brought a chair around and pulled up close next to her. She and Riccardo might be here side by side for a while. They were sharing the same air to breathe. He smelled like masculinity and strength and she felt a heat creeping up her neck the longer he accosted her with his nearness.
No. Not that face. Not that one, either. Yes, that one. She’d seen him a dozen times at least. But he was in jail now. No, no.
The stack went by fast, with only beardy-boy recognizable. Too fast. She could have studied them all day.
But Riccardo pulled back. “Tell me, Miss Young. Do you know anything about the major underwriter of the exhibit?”
He meant Kellen, and she knew it. She traced a finger over the knick knacks at his desk. “Tell me, Agent Ford, what you know about him?” She lifted an eyebrow of challenge and hoped he’d take it.
His eyes narrowed, though, instead, and he cleared his throat. “I’d like to hear from you first, please.”
“Fair enough. You did ask first.” Ava might like this little game. She might be able to discover a few things about Kellen, and other things about Riccardo in the process. “I only met Mr. McMullen a few weeks ago. Up until then my knowledge of him was as extensive as the tabloids permit. Now I know he has a genuine interest in art and beauty.”
The Lost Art: A Romantic Comedy Page 12