“Is that what she told you?”
“I haven’t talked to her. I almost did—I went to the office and looked up which cottage she was in. I almost went over there to … I don’t know, just see her. But I didn’t. I wanted to talk to you first, but then I didn’t know what to say. So I came here.”
He was marginally relieved.
“I think she may be your half sister,” he said carefully.
She looked at him with such deep trust he let it all come out. At least, most of it.
“I didn’t know anything about her until this week. She came here because she learned that her mother had abandoned her car near Oyster Bay sixteen years ago. The same time your mother left you with Grandma.”
“Did you know?”
He shook his head. “I always thought Martha just didn’t want to be a mother. I didn’t understand, but Martha … she was selfish, honey. She didn’t know how to take care of anyone else. I think the fact that she left her first daughter to be raised by her grandparents shows she never grew up.”
“Did you ever try to find her?”
He didn’t want to tell her the truth, but he had to. “No, I didn’t. I didn’t know she left you until I was on leave, months after Grandma took you in. But when I saw you, I didn’t reenlist because you needed me more than the navy.”
Tears fell from Eve’s eyes, and Gabriel’s own eyes burned. He hated this conversation, hated Maxine Revere for forcing it.
“Does … does Maxine Revere know about me?”
“I talked to her yesterday, and asked that she not say anything until I talked to you. But I didn’t know how to bring it up last night. I’m scared.”
“Why? Why would you be scared?”
“Because I don’t want to lose you.”
Her eyes widened. “Dad, you’ll never lose me. Never. But I have a sister. I mean, she’s older and like, important. I went to her website. She’s written books and has a cable news show and she’s really, really pretty. I didn’t think we were sisters at first, that it was a coincidence.”
“Honey, you’re beautiful.”
She shrugged. “But then I saw a picture of her—it was in this article she’d written about being smart during spring break, you know, like not going out alone and making sure you don’t drink things people give you and stuff. Her college roommate was killed by some guy during spring break, I guess. She wrote a whole book about it. Anyway, there was a picture of her when she was in college, with her best friend, and she was much younger … and I thought we kind of looked alike. Like our faces, even though she has red hair and I have this mousy mop.”
“Stop criticizing yourself. You are beautiful.”
“When I saw that picture, I thought, wow, I have a sister and she’s pretty and smart and successful. And then I wondered, what was wrong with us that our mother left us?”
“Nothing is wrong with you, Eve. Nothing. Everything was wrong with Martha Revere.”
“Why didn’t you look for her?”
“I don’t know,” he said.
Eve didn’t say anything.
“I guess—deep down—I was scared.”
“You’re not scared of anything, Dad.”
“I wish that were true. I was scared that if I found her she would come back and take you away. I love you, Eve, I just wanted to protect you from the pain of having an irresponsible mother.”
She didn’t say anything, and Gabriel didn’t know what she was thinking. Then she said, “I want to meet her.”
“Your mother? I don’t know—”
“Maxine. I want to meet Maxine. You said she knows that I’m her sister, so it’s not like I’m going to lay a bombshell on her or anything.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
She was certain. He knew that expression, that stubborn streak she had in her.
“Okay, I’ll, um, talk to her. Maybe have her over for dinner tomorrow night?” Home turf. Safe ground. His chest constricted. He didn’t know what else he could do.
“Actually, Molly Henderson invited me over to her house tonight. She said Maxine might be there, because her mom invited her over.”
“Oh.”
“You can come with me. I don’t mind.”
“Are you sure?” He didn’t want to go. But he also didn’t want Maxine Revere alone with his daughter.
“Yes.” Eve got up, walked across the deck, and sat down next to him. She hugged him tight. He immediately hugged her back. They were going to be okay. That was all he cared about, that he and Eve would be okay.
“I love you, Daddy. I know you gave up a lot to raise me, and I will never forget it. I’m not going anywhere, you know that, right?”
“Yeah.”
“You still look sad. I just want to know her. To know my sister. Find out more about my mother. Do you think she wants to get to know me?”
“She’s seems to be a very smart woman, so yeah, I think she wants to know you, too.”
But he hoped and prayed she didn’t say too much about Martha Revere.
Chapter Nineteen
SEVENTEEN YEARS AGO
Martha had always said that life has plans, and she just went along for the ride, but that statement took on a far more ominous meaning when she literally ran into Phillip Colter in Paris on a beautiful spring afternoon.
He was as surprised to see her as she was to see him. And … happy?
“Martha.”
The way he said her name … it was an apology, erotic subtlety, and pleasant surprise all rolled into one.
She studied him. She also assessed her strange reaction to him, because even though she knew she should run, she didn’t want to.
“Phillip. You look … wonderful.”
He kissed first one cheek then the other, then touched his lips to hers, lingering just a moment longer than friendship would call for.
“Dinner. Please. I’m staying at the Le Meurice. Eight o’clock.”
She should decline. Phillip was dangerous in so many ways. But he was electric. She had never forgotten him, never forgotten the thrill of sharing his bed, of stealing his art, of holding on to the priceless works, a secret from Phillip and from the world. A secret all her own.
Hers and Jimmy’s.
“Is nine too late? I have a previous engagement, but I can slip away by nine.”
“I’ll send a car for you. Where are you staying?”
“I’ll be there,” she said, not wanting Phillip to have too much information about her. She might be attracted to him, but she wasn’t completely stupid.
He kissed her again and she sighed, unable to keep the sound to herself. She was thirty-six, but felt ten years younger in his arms … and ten years more mature. He brought out something in her she didn’t know she had, an elegance … an idea that maybe, just maybe, she could live the life that her mother had once designed for her. Married to the right man. Living in the proper zip code. Parties and philanthropy and business.
That Phillip Colter was an art thief made the dream even more enticing. Eleanor would find him perfect, and yet Martha would know the truth. That he was dark, dangerous, and criminal.
“I am truly sorry about how I left things between us,” Phillip whispered. “I have missed you.”
“Nine,” was all she could say. She slipped away with a smile.
* * *
“We’re leaving,” Jimmy said.
They were in a villa just outside Paris, the house of some heiress that Jimmy had conned into loaning to them for the spring. People trusted Jimmy. He set up an entire scam that he was a writer and the French government was offering a tax credit to anyone who loaned their property to an artist for three months in exchange for light caretaking duties. The woman was older, and Jimmy wined and dined her—on her money!—until she practically gave him the villa.
It was a beautiful home and the wine cellar was amazing—Martha was pretty certain they’d opened bottles worth hundreds of dollars. It had been a wonder
ful stay and they had the entire house to themselves.
“Nonsense. He doesn’t know anything. If I don’t show up he’ll be suspicious.”
Jimmy stared at her, angry and worried. Why was he worried? Phillip didn’t know they had seven of his paintings, and he never would.
“I don’t believe you!” Then he stopped arguing and said, “You’re infatuated with him.”
“You know I love only you.” Which was true. But Jimmy was also right. She was infatuated with Phillip Colter. She had followed him in the society pages for the last two years and suspected he’d stolen at least six more pieces from a museum in Montreal. She and Jimmy had traveled to Montreal, too—she didn’t tell him why she wanted to go—and she could tell which paintings had been switched. Evidently, Colter had changed his ways. He no longer kept his reproductions hidden away, but hung them in place of the originals.
Had he done that from the beginning, she and Jimmy would never have been able to pull off their scam. Did that mean that he knew what they’d done?
No, he wouldn’t have had that warm appraisal of her today. She’d considered that Colter would know his paintings were forgeries as soon as he went to his storage locker and the forgeries were no longer there, but if he had, he hadn’t connected the thefts to her.
“It’s too dangerous,” Jimmy said.
“Jealous?”
“No.”
But he was, and that thrilled her on one level and bored her on another. Jealousy was common. It was dangerous in itself, because jealousy made men—and women—do stupid things.
“I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“You’re going to sleep with him.”
“So? You slept with the old biddy who owns this place.”
“That didn’t mean anything. It was part of the setup.”
“And I don’t care, and neither should you.”
“He’s different.”
“Why? Because he’s a thief? Because he’s attractive and rich?”
“Don’t do it.”
She finished getting dressed. “Baby, I love you, you know that, but if you start acting like a jealous husband, I’m going to walk. It has no place in our relationship.”
“You’d walk after five years?”
“I don’t want to,” she said honestly. “But I’m going to see Phillip tonight.”
“I’m going back to the States.”
She frowned. Jimmy had never gone this far before—with a threat to leave. “Without me?”
He seemed to realize they’d reached an impasse. And this time, he relented. “In one week, we leave together. No longer—I don’t trust Colter. Agreed?”
She smiled and kissed him. “Thank you.”
* * *
She didn’t give Jimmy a second thought during the days and nights she spent with Phillip Colter. She was on cloud nine, being pampered and romanced. Phillip said he was genuinely sorry about how he treated her when she left two years ago; she let him make it up to her.
On the fifth day, they went to a small museum in the heart of the art district. A special collection of the Italian artist, Caravaggio, was being shown for six weeks.
“I love his use of light and shadows,” Phillip said. “Evocative. Real. I recently commissioned a replica of this piece.”
The piece in question was the Beheading of Saint John the Baptist. Martha had never been a fan of overtly religious artwork, but there was something compelling and violent in Caravaggio’s works. This one, however, was the darkest.
She smiled. If he had commissioned a “replica”—which to Phillip meant forgery—he planned to steal this painting. She almost wished she could be part of it.
“Too violent for me,” she said lightly. “Now this piece … this is different.”
Called The Fortune Teller, Martha was intrigued by the subtle sense of whimsy and cunning. The gypsy girl was clearly putting one over on the boy, and stealing his ring in the process.
“It’s a bit more … pedestrian.” Phillip frowned.
He didn’t understand, which made her love of the piece come alive.
“She’s smart,” Martha said. “I’ve always loved smart women.”
“Hmm.”
He was thinking, and she wasn’t certain of what, so she diverted his attention to another piece, again with a beheading. “He sure liked violence.”
“They were violent times.”
Martha had noticed three men following them around. She wasn’t positive until they left the museum, and she mentioned it to Phillip.
“Ignore them,” he said. “Security.”
She didn’t believe him. She was a good liar, and clearly Phillip wasn’t as good as she.
“Why do you need security?”
“Business. Not important for us.” He wrapped his arm around her waist. “I’m leaving for the States next week. Come back with me.”
“I’ll think about it. I love Paris.”
“You can come back anytime you want.” He stopped under a fully blooming tree, and said, “Martha, I love you. I have loved you since the day I met you, and have rued the day I chased you away with my overbearing jealousy. I will give you all the time you want, all the space you need, as long as I know that you are mine and no other man can claim you.”
Her heart nearly stopped. “You want exclusivity.”
“Do not tell me you don’t feel the same.” He touched the back of her neck lightly and she shivered in response.
He smiled.
“I … I will admit that I have been drawn to you for reasons I don’t understand.”
He kissed her and she melted.
Maybe she could have it all.
* * *
The morning of May fifteenth gave Martha three big surprises.
First, she realized that she was pregnant.
Second, Jimmy showed up at Le Meurice and nearly got caught. But it reminded her of what they had—something different than anyone else. He had stayed, he’d said he would leave in a week, but he had stayed for two.
And the third …
She came up from the pool house, preoccupied with the home pregnancy test she had just taken as well as seeing Jimmy. She shook him off, told him she’d call him later—she couldn’t afford to have Phillip or any of his “security” see her with Jimmy.
She’d been with Phillip for only two weeks. Certainly, this baby was Jimmy’s.…
She walked in and Phillip was on the balcony, on the phone, and very, very angry.
“Find out who stole from me. Now!”
He threw the cordless phone across the room and it broke into pieces. He stared at her.
And in his eyes, she saw that he suspected.
Tell him you’re pregnant. It’ll save your life.
If you tell him you’re pregnant, he’ll never let you go.
Instead, she said, “Bad business deal?”
“I don’t want to talk about it. Where have you been?”
“Swimming. I’m famished. Breakfast?”
“I can’t now. Meet me for lunch at one. Don’t be late.”
He started to walk away, then turned back to her. “I’m sorry if I’m short-tempered, but someone I trusted broke my trust, and I cannot let that stand.”
After he left the hotel room, she packed her things and called Jimmy.
“Pick me up in ten minutes out front. We’re leaving.”
Maybe, if she rode this out, everything would work out and Phillip wouldn’t know about the paintings. At least, wouldn’t know that she had his stolen art.
But she couldn’t take that chance. Not after she had seen the violence in his cold blue eyes.
Chapter Twenty
PRESENT DAY
The buzzer downstairs rang three times. Max went downstairs with her Taser in hand. She wasn’t naturally paranoid, but between the incident with Gabriel yesterday, her conversation with David, and her new theory, she thought that a certain amount of caution was warranted. David wanted her to learn how to shoot
a gun, and while she had a small revolver in her apartment, and the permit to own it, she didn’t feel comfortable carrying it around so had never applied for a concealed carry permit.
Good thing she didn’t bring a gun to the door here, because her visitor was Special Agent Ryan Maguire with the FBI.
“A phone call would have sufficed,” she said.
He nodded at her Taser. “Expecting trouble?”
She just raised her eyebrows and didn’t comment. “You got here fast.” She closed the door behind him.
She wasn’t certain she could trust the fed, but she needed a second set of eyes on her information, and David was still in Miami. David had checked him out, and on the surface there were no red flags. But mostly, she needed his help because he specialized in art crimes. If anyone could confirm her theory, it would be Maguire.
He followed her upstairs. “I was already on my way when you left the message. I didn’t get it because I was in the tunnel and only listened to it when I was pulling up outside.”
“You were coming here? Why?”
“I talked to my boss, and he conditionally cleared you. Meaning, I can loop you in, but he’s still concerned because you’re a reporter. I assured him that this was a personal matter, and you’re more a victim or a witness than someone who’s going to stab the FBI in the back.”
“Only if you lie to me,” she said lightly.
“You’re serious, aren’t you?”
She didn’t answer the question, but it was clear that her tone didn’t match her words, and he should listen to her carefully.
“No lies. Either way,” he said.
She nodded. “I have a theory and a lot more questions.”
She led him to the dining table where she’d laid out all the postcards. “I don’t think that there’s anything relevant about the first five postcards. Martha sent them either for my birthday or because she was feeling a modicum of guilt for leaving me.”
“For what it’s worth, you seemed to do all right.”
“Better, I think, than if I stayed with her.” She stacked those cards to the side. “The one commonality is water—Hawaii, the cruise ship, etcetera. Not unusual—the one thing my mother and I have in common, or that I learned to appreciate from her, was water. I love the ocean, beaches, lakes, bubble baths—give me water and I’m happy.”
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