Abandoned

by Allison Brennan

  “Paid off or killed?”

  “Paid off. I tracked her down and she refused to talk to me. Stood her ground. Not so much scared—I think someone lied to her about who I was after. Gabriel Truman is well loved in this town, and I suspect she thought I was investigating him. I don’t see anyone lying for Jimmy, unless he had something on them. And this maid, she wasn’t a criminal. She was a good church-going woman who had been convinced that I was the bad guy. Yeah, someone paid her off, but she still went willingly.”

  “And then?”

  “Gone. I got a warrant and when I executed it on this club, he was gone. I searched every cottage, but Gabriel refused to let me search his house and because it’s not in Jimmy’s name, it wasn’t covered by the warrant. I don’t know why he helped his brother skip town—I don’t think Gabriel is one of the bad guys—but he did. Or else he’s doing a damn good job of making himself look guilty. Every year or so I come here to the restaurant just to stay on his radar, stir him up, see if he slips.”

  “He hasn’t.”

  “No, but he’s never happy to see me.”

  “Maybe he really doesn’t know what Jimmy was up to.”

  Maguire shrugged. “Maybe he doesn’t. But Jimmy was here for at least seventy-two hours and not for a minute do I think that Gabriel didn’t know about it.”

  “And since?”

  “Not a peep. There was some evidence that Jimmy went up to New York, I passed it on to the New York field office, but they couldn’t confirm any of the information. So either he went to New York then left the country on a false ID, or he’s dead and he died somewhere between here and New York ten years ago. No one claims to have seen him since, and none of the other paintings we believe he stole have surfaced.”

  Max assessed the fed. She was always cautious about sharing her information, but she’d recently worked with a federal agent on a cold case and had found that sometimes another opinion helped.

  “I’ll show you my information on one condition.”

  “I’ll need to know the condition,” he said.

  “Do not shut me out. I’ll give you what I have, but I’m not backing down. Don’t go around me, don’t go through me, don’t piss me off. I’ll give you room, but I expect information in return.”

  “Well, that’s going to be difficult—I am involved in a federal investigation. But as much as I can, I won’t shut you out and I certainly won’t shut you down. Fair enough?”

  Trust. It was hard for Max to give it, but he looked her in the eye when he spoke and she believed him.

  “Fair enough.”

  Chapter Twelve

  NINETEEN YEARS AGO

  Martha stood in front of the Degas section of the Impressionist exhibit on loan to this small Dallas museum and absorbed the art as one: the color, the lines, the isolation that drew her into his work.

  Art was her one true love, and something she couldn’t share with Jimmy. He was pedantic in his taste, had no appreciation for the details, the style, the past and future that fine art gave to the world.

  The only thing that Martha regretted about her chosen lifestyle was that she had no place to hang art. She couldn’t very well pack priceless original pieces of art up in a storage unit or ship them to her mother. Because she spent her trust allowance in full every month, she didn’t have the money to buy the pieces she craved.

  And most of the pieces she craved weren’t for sale.

  She loved Degas because of his focus on people. Degas showed more than what was on the canvas. His people were real. She could see the dancers thinking, the children contemplating, the woman at the bar regretting. It was heady, to put yourself in one of his paintings. She had no need to lay among Monet’s flowers and gaze at the sky; she wanted to understand more than nature, more than contentment.

  A hand came around her waist, gently but firmly resting on her hip.

  The hand didn’t belong to Jimmy.

  She glanced up at the man. Forties, devilishly attractive with dark hair and light blue eyes, a hint of five o’clock shadow, and the scent of expensive cologne: a subtle hint of danger that immediately attracted her.

  “Watching you absorb this Degas is an erotic vision, one I hope to witness again.”

  She raised a perfectly arched eyebrow, but didn’t say anything. She almost couldn’t speak. This man was truly divine. Well-dressed, perfectly groomed, all manner of proper … but the way his hand touched her side, the way his mouth said erotic, his seductive tone … she wanted him.

  She was certainly ready for another diversion. Jimmy understood that about her. She’d been with him for nearly three years—which was more than two years longer than any other man. And he catered to her need to break away on occasion.

  But she found herself going back to Jimmy because he was the only man she had met who truly understood her. The only man who enjoyed living as she did. He enjoyed the game and the challenge and the sheer joy of doing whatever she wanted whenever she wanted.

  She turned back to Degas’s work, hyperaware of the man beside her. “He was a master, yet never accepted that moniker. Few, especially in the Impressionist era, could capture the soul like he did.”

  “I’m having a party on New Year’s Eve. I want you there.”

  “I’m with someone.”

  “I don’t care.”

  “You don’t know me.”

  “Tell me your name.”

  Should she? Why not?

  “Martha Revere.”

  “Classically beautiful, like you.” He took her hand and kissed it. “Revere. There’s a banking family named Revere.”

  She stiffened. Surprised that he knew of her family, and a little worried.

  “I’m the black sheep of the family,” she said, trying to sound as if she didn’t care that he knew her family name.

  He laughed softly. “All the better, as I’m the black sheep of mine.”

  “Which family would that be?”

  “Colter.”

  “And I’ve never heard of you.”

  “Your loss.” But he was still smiling and hadn’t taken his eyes from hers. “You intrigue me, Martha Revere. Come to my party, bring your boy toy if you insist, but I won’t take no for an answer.”

  He reached into his inside pocket and pulled out a card. “My house, New Year’s Eve, nine o’clock. Formal attire.”

  She took the card: Phillip Colter.

  Colter. No, she didn’t know the name, but that didn’t mean much.

  “This is my first time in Texas,” she said. “At least, for any length of time. I have certainly been missing out, if you’re an example of Texas men.”

  He laughed, a low, sexy laugh.

  “I love this great state, but I’m from the East Coast. A small town you’ve never heard of. My father made a fortune in mining, expected me to follow in his footsteps, but I left that to my brother who wanted it far more than I did.”

  “Family expectations. They are hard to break from.”

  A black sheep in the family? The way he looked at her, she thought wolf, and she was more than a little excited.

  He smiled, squeezed her waist almost to the point of pain, and walked away.

  She could finally breathe.

  Jimmy came over. He was drinking champagne and eating hors d’oeuvres.

  Jimmy was fun, but he didn’t have class. He could fake it with most people, but those like Martha who had been raised in wealth, who knew the difference between Degas and Boudin, who actually liked caviar and wouldn’t drink a five-dollar bottle of champagne, could see through him. Most of the time.

  Because one thing Jimmy was good at was the show.

  “Who were you talking to?”

  “Nouveau riche, but interesting.” She handed Jimmy his card.

  “Colter,” Jimmy said flatly.

  “Yes. Mining family or something. From the East Coast. Do you know him?”

  “Heard of,” he said.

  “What’s with the tone?”
/>   He glanced around, then whispered, “He’s a thief.”

  She laughed so loudly others looked over at her. She covered her mouth. “Really.”

  “I can prove it. Actually, you can prove it.”

  “How?”

  “We’ll have to get into his house.”

  She smiled. “Well, he did invite me to his New Year’s Eve party. Said I could bring my boy toy. Is that what you are, Jimmy? My boy toy?”

  He took her away from the art, away from the crowds, and down a back hall into the ladies’ room. It was spacious, with private stalls that each had their own private sink and toilet. He pulled her into one, shut and locked the door.

  “Jimmy!”

  “Shh.” He kissed her. Then he put his hands up her dress and touched her. She melted.

  The sound of two women talking as they came in had Martha trying to move away from Jimmy’s talented fingers as they moved in and out of her body. He pulled her close and whispered directly into her ear, “Don’t make a sound.” He kept up his attention. She had already been horny from her conversation with Colter; now she was doubly so.

  The women were talking about nothing—fashion and art and gossiping about the other women in attendance. And here she, Martha Revere, was being given a hand job in the bathroom stall and they were none the wiser.

  It was fabulous.

  Even now, Jimmy made her hot. He was the only man who had that effect on her. Others she was thrilled to seduce and sleep with, but sex soon became boring. With Jimmy it was always a thrill. When he sensed she was getting tired with a situation, he was the one who suggested they jump ship. He always had the best plans to take fake people down off their pedestal, people who reminded her of her mother and her stuck-up, arrogant family.

  And with Jimmy, sex was always hot. She had sex in public. That was a thrill. They’d once broken into a theater in New York, early on a Monday morning, and had sex onstage. It wasn’t until after her very loud orgasm that echoed in the vast room that they realized a security guard had watched them. That, too, had been thrilling. So thrilling that they’d participated in some wild parties that she only half remembered. That’s when she put an end to some of Jimmy’s schemes. While she loved thrills and the unexpected, she didn’t like losing control of her body, of not remembering what had happened to her.

  Jimmy knew exactly what she liked, how to touch her, how to seduce her. She orgasmed quick and bit her lip to keep from crying out.

  The two women left and they were alone again. She was flushed and wanted more.

  “You’ll have to wait until we get back to the hotel.”

  “You promised you’d tell me about Colter.”

  Jimmy leaned in. “He’s stealing a painting tonight.”

  “Really.”

  “Yes. One of his crew is an old friend of mine. So on New Year’s? I think we should steal it back. And only you will be able to tell what’s real and what’s fake. This isn’t his first time, and it’s not like he can report it to the police.”

  Colter? An art thief? How … interesting.

  “We’ll play it by ear,” she said.

  “Oh, will we?”

  “You don’t like him.”

  “He needs to be taken down a peg or two.”

  “So you do know him.”

  “Yes and no.”

  “Would he know you?”

  “No.”

  She wasn’t certain she believed him. “We should be cautious. Maybe you shouldn’t come.”

  “And leave you to jump into his bed?”

  “If that’s what it takes for the long game.”

  He was thinking. “I’ll go, I’ll let you play.”

  “And that is one of the many reasons I love you.”

  “But,” Jimmy added, “if we decide to play the long con, we’re in it together, understand?”

  “I wouldn’t have it any other way, darling.”

  * * *

  Driving to the party at Colter’s estate two weeks later, Martha said, “Colter knows my family. At least by name.”

  “Are you surprised?”

  “What if he contacted my mother? Or my brother?”

  Jimmy shot her a look. “You think he’d do that? You’re thirty-four. You are hardly a wild teenager anymore. Besides, it’s not like we’ve been hiding for the last three years. If your parents really wanted to find you, don’t you think they would have tracked you down by now?”

  That had bothered Martha, just a bit. When she first walked out she’d been nineteen and her parents let her go because they were fed up with her—and that was fine by her. But after a few months, she knew they were trying to find her, and she liked playing the cat and mouse game. That even with all their money and power they couldn’t stop her from doing what she wanted. She used to send her mother postcards just to annoy her.

  Beautiful Paris. By the time you get this, I’ll be long gone. Where? I don’t know. Madrid? Maybe a cruise.

  I just spent four months in Australia living with a yummy rancher. You would hate him. He’s rich—which you’d love—but he works in the dirt. Not suitable for you.

  I met a man you would love. A senator, powerful, wealthy, super-uptight conservative. Except, for, you know, in bed. I think you know him. Or maybe you know his wife?

  She always sent them to her mother because she knew that Eleanor would never show her father. And soon, they stopped looking for her. Which was a good thing back then because she didn’t want to answer questions about Maxine or her paternity (or, rather, the two men who could be her father) or give up her lifestyle. There was nothing Eleanor could do about her trust fund. It was her money, plain and simple, set up by her grandmother who couldn’t change it even if she wanted to. And her trust was tied to her brother, sister, and cousins—so if they tried to hold her money, they’d have to hold their money.

  Like that would happen.

  But maybe she thought, after she left Maxine with them, that they’d try to find her again. She didn’t want to go home … but a small part of her wanted them at least to care.

  Who was she kidding? They had a new young lady to mold into their perfect child. Maxie had always been a thorn in her side—Martha loved her and hated her at the same time. Did that make her a bad mother? Maxie was her daughter, her flesh and blood. She loved that she’d grown inside her, that she was part of her, that she’d created her. She loved showing the baby around. Maxie had been gorgeous. Her red hair was dark and luxurious and wavy—she could have been a child model. Martha had many offers to photograph her, but that wouldn’t have been fun, to be mother to a model or actress. As Maxie grew up, Martha thought she’d have a friend, a partner, someone who wanted to do what she did and go where she wanted to go. Someone to have fun with.

  But Maxie wasn’t fun. She whined and complained and hated moving around. Martha couldn’t sit in one place for too long. She’d go back and visit favorite places like Miami and the Caribbean and France and Bora Bora and Vail, but after a month or two she would get bored again and need to move.

  “Hey, baby, I’m sorry,” Jimmy said. “You look sad. You know I hate it when you look sad.”

  “Maybe I should go back and take Maxine from them.”

  “Why? Where did this come from? That kid was nothing but trouble.”

  “It would make my mother angry.” But the truth was, she didn’t really miss Maxine all that much. She was a lot of work, and she was so judgmental, just like Eleanor. Martha didn’t need that in her life. And what was she now? Twelve? Thirteen. Thirteen! It was her birthday today. Martha had grabbed a postcard at the museum last week to send off, then forgot. It was going to be late.

  Oh, well, it was for the best. Like the kid would even care. Besides, at thirteen Maxie would be twice as mouthy as she’d been before. And honestly, Martha didn’t need the kid in her business, and Maxie was the nosiest kid she’d ever met.

  But she didn’t like Jimmy telling her what to do.

  “If you want—
really want her back—after this Colter thing, we’ll go. Okay?”

  “Really? You’d do that?”

  “Babe, I love you. Whatever makes you happy, we do it, got it? If you want your kid with us, we’ll get your kid.”

  She smiled. Her decision. That was right. Everything was her choice, her desire.

  “I’ll think about it,” she said, though she had already decided to leave Maxine exactly where she was. Martha was having far too much fun.

  * * *

  Martha practically salivated over the Degas in front of her.

  Phillip had taken her away from Jimmy, at least for the night. Jimmy was working one of Colter’s friends, the one who helped him with the thefts. And Martha was working Phillip.

  They were in his bedroom, and the Degas was hung perfectly over his bed.

  “How did you get this Degas? I never heard it was on sale. It’s beautiful.” Her voice was breathy, not just because she was excited, and not just because she had already identified five very real priceless works of art in Colter’s mansion, but because Colter had his hands on her shoulders. He kissed her neck.

  “It is beautiful, isn’t it? It’s a reproduction.”

  “Really? I know my art, and it’s authentic.”

  He chuckled. “I’m glad you think so.”

  With all the other paintings here the real were mixed in with the fake. Good fakes, but her eye was second to none. Here, she was a master.

  “Amazing,” she murmured.

  “I paid handsomely for the reproduction. Commissioned it myself.”

  “You have to tell me who.”

  His tongue trailed from her ear down her neck to her bare shoulder. “You’ll have to convince me to share.”

  She closed her eyes and let Phillip believe he was seducing her. His hands, his mouth, were so very exciting because it was forbidden. He was dangerous and wild and she craved him like nothing else. She leaned back into him, felt how much he wanted her, and smiled.

  He whispered, “I don’t share. Get rid of your boyfriend and then we can take the world together.”

  * * *

  Jimmy loved the plan more than Martha, though if Jimmy knew just how attracted she was to Phillip Colter, he might not love it quite so much. Yet he’d improved upon it, said they were in for the long haul.