Take It Down

by Kira Sinclair

  “Let’s just say I had my reasons.”

  Elle looked down at the paper sitting on the polished wooden counter between them. She reached a single fingertip and rubbed it over the reproduction of her grandmother’s face. Tears she thought had been completely spent began to gather and sting at the back of her throat. She pushed them back.

  “I know I don’t deserve it, but I would really appreciate it if I could see the painting. That’s all I’m asking for.”

  Marcy stared at her for several seconds. She probed Elle’s gaze, but Elle refused to flinch.

  “I’ll see what I can do. I might be able to get you a few minutes later tonight.”

  “Thank you,” Elle breathed, reaching across and grasping the other woman’s hand.

  “Don’t hold your breath. Simon’s supposed to go to the mainland tonight, which means his office would be free. But he often changes plans at the last second. And if he stays, there’s no way in hell I’m going to let you into his office. Not even if you were the queen.”

  “I understand.”

  Elle walked away, feeling giddy. Not euphoric, more like she’d just gone cliff diving and couldn’t believe she’d lived to tell the tale. She was finally going to see the painting again, after all these years. See her Nana.

  She would have thought the only thing she’d be was excited.

  What she hadn’t expected was the layer of disappointment and sadness that accompanied the realization that whatever happened, her time here was almost over.

  ZANE BARGED INTO SIMON’S office without knocking. It was a big no-no, even for him. He didn’t care. He needed some answers and he needed them now.

  Simon looked up from the monitors that sat on his desk, shielding him from the world. When he was working his focus narrowed to the two screens.

  How Marcy thought Simon played online games and poker all day, Zane would never understand. Maybe it was because that’s what Simon wanted her to think.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Simon growled. His eyes were bleary. The man probably hadn’t slept in forever. Now that he thought about it, Zane hadn’t seen Simon for the past twenty-four hours.

  “I need to ask you a couple of questions.”

  “Can’t this wait? I’m a little busy right now.” Simon gestured toward the computer.

  “No. No, it can’t.”

  Zane’s gaze traveled around the room, zeroing in on the painting on the far side that hung between matching bookshelves.

  It had always been there, but Zane had never really looked at it. Hadn’t had a reason to. And when he walked into this room, it was usually with an agenda.

  The photo in the magazine didn’t do it justice.

  He walked closer, ignoring the sputtered sound of exasperation behind him. The painting was striking. Not just because of the rich color palette the artist had used—gold, crimson, browns so deep they were almost black. There was a connection, ostensibly between the artist and the model staring out of the canvas over her shoulder. But the direct gaze of the woman brought everyone into that moment. Her welcoming eyes, full of mischief and desire and promise…

  Zane felt a tug deep in the center of his body as he stared at the woman with the deep red robe wrapped partway around her, trailing off her shoulders as if she would drop it at any moment.

  Desire shot through him. For a second he was seriously weirded out. He’d never had that reaction to a painting in his life. He’d seen nudes before. Taken art history as an elective in college. Not to mention the fact that the woman currently turning him on was the grandmother of his lover.

  And then he realized something. It was the eyes. They were Elle’s.

  The bright gray eyes. They were unusual. Arresting. In person and on canvas.

  And it was proof to him that Elle had been telling the truth—although he hadn’t really needed any. From the moment she’d raised her tear-glazed eyes as she’d told her story, he’d known she was being truthful. Finally.

  “Where did you get this painting?”

  “I don’t know.” The impatience oozing out of Simon didn’t help Zane’s temper.

  “Damn it, Simon. Am I Marcy?”

  “Noo.” His friend drew out the single syllable, probably wondering where the trick was and how the question was relevant.

  If there was anything that Simon loved, it was solving puzzles. It was one reason he was such a good thriller writer.

  “Do I interrupt you on a regular basis?”

  “Well…”

  “Let me rephrase. Do I interrupt you with needless concerns or unimportant details?”

  “You mean, aside from the redhead you handcuffed to a chair, oh, and disappearing into the jungle with her and scaring the hell out of half the staff?”

  It was Zane’s turn to growl.

  “Fine. No, you are one of the few people who do not interrupt me for the sheer pleasure of watching steam pour out of my ears.”

  Triumph in his voice, Zane said, “So, can we just skip the preliminaries and agree that I wouldn’t be here if this wasn’t important?”

  Simon narrowed his eyes for several seconds, turned his attention back to the computer only long enough to close out whatever he’d been working on and then leaned back in his chair. Zane now had his full attention.

  “Where did you get this painting?”

  “My decorator showed it to me.”

  “Where did your decorator find it?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t play twenty questions. She showed it to me. I liked it. I bought it. She had it hung in my office. I decided it wasn’t appropriate for downstairs in the guest areas.”

  “Why not? I mean, aren’t we really selling sex?”

  “No, Mr. Cynical. We are selling a fantasy. Sex is sometimes a result. But not always. You certainly haven’t indulged in the favorite island pastime…until recently.”

  His friend leaned even farther back in his chair, clasping his hands behind his head and lounging in a deceptively relaxed pose.

  “Screw you. And stop changing the subject.”

  “I wasn’t the one who changed it, my friend. You’re the one who brought up sex. I’m wondering if that’s because you aren’t getting enough, or can’t stop thinking about getting more.”

  Zane decided to ignore him and the truth behind his words. “The painting. Were there any papers? Did the decorator provide provenance?”

  “Provide what?”

  “Provenance. Proof of ownership. Proof that the painting was legitimate. Clean. Not stolen.”

  “Not that I remember. But then, I was a little preoccupied at the time. She might have and I just didn’t pay attention.”

  Which didn’t shock Zane in the least.

  “What is this all about, Zane?”

  “Someone has made a claim that this painting is stolen.”

  “How do they even know that I have it?”

  Zane looked at him incredulously, fighting the urge to smack Simon upside the head. “Did you even look at the ad Marcy spent so much time and energy on?”

  “No. Why would I? That’s her job. And she’s more than capable of handling it. Why would I hire someone and then micromanage every little thing they do? That’s just silly.”

  “So is buying a painting without knowing if it could be legally sold or not.”

  “I can’t imagine my decorator would buy stolen property.” The small smile that curled the edges of Simon’s lips made Zane want to cringe.

  “You slept with her, didn’t you?”

  “Who?”

  “The decorator!”

  “Yeah. She was beautiful and a hell of a lay.”

  “Jesus, Simon. When are you going to grow up? College was a long time ago.”

  “I don’t know, Zane. When are you going to have the stick up your ass surgically removed?”

  Zane’s back teeth rubbed together. A headache the size of Texas accompanied the molar friction.

  “I need to see any paperwork that you have
, Simon. Preferably now.”

  “Fine.” Standing, Simon walked across to the shelves. The bottom half of both contained drawers that held files. As Simon pulled the far left one open, Zane saw the neat tabs with their perfect handwriting and knew Marcy had organized everything inside. Which was a good thing. It meant that Simon might actually be able to find what he needed. Before next week.

  While he was waiting, Zane’s gaze skimmed across Simon’s line of books. Every subject imaginable was represented. Antiques, archaeology, psychology, weapons, terrorism, law, evidence. And art. Almost an entire shelf dedicated to art, art theft, famous heists, unsolved cases.

  Zane’s gaze swung back to his friend. For a brief moment, he wondered how well he really knew the man. They’d lived in each other’s back pockets during college, but that was years ago.

  Zane shook his head. There was a rational explanation as to why Simon had those books on his shelf. And he knew what it was. The same reason weapons books lined the shelf below—research.

  “There.” Simon held out a crisp manila folder labeled Art Acquisitions 2009. “Whatever you need should be in there. If it isn’t, I don’t have it.”

  Zane spun on his heel, grasping the folder tightly in his fist. He was almost to the door when Simon’s voice stopped him. “Zane, I’m assuming you’ll take care of this for me? I really don’t have time for interruptions right now.” The languid, careless tone that always permeated his friend’s voice had disappeared, leaving behind an edge of desperation that Zane didn’t often hear from Simon.

  “Yeah. I’ll take care of it.”

  “Thanks. I’ll be on the mainland tonight, but I’ll be back in the morning if you need anything else. And I promise not to snarl at you…much…if you interrupt. I really hate to think that I bought a stolen painting. If it belongs to someone else, I want to know.”

  And there was the core of the man Zane knew. Underneath the disinterested exterior, beat the heart of a man with integrity, drive and passion.

  Damn it. How had they all gotten into this mess?

  Zane took the folder to the Crow’s Nest. After waving Tom back into the seat before the monitors, he opened it up and began flipping through the pages. They’d acquired many pieces of art in 2009. He recognized several of the paintings he’d shown Elle a few days ago.

  What he was looking for was buried close to the back. A single piece of paper was stapled to a picture of the painting. That was it. A bill of sale, with nothing more.

  Completely unhelpful. He honestly wasn’t sure what he’d hoped to find. He believed Elle’s story, but he had enough experience with the legal system to know that her lawyer was right—no court would award her the painting, since she couldn’t prove it was hers. Simon’s paperwork might be flimsy, but it would hold up against nothing.

  He could always ask his friend to give Elle the painting. Hell, Simon would probably do it without blinking an eye. But Zane wasn’t sure how he felt about that. Was it wrong? Was it right? Could he ask his friend to give up a painting worth thousands of dollars just so that he could see the smile on Elle’s face?

  For the first time in a long time, Zane faced a decision that wasn’t black-and-white. Dread tightened his stomach for a moment. The last time he’d had to make a tough decision, he’d made the wrong one, and Felicity had paid the price.

  But this wasn’t life and death. It was just a painting, one that meant so much to Elle but probably nothing at all to Simon. He’d talk to his friend—ask him to consider selling the painting to Elle. Or giving it to her. Or whatever Simon felt was right. He’d do it tomorrow when Simon returned—he’d probably already left, or was getting ready to leave, and wouldn’t be very receptive.

  In the meantime, Zane had the overwhelming urge to see Elle, to hold her and touch her. The vision of her sitting on her bed, a tear rolling down her face, made his chest tighten all over again. He wouldn’t mention his plan to her, not until he’d talked to Simon. He had no idea what his boss would do and the last thing he wanted was to get Elle’s hopes up, only to see them dashed again.

  12

  ELLE HAD TIME TO KILL, SO she decided to jump in the shower and stay there until her fingers were pruny. She washed her hair, conditioned it twice and took her time spreading the coconut-and-floral body wash the resort had supplied over her skin.

  She closed her eyes, tipped her head back and let the hot water stream over her face and body.

  You’d think in a tropical location she’d have preferred a dip in the pool, but she really didn’t. The heat and cloud of moisture seemed to insulate her as nothing else could.

  Which was probably why she didn’t realize Zane was there until his hand reached through the fog and pulled open the glass door. Steam swirled out as a chill leaked in.

  Elle jerked around in the spray, sending rivulets of water cascading onto the stone floor. Her breath backed up into her lungs. A yearning so deep it made her ache took up residence inside her chest. It made her angry, this vulnerability that she didn’t ask for and that she knew was going to come back to bite her in the ass.

  Instead of reaching for him as she wanted to, she flung up defensive words. “How’d you get in here?”

  A key, no doubt an exact copy of hers, dangled from his outstretched fingers. Without thinking, Elle snatched it and flung it into the corner, hoping it might land in the toilet. No such luck.

  “Isn’t that an abuse of power? I didn’t say you could come in.”

  But, God, she wanted him here. She shouldn’t. He’d walked out on her just hours before, leaving her broken and alone.

  His eyes raked down her body and a warm buzz washed through her. After the way he’d left, she’d been so afraid she’d never get to touch him again. Relief mixed with a bone-crushing desire that made her grip the edge of the glass door for support.

  “Hotel personnel have the right to enter any room we need to. It’s part of the fine print you signed when you checked in.”

  “That’s…underhanded, Officer Edwards.”

  “That’s business, Ms. Monroe.”

  “Why are you here?”

  “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “I lied to you.”

  “And were planning on stealing a painting in my care.”

  Her lips twisted into a grimace.

  “But you didn’t.”

  “No.”

  He reached for her, clearly not caring that water rolled down his outstretched arm to soak the cuff of his sleeve. His fingers ghosted across her skin, flicking one of her already puckered nipples.

  She’d laid all of her cards on the table, opened herself up to him and told him the truth. And he was still here.

  He’d come back and, right now, she wasn’t willing to look a gift horse in the mouth.

  Elle wrapped her hand into the material covering his chest and tried to use the handle to pull him into the steamy shower stall.

  “I’m dressed and you’re wet. Why don’t you come out here?”

  “You have exactly thirty seconds to lose whatever you don’t want ruined before I use some tricks my father taught me and have you on your knees in front of me.”

  “You really think you could take me?” Zane, apparently reading that she was dead serious, began hopping on one foot and then the other as he shed his shoes, socks, pants and shirt. She thought maybe, just maybe, he’d broken some sort of record considering he had at least fifteen seconds to spare.

  “I think I could enjoy trying.” She grinned at him, impish and excited.

  “Something we both agree on.”

  Indrawn breath hissed through his teeth as Zane stepped into the shower. “Holy hell, that’s hot.”

  Elle shrugged. “I like a little punishment with my pleasure.”

  “Either that, or the pain receptacles in your skin no longer work.”

  “That, too.”

  The heat didn’t stop Zane for long. His arms snaked around her body, pulling her tight against him even as he backed her a
gainst the cold glass surrounding the shower. The sharp contrast sent a shiver through her body.

  She would have thought that after her long minutes beneath the spray, her skin would have become desensitized to heat. She’d have been wrong. Wherever he touched her, she burned. The scalding water was nothing compared to the heat of him.

  His mouth latched on to her body—her neck, her shoulder, her lips and puckered breasts. He was frantic. And she loved it. Loved knowing that she could push him to that extreme with little effort. If she hadn’t been so frenzied herself, she might have stopped long enough to wonder what had put him in the state. It was…unexpected.

  His hands scoured her body, tweaking, rubbing, massaging and teasing. Her knees sagged beneath her, her fight to hold herself up against his onslaught lost when it’d barely begun.

  Zane didn’t wait for her to cling to him for support. Instead, he reached down, grasped one thigh and wrapped it high above his hip. Holding the other, he filled his palm with the globes of her rear and boosted her up until she had no choice but to wrap her other leg around him and hang on to him for dear life.

  Although, she wasn’t complaining.

  Her back scraped over the glass. Her skin, sticky with moisture, squeaked against the cool panes.

  His long, hard erection jutted between them. As his mouth was occupied lapping up the droplets of water that clung to her neck, Elle wiggled her hips in the hope of joining their bodies and ending the pressure building between her thighs.

  He wouldn’t cooperate.

  She grasped him, positioning the head of his penis at her weeping entrance, but he refused to thrust inside. Instead, he used the pressure of his body against hers to pin her hips where he wanted them and to hold her still. He imprisoned her hand between them, still wrapped tightly around his erection. She could feel the blood as it flowed through his veins, could count the escalating pulse of his increasing desire.

  The tiny thrusts that Zane did allow did nothing more than brush the head of his cock across her already-swollen flesh. Several times, he slipped inside, pulling a gasp from her before she realized he’d go no farther than an inch.

  And she wanted so much more. Knew he could give her so much more.