Lost and Found

by Jayne Ann Krentz

  Mack already had a hand beneath the edge of the garment. She felt his warm, strong palm on the inside of her thigh and then he was cupping her, probing her, stroking her. She felt the moisture between her legs and knew that he could feel it too.

  She kissed him with growing desperation. Every place she could reach with her mouth was fair game—the curve of his shoulder, the lobe of his ear, the inside of his wrist. Somewhere in the back of her mind a tiny warning bell sounded. This was not her love life. Wild flings with virtual strangers was not her style.

  But the pealing of the small bell was too distant and too weak to be anything more than a minor distraction.

  Mack lifted himself away from her long enough to strip off his windbreaker, the black T-shirt underneath and his trousers.

  When he came back down on top of her a moment later, she was more than ready for him. He did not hesitate. He used one hand to guide himself slowly, heavily, deeply into her.

  His low, husky groan held both anticipation and satisfaction.

  She was wet and ready for him when he entered, but she had never experienced such a full sensation. There was too much of him. Her first thought was that he would never fit. Her second thought was that he was perfect, just what she needed to give her relief from this driving tension.

  He stroked slowly, once, twice, and then the too-tight feel of him inside her swamped her overstimulated senses. Her whole lower body clenched.

  Mack sucked in his breath.

  The release that followed stunned her with its intensity. Mack covered her mouth and swallowed the shriek.

  In the next instant, his body stiffened, every muscle taut. She dug her nails into his back. He wrenched his mouth away from hers and buried his face in the bedding beside her.

  His own exultant shout was only partially muffled by the plump, fluffy down pillow.

  She had been right, she thought. Some rules were made to be broken.

  She rose languidly from the depths of the pleasant exhaustion that had settled on her immediately after the climax. Outside on the balcony the rain continued to fall in a steady patter.

  She opened her eyes and saw the large dark silhouette that was Mack lying beside her. He was on his stomach, his face turned away toward the night. The quilt covered him to his waist, leaving bare the sleek contours of his back. She thought of how he had lifted her so easily and carried her into the bedroom. Fantasy Man.

  She smiled to herself, savoring the delicious sensation that was flowing through her. She wondered if this feeling was common after truly great sex.

  “Mack?”

  No response.

  “Mack?” Louder this time.

  “Mmm?” He did not raise his head from the pillow.

  She levered herself up on one elbow. “I was just wondering about something.”

  “Could you wonder about it in the morning?” he mumbled into the pillow.

  “I’ve been thinking. Earlier you told me how you managed to find me at Vandyke’s house, but you weren’t clear on why you followed me there.”

  There was a short, distinct pause.

  “A hunch.”

  “It must have been more than a hunch.” She frowned, thinking back on the events of the evening. “I know you said something about keeping an eye on your outside consultants, but I doubt if you go chasing after each one every time he or she makes a trip while under contract to Lost and Found.”

  Mack did not respond to that observation. She wondered if he had gone back to sleep.

  “Mack?”

  “Do you always do this?”

  “Do what?”

  “Get chatty after sex?”

  The irritation in his voice hurt. She told herself that he was just grouchy because she had pulled him out of a sound sleep. Heroes needed their rest. But she had to know.

  “Was it your intuition?” she asked gently. “I know men don’t like to admit that they pay attention to stuff like that, but you can tell me.”

  He did not move for a few seconds. Then, very deliberately, he pushed the pillow up against the headboard, punched it a couple of times and turned onto his back.

  “I guess you could call it intuition,” he said finally.

  A light, happy sensation fizzled through her. Obviously a bond of some sort had been established between them during the past few months. What had happened tonight was more than just a one-night stand.

  “You sensed that I might be in danger?” she asked. “That’s amazing.”

  There was a short pause from his side of the bed.

  “I don’t think you can say that I sensed it,” he said.

  “Well? What made you decide to ride to the rescue?”

  “This is important to you, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.” She wasn’t sure why, but she understood that she needed to know the answer.

  “All right, I didn’t know that you might be in physical danger until I arrived at the cabin and realized that things didn’t look right.”

  “So why did you follow me there?”

  He scrubbed his face with his hand. “Because I figured that you had brokered your own deal with Vandyke. Thought you’d dug up a buyer for the helmet.”

  “A buyer?” It took an effort to wrap her mind around the enormity of her misunderstanding. But when she finally grasped the significance of what he had said, she went first cold and then hot with rage. “Wait a second. You thought I’d arranged a deal for the helmet?”

  “Yeah.”

  “One that did not include your clients?”

  “Yeah.”

  “How could you possibly think that?”

  He shrugged, either unaware or uncaring of her rising fury. “When I realized you’d suddenly hopped a plane to see the guy who had the helmet, I did the logic.”

  “You did the logic?” It was all she could do to keep her voice relatively even. “What logic?”

  “If you recovered the helmet and returned it to Dewey and Notch, you would receive your usual fee from Lost and Found. But you would get that fee regardless of whether or not you located the piece, right?”

  “Right,” she said very tightly.

  “On the other hand, if you talked Vandyke into selling the helmet to another collector or a dealer on the underground market, someone who wouldn’t ask too many questions, you could pick up a hefty commission in addition to whatever I paid you. All you had to do was report back to me that you couldn’t trace the helmet. You see where I’m going here?”

  “Yes, I certainly do, Mr. Easton.” She pushed herself up onto her knees and wrapped the quilt around her. “Where you’re going is an insult to my professional integrity and my reputation.”

  It must have finally dawned on him that she was furious.

  “I was just being cautious,” he said carefully.

  “Cautious, nothing. You thought I was planning to cheat you.” Her voice climbed in spite of her best efforts. “You assumed that I was going to double-cross you. You just leaped to the conclusion that I was a crook.”

  “I was going with the probabilities. You have to see how it looked from my point of view.”

  “No, I do not have to see how it looked from your point of view.” She scrambled off the bed, taking the quilt with her. “I can see from my point of view that your point of view is nothing less than an insult. How dare you accuse me of trying to con you?”

  “I didn’t accuse you of anything.” He sat up slowly. “I wasn’t taking any chances, that’s all. Lost and Found is a business. I have to run it like one.”

  “Is that right? Well, I happen to be in business, too. This is my professional reputation you’re trashing here. How am I supposed to respond to that kind of thing? How would you act if the shoe was on the other foot?”

  “I’m trying to explain—”

  “I think you’ve done enough explaining. I don’t want to hear any more of your stupid explanations.” She drew herself up in the quilt. “You followed me because you thought I was betraying you, n
ot because you were concerned about my safety.”

  “I’m sorry.” He rolled to his feet and faced her across the width of the bed. “I made a mistake.”

  “Yes, you certainly did.”

  “It wouldn’t have happened if you had kept me in the loop.”

  “It’s called taking the initiative. And don’t you dare blame this on me. I didn’t even know if it was the right helmet, for crying out loud. I knew how excited Dewey and Notch were. I didn’t want them to get their hopes up and then disappoint them.”

  “I apologize.” Mack shoved his fingers through his hair. “That’s all I can do. We’ve already agreed that next time you’ll follow procedures so that this kind of misunderstanding doesn’t happen again.”

  “Don’t worry, Mr. Easton, there’s not a chance in hell that there will be any future misunderstandings between us.” She smiled coldly across the rumpled sheets. “Because there isn’t going to be a next time. When you get back to your office, you can remove me from your roster of consultants because I won’t be taking any more assignments from Lost and Found.”

  “Calm down.” He reached for his trousers. “You’re a little wired right now. Probably more delayed stress. We’ll discuss this after we’ve had some sleep.”

  “No, we will not discuss this in the morning. You and I have nothing more to talk about, Mack.”

  “Take it easy.” He drew up his zipper with a quick, efficient motion. “You told me earlier that you liked the work you do for Lost and Found. And you’re good at it. Why would you want to give it up just because you’re a little pissed at me right now?”

  “You’re right. I do like the work.” Cold triumph blazed through her. “But it occurs to me that I don’t need to take any more consulting contracts from Lost and Found. I can find my own clients.”

  He stilled. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “I’ve had some experience in the field now. I’ve got the hang of this business and I’ve got plenty of connections in the art world. Once the word gets out that I’m available to trace lost and stolen art, clients will be beating down my door.”

  “You think it’s that easy?” Disbelief mingled with outrage in his voice. “I’ve got news for you. It’s one thing to trace missing art through the underground markets. Recovering it is something else altogether. You saw what happened tonight. There are some nasty players in this end of the business.”

  “So? If I need muscle, I’m sure I can hire it.”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about.” He started around the bed. “You’re upset. Maybe you’re having one of your panic attacks.”

  “I’m not panicked, I’m pissed. Believe me, I can tell the difference.”

  “Cady—”

  She leveled a finger at the sliding glass door behind him. “Get out of here.”

  He stopped at the foot of the bed, watching her in the shadows. “Don’t you think you’re overreacting?”

  “No. Leave. Right now. You’re right about one thing; I have been under a lot of stress tonight. I need some sleep.”

  He hesitated. Then he bent down, jerked his windbreaker off the floor and went to the door. “We’ll discuss this after breakfast.”

  “No, we will not. I wouldn’t take another job with Lost and Found if I was starving. Is that clear?”

  “We need to talk.”

  “We have nothing more to say to each other. I’m about to become your competition.”

  “I’ve got nothing against cooperating with the competition on occasion.”

  She gave him a steely smile. “Your new competition has a lot against cooperating with Lost and Found. Leave, Mack.”

  He opened the slider and stepped out onto the balcony. There he halted once more and glanced back over his shoulder.

  “Does this mean that I’m not a hero anymore?” he asked.

  She did not deign to respond to that. Instead she rushed around the foot of the bed, seized the handle of the slider and slammed it closed.

  She watched through the heavy plate glass as he vanished back over the partition.

  The trouble with a good fantasy was that it never stood up to a reality check.

  She was still seething when she stalked into her condominium the following afternoon. It was good to be home, she told herself. So what if the place felt a little empty? She was used to it, wasn’t she?

  Besides, now that she was expanding into the business of tracing lost art, she would probably be doing more traveling. That would mean spending a lot less time here alone.

  She dropped the handle of the small, rolling suitcase and picked up the phone to check for messages. There were three of them. She had a fleeting vision of one being from Mack. Maybe he had called to grovel. Not that she would change her mind about working for Lost and Found, of course. But she wouldn’t mind listening to a little groveling.

  Talk about a fantasy.

  None of the three calls was from Mack. The first was unimportant. But the second, the one from her cousin Sylvia, stunned her.

  “…calling to let you know that Aunt Vesta is dead. She drowned in her pool while swimming last night. They think she had one of her anxiety attacks, became disoriented and couldn’t make it to the steps. The funeral is scheduled for Tuesday here in Phantom Point…

  The third call was from her parents.

  “…We’re on our way back for the funeral. Can’t stay long…”

  Vesta Briggs was dead. The indomitable head of Chatelaine’s was gone. It was hard to grasp the sudden change in the world.

  Cady hung up the phone and gazed unseeingly out into the night. Her eyes burned. In another minute she would be crying.

  Vesta had become difficult and increasingly eccentric toward the end of her life. Nevertheless, she had been a presence in the art world. The funeral would be well attended, but Cady doubted that there would be many tears shed.

  Ten

  “SO, what went wrong on the last job, Dad?” Gabriella asked.

  Mack sighed inwardly and kept his attention on the early seventeenth-century tapestry hanging on the museum wall. It was one of several on display. Each showed vibrant scenes from a unicorn hunt and in the process depicted a past that was part reality and part myth. The colors, especially the rich reds and blues, were extraordinary, given the age of the wool and silk. The tapestries teemed with life and energy. Each of the faces of the literally dozens of human figures had been endowed with individualized features. The myriad animals ranged from hunting hounds to griffins. Plants bloomed in glorious detail.

  The tapestries were on loan from a private collection. The special exhibition had given Mack an excuse to meet his daughter for lunch in San Francisco and an afternoon of wandering through a museum.

  Museum-going was a family passion. He had met his wife, Rachel, at an exhibition of Impressionists during his sophomore year in college. Many of their dates had taken place in museums and galleries. When Gabriella had arrived, they had continued the practice. Gabriella had toured her first museum in a carrier attached to Mack’s back.

  After Rachel’s death, he had taken his daughter back into museums, endless numbers of them. Together they sought solace in the art and artifacts that were the tangible proof of the universal nature of the human experience.

  When the natural vicissitudes of parenting a teenager had struck, he had discovered that museums could transcend, for short periods at least, a host of thorny issues involved in single-fatherhood. Other dads attended ball games with their kids. Mack and Gabriella toured museums. He learned that the two of them could talk in quiet galleries surrounded by art even when communication had become impossible everywhere else.

  On summer vacations they had hit foreign institutions—the Hermitage, the Ashmolean, the Louvre and countless more of the great treasure-houses of Europe. On school breaks they had crisscrossed the country, touring everything from the New York Met and the Art Institute of Chicago to the Seattle Art Museum and the Getty.

 
“What makes you think something went wrong?” he asked.

  “Dad, this is me, your one-and-only heir apparent. I can tell when things go wrong on a job. Just like you know when I’ve got a new boyfriend.”

  He did turn at that and gave his self-proclaimed heir a considering look. She had always been Gabriella, never Gabby. Rachel had insisted on it right from the beginning. On the first day of kindergarten Gabriella had announced to the teacher that she would only answer to her full name. The edict had been enforced all through elementary and high school. She had just turned nineteen, in the midst of her freshman year in college, and she showed no signs of softening her stance.

  “You’ve got a new boyfriend?” he asked with grave interest. “What happened to Eric? I kind of liked the guy.” He raised a hand before she could answer. “Wait, I’ll bet that’s what went wrong, isn’t it? I read somewhere that the quickest way to get rid of your daughter’s boyfriend is to tell her that you approve of him.”

  Gabriella rolled her eyes. They were gray-blue, the same shade as his own. Her fair hair, fine-boned features and lovely smile, however, had come from her mother’s gene pool. It had been six years since Rachel had been killed by a drunk driver. The initial razor-sharp pain of loss had eventually worn down to a quiet memory. But sometimes when he looked into his daughter’s face like this, he could feel whispers of the old rage and bitterness that he had experienced when he had been forced to accept the brutal fact that Rachel would never see Gabriella grow up into a beautiful, intelligent young woman.

  “Dad, I told you, Eric is just a friend.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “He’s gay, okay? Stop trying to change the subject. You told me that you recovered that old piece of armor and that Dewey and Notch made a deal to sell it to that software genius up in the mountains.”

  “Ambrose Vandyke.”

  “Whatever. It looks to me like it was a win-win situation for everyone. But you’re acting as if things went wrong. What happened?”