Untrue Colors (Entangled Select Suspense)

by Veronica Forand

  Simon, dressed in a similar tux, strode in and seated himself on a chair in the corner. His dark hair stuck up a bit longer than a buzz cut, but he still looked military. If he had an ugly face and lost those blue eyes, he’d be scarier than hell.

  “You’re on time.” Henry slipped his feet into shiny Cole Haans.

  “I said seven o’clock. Reliable is my middle name.”

  “Your middle name is O’Rourke. I think it means untrustworthy and insolent.”

  “It means ruggedly handsome and well hung.”

  “Right.” Henry laughed. “What do you think of Gabe?”

  “She’s very pleasant for a girl with a safety pin in her ear.”

  “I thought the same thing. She possessed an unusual understanding about my furnishings. She even knew the maker of several of the pieces.”

  “Interesting.”

  Henry stood and took his topcoat out of the closet. “Strange, though, she believes the Lawrence portrait is a reproduction.”

  A rare frown emerged on Simon’s face. “She’s what, twenty-three at the most?”

  “Twenty-four.”

  “And a recognized scholar in her field? Doubtful.”

  “She has an uncanny understanding of both art and furniture design. I’m almost hesitant to get the portrait appraised now.”

  Simon’s brow creased as he stared at his brother. “Appraised? Didn’t you just have it restored?”

  “I’m using it as collateral for a loan to fund a project with the Ripon Women’s Group. It’s the only thing of value I own outside the family trust.” He hated discussing his inheritance with Simon. Henry had inherited everything from their father, mostly through the family trust established to preserve wealth for future generations. Simon, being the bastard son, had received nothing.

  Rising out of his chair, Simon turned to look out the window. “Maybe you should wait.”

  “No time. The group is getting kicked out of their place in a few months. I need to start the renovations at the castle as soon as practical so they have a place to move.” Grabbing his billfold and the keys to his car from the dresser, Henry headed to the door.

  Simon followed. “If a switch happened, which I doubt, when do you think it occurred?”

  “A year ago. The only time it was out of my sight was during the restoration, but instead of restoring it, maybe they replaced it. I’d noticed a change from the original when it returned, but I thought the sharper color was the restoration and not new paint. Perhaps I was wrong.”

  They entered the garage, and Henry jumped in the worn leather seat of his black vintage 1968 Jaguar. Simon followed. The wood dashboard was beginning to show its age, but Henry didn’t have the funds to restore the car.

  “If it was stolen, the odds are against you finding it again.” Simon spoke with his trademark nonchalance.

  The purr of the engine increased to a mild roar as Henry pulled into the roadway.

  “My odds will increase if you can help me.”

  “Me?”

  Henry nodded. “I’ve never asked for anything from you, despite your abuse of my name to gain access to the most obnoxious parties in England.”

  Simon grimaced. “I’m not sure what I can do for you.”

  Henry steered the car past the city limits and picked up speed on the highway toward London. The lights illuminating the road flashed through the windows. It did nothing to calm his nerves.

  “I need access to events where stolen paintings are sold.” He glanced at Simon to see his reaction.

  Simon rubbed his bottom lip and stared straight ahead. “I don’t think it’s as social an endeavor as you’d think. You’ll need to visit private galleries. Since you’ve never taken an interest in collecting stolen art in the past, I’m not sure anyone would trust your intentions.”

  “Provide me with a few introductions. I can do the rest. I’ll even create an alias.”

  “You couldn’t be anyone but yourself, and I say that with the highest respect for you and your benign pursuits. After five years of being a civilian, your life is more books than bullets. Keep it that way.”

  No one would regard Henry’s exploits in the Royal Navy as tame. He’d held one of the highest security clearances. He had far more experience in the world than Simon gave him credit for.

  “I need the painting or my plans will fall apart. Think of the women you’ll be hurting if you say no.”

  Simon regarded him with a seriousness that bordered on a threat. “Dear God. That’s low even for you.”

  Despite Simon’s tough exterior, he had a soft moral center Henry had exploited since they’d found each other years earlier.

  “No one has a gun to your head.” He downshifted, but still cut into a curve too fast.

  Simon reached out to brace against the dashboard before swinging his gaze to Henry. “What if Gabe’s wrong?” His brow furrowed. “I have a hard time believing a girl who hides from the police and dyes her hair the color of an Easter egg.”

  “I know it’s odd, but I think she’s telling the truth.” He trusted in her ability to spot a fake. Her arrival was nothing short of destiny. She could help him find the painting, and he could protect her from the person Henry wanted to punch in the face for harming her.

  He shifted gears again, and the car shot forward.

  “You’re bloody batty as hell,” Simon huffed. “You trust a person who tried to smash up your house?”

  “She didn’t mean to break the statue. In fact, I think she was partially asleep. It would be nice, however, to know more of her background.”

  “I looked through her backpack before you took it to the hospital. Five hundred pounds, about twenty euros, a fancy music system, and a pay-as-you-go mobile phone with no saved numbers and the history deleted. No university identification, either.”

  “Doesn’t that tell you something is wrong? Too much cash, no identification. I hope she’s safe. She seemed vulnerable.”

  “As long as she remains in the house, she’ll be fine.”

  …

  As soon as Alex heard the last roars of Henry’s car driving off, she made her move. She’d spoken too freely to a man she barely knew. And though she wanted to trust Henry, what did she know about him? An anthropology professor, more likely an assistant professor, with a few million dollars’ worth of art, running a battered women’s shelter, and living with a guy who looked like a bodyguard, knew his way around a kitchen, and acted more like a fraternity brother than an employee. Sure they seemed trustworthy. So did successful criminals.

  Instead of following her instincts, she’d do the opposite. Don’t trust Henry; run from him, as she should have done with Luc. Then perhaps her life could start moving toward a comfortable future.

  She entered the bathroom, tossed her color contacts, and then found a pair of scissors. A blunt cut at the shoulders would be easiest to manage. Pink hair fell to the sink in chunks. She refused to give herself bangs, preferring to hide her face. The back would look pretty uneven, but she didn’t have time to worry about perfection. As she snipped away inches of hair, she gained hope. Saying a quick good-bye to her grunge persona, she flushed the strands down the toilet and coated the remaining hair in the black dye she’d saved for just this purpose.

  A short time later, dressed in a bright blue floral sundress and a heavy wool cardigan as her only protection against the chilly March air, a black-haired woman with brown eyes, short pink nails, and red running sneakers departed from Henry’s house, never looking back.

  She took an old bike from his garage and flipped her backpack over her shoulders. The bike needed a tune-up, but she managed to pedal it through rows of old stone buildings and traffic circles. A slow drizzle of rain slowed her pace. She’d changed the bandage on her hand before she left, but now it was soaked and made her fingers ache. When she arrived at the train station, she’d have to remove it.

  Reaching the city limits, she coasted past fields and the dark silhouettes of farmhouses and
stone walls. And then the sky opened up and released a torrential wall of rain that only a woman with nothing left to lose would try to navigate. Her tears blended with the rain, and the tension in her body stiffened as the cold leeched through to her skin.

  One quick phone call and she’d be seated in the first-class section of the next plane to Boston and home, but that call would also bind her family to her nightmare. She wouldn’t risk their safety. She’d never been the best daughter or sister, but she refused to be the worst.

  She headed south of Oxford toward Abingdon. She could catch a train at the smaller station, and no one would follow her. Hopefully. The drama of the past two days combined with the downpour made the strenuous pedaling even more difficult. Darkness and rain hid the imperfections of the road, and she struggled to keep the bike upright. She tried to ignore the tingling in her hands, but focusing on physical pain made all that emotional crap disappear.

  One lucky break, was that so much to ask for?

  The road continued on forever, but her legs had found their rhythm. The faint lights of Abingdon appeared on the horizon, beckoning her forward. She picked up speed, but didn’t see the broken curbing until the tire buckled. And she fell to the ground.

  Chapter Six

  Simon and Henry arrived at Club Napa in Covent Garden in time for cocktail hour. Located in an old gymnasium, the club catered to the young, the famous, and the well connected. Victorian woodwork, large oak floors, and crystal chandeliers provided the place with an old-world feel. Mobile phones remained in everyone’s hands, constantly available for the big money shot of a drunken actress, a singer high on heroin, or a newly minted reality star flashing her breasts. Scantily clad women in black, always black, milled about trying to attract the attention of a potential billionaire. One unplanned pregnancy and money would flow in their direction, no marriage necessary.

  “Drink?” Simon asked.

  “The usual.”

  “I’ll be back.” He disappeared, leaving Henry alone between several groups of people discussing impressive things to make themselves seem more impressive.

  A too-familiar heavyset gentleman garnished with a large graying mustache covering both his upper and lower lips lumbered toward him. As always, Uncle George wore his black tuxedo jacket open, unable to button it over his rounded stomach.

  “Henry. Nice to see you here.” He clapped Henry’s shoulder.

  “You look well.”

  “As well as can be expected, I suppose. You’ve most likely heard my bill to create a tax-free zone in the shipyards stalled in committee. Three years of work in the loo. Disappointing.”

  “I would imagine.” Henry scanned the room for Simon. No luck. He turned back to his uncle.

  Uncle George’s election to the House of Commons allowed him to bore his companions with a one-way stream of drivel and enough ammunition to belittle every one of Henry’s life decisions. Although he wasn’t following his family into government service, Henry would be leaving his mark on the world. If he could get the original painting back.

  “How is Aunt Mary?”

  “She stays busy with her charity outreach. How’s your little charity thing going? Homeless women, isn’t it?”

  “Battered women. I need more financing and a few corporate backers, but otherwise, it’s moving along.” Henry looked over his uncle’s shoulder and across the crowd.

  Where the hell was Simon?

  “Come by the house this Wednesday night. We’re having a small dinner party. There might be a potential wife there for you.” George laughed at his jocularity and hit Henry on the shoulder again.

  The parade of potential wives Uncle George thought of as suitable was pathetic. What would he think of Gabe? Henry smiled at the thought of her transformation overnight from heavily made-up Goth girl to fresh-faced beauty. She’d be a nice change from the constant barrage of eligible, politically correct bachelorettes flung in his face at dinner parties.

  “I’ve already found my potential wife, Uncle.” The words slipped out without a moment’s hesitation.

  The statement woke his uncle right up. He glanced around the room for Henry’s mystery date. “Is she here?”

  “No. I’m hiding her in my house until the pink dye wears off. She’s the girl for me, however. I’ve decided if she doesn’t want me, I’ll die a lonely old bachelor.” A harsh laugh followed his inane statement. The woman was no more duchess material than the dim-witted socialites his uncle introduced him to at every event they attended. Although she would be a perfect dinner companion with her quick wit, intelligence, and subtle beauty. Pink hair and all.

  He shook his head at the direction of his thoughts. Gabe had invaded his house and upended his plans, and yet he wanted to have dinner with her.

  Dear God, she’s like a virus taking over my life.

  Uncle George opened his mouth to add more twaddle to an already-dull conversation, but Henry cut him off.

  “Give Aunt Mary my best. I see Stan Duckett by the bar, and I need to ask him if he can help with my little charity thing. Really nice speaking with you.” Henry shook his hand and disappeared into the crowd.

  Simon showed up at his side a minute too late, but he carried two drinks, making all forgiven.

  “Is Uncle George doing well?” He handed Henry the scotch.

  “As head-splitting as ever. What took you so long?”

  “Ran into a friend.” Simon took a sip of what looked like straight vodka. His subsequent silence told Henry everything.

  As part of Simon’s job, which he rarely spoke about to Henry, he kept tabs on many players in the European jet set. Yet he didn’t have the credentials to gain access to the more exclusive parties. Henry did. Several years back, they devised a partnership where Henry provided Simon the use of his house and entrée to his upscale social circles. In exchange, Simon acted as a personal assistant to Henry. An even trade-off considering Simon’s cooking skills. Over the years, they’d built an amicable relationship.

  They made a quick circuit around the party and split up while Simon went to work his magic with potential investors in a scheme Henry didn’t have the clearance to learn about. An hour later, they regrouped as they were being seated for dinner.

  “I wonder how Gabe is doing?” Henry followed Simon to table twenty.

  “I’m not sure, but I can’t wait for breakfast with her.” Simon smirked, and Henry’s gut sent him a silent alarm.

  “Why?”

  “Her knowledge about art could prove useful.”

  Henry glared up at his brother and lowered his voice. “What does art have to do with arms trafficking?”

  “Organized crime is a spiderweb. It reaches out in all directions trying to diversify, minimize risk, and maximize profit. Stolen art, like drugs, funds many of these transactions.” An embedded agent for the foreign intelligence service, Simon took every aspect of his job seriously. Outside of work, he took little seriously. “If, as you say, Gabe has an unbelievable ability to appraise art, she’s hardly the type to be employed by Christie’s, Sotheby’s, the British Museum, or the Tate. You tell me what her connection is to the art world.”

  “You think she’s a thief?”

  “I’m not sure what she is.”

  “Just because a person dresses like a rebel and has an unusual knowledge base doesn’t mean she’s a criminal.”

  “Says the anthropology professor. Despite your eternal faith in everyone, I think it would be worthwhile to speak with her.”

  “She’s in a vulnerable situation right now. If she loses my trust, she could run back into a dangerous situation.” He recalled his outburst in front of the portrait. Not his best behavior, but he didn’t scare her.

  Did he?

  “Don’t tell me you like her? She doesn’t even look female. More like a prepubescent boy with rock-star hair.”

  To avoid drawing attention to their conversation, Henry tempered the anger threatening to take over his voice. “Her hand went through a window, and
she refused to take herself to the hospital, preferring to hide in my house instead. Did you notice the scarring on her neck? Probably not. According to the hospital, she also has a broken rib. Someone beat the hell out of her, and you want to add to her misery. Harassing a woman who needs help and using her for your own gain is low even for you.”

  Simon narrowed his eyebrows and turned into someone Henry had never seen before. Someone dangerous. “You have no idea how low I’ll go for my job. Don’t ever confuse me for someone with integrity. Your father beat that out of me years ago.”

  The reference to their father flushed ice through Henry’s system. Simon was right. He didn’t deserve Henry’s judgment. He’d lived through hell and was now trying to make it right.

  “I trust you, but I’m also obligated to protect Gabe.” Even if that meant keeping Simon far away from her.

  They split up to take their seats at the table.

  The image of Gabe tired and afraid at the house left Henry unable to concentrate on the meal or dinner conversation. By the end of the soup course, guilt from leaving her alone pounded his head.

  He stood and said good-bye to the wife of an aging rock star to his left, who couldn’t keep her hand in her own lap, and the elderly woman to his right, who couldn’t remember why she was at the dinner.

  Interrupting Simon’s conversation with a bone-thin model, Henry whispered in his ear. “We need to go. I have a strange feeling about Gabe.”

  “I’m done anyway.” Simon pushed back his chair and stood.

  “You’re leaving, Simon?” the doe-eyed skeleton asked with a New York accent.

  “Darinda, darling, meet Henry Elliott Chilton, Earl of Ripon. When he tells me I must go, regrettably, I must go.”

  Her eyes blinked as though she were telegraphing Henry a message. “An earl? Wow. What should I call you?”

  “You shouldn’t.” Henry pulled on Simon’s arm and walked away.

  They returned at 1:00 a.m. in a downpour. Henry parked and rushed into the house to see Gabe. The kitchen was empty. He called out to her, but no one answered. She wasn’t in the study, either. He climbed two steps at a time to her bedroom. The door was open, the bed was made, and the room was empty of any trace of a woman named Gabe, except for her combat boots. He stared out the window.