Radclyffe & Stacia Seaman - Romantic Interludes 2 - Secrets

by Radclyffe;Stacia Seaman

  I was scared to look at a dead person’s hair. I was curious about Sara, though. “What did she look like?”

  Grama rummaged in the box. “Here’s one of my pictures.”

  The photograph was of a woman and Grama many years before. Grama had been beautiful! I looked carefully at Grama, then looked at the photo again. They had their arms around each other and the first thing that struck me was: Happy. They’re happy. Grama’s mouth was wide open in the kind of smile I had never seen. Sara had wise, warm green eyes that calmly met mine. She was grinning big too, and hugging hard on Grama. Sara seemed to have the strength of the earth and Grama the strength of water. They were blissful. I felt pulled into the mystery and storytelling of that photo. “Can I keep this, please?” I held it to my chest trying to be closer to Sara and this new Grama. Grama smiled softly and caressed my hair and jaw in a graceful circle.

  “Of course you can. I’m glad you want it.”

  “You are so pretty. Am I pretty like you? Will I be when I’m finished growing?”

  “Sweet baby.” I had never heard Grama’s voice so tender. Had she spoken to Sara that way? “You are. You are now and you will be later. You’ll blossom into a helluva heartbreaker. The trick to beauty is to keep a sense of humor and to keep your heart pure.”

  This baffled me. But if I was pretty, okay. Everybody says Mom is beautiful; maybe it is, whatyoucallit, genetic. “Can I be a sentimental fool too?”

  “Honey,” Grama stretched the word into three syllables, “are you sure you want to be?”

  “Yes,” I answered simply.

  “Then count on it. You will be.”

  I tapped the picture. “Tell me some more?”

  “Someday.” Grama closed the box and hefted it to carry downstairs. I still sat on the bed, incomplete as yet.

  “Grama?” I stared mesmerized at the photo. Looking at it hard enough and long enough might bring more mature understanding. Their joy tugged at me. “Why did you save all this stuff?”

  Grama turned and replaced the box on the bed. She held my chin in her hand. “Well, child, to have proof that I once loved and was loved.”

  Shea Godfrey is an artist and writer working and living in the Midwest. While her formal education is in journalism and photography, she has spent most of her career thus far in 3D animation and design. Her romantic fantasy novel Nightshade is forthcoming from Bold Strokes in 2010.

  ’47 Cheval Blanc

  Shea Godfrey

  Finn Starkweather watched Cassandra Marinos step from the limousine, the shadow she cast along the pavement lengthened further by the slant of the lights along Stockton Street.

  Finn was fairly certain that should Ms. Marinos be in need of a weapon, most likely even her shadow, like the Prada heels that she wore, might come in handy. Not that Marinos was known for her violence, but she’d certainly added a few names to the walking wounded roster while she’d made her way up the food chain. The last of which was Terry Bannon, Interpol’s resident Ann Coulter with a dick. Finn smiled with more than a touch of glee. Two weeks, maybe more, for those tiny glass marbles to drop all over again.

  Casey spoke to the driver briefly and offered an easy smile, her blond hair brushing across her face in a cut that reminded Finn of Veronica Lake. It spilled onto the shoulders of the fawn-colored cashmere she wore against the night chill, looking sinfully soft despite the distance between them. The driver nodded and closed the door as Marinos walked toward the Campton Place Hotel. Finn leaned against the railing of the fire escape two flights up and one building over, her upper body tipping into midair as she tried to see Casey all the way in beneath the hotel awning.

  “Maybe you’ll fall down her dress.”

  “Maybe, but I wouldn’t have time to see much on the way down,” Finn cracked, pushing back and spinning about.

  “Are you sure this is going to work?”

  “Of course not.”

  Malik Kaseem smiled and pushed back the brim of his Manchester United hat. “Just another day of being dragged down the street in Texas.”

  “Speak for yourself,” Finn replied, wanting to laugh but unwilling to give him the edge.

  “We could just step up the surveillance, Finn, you don’t have to do this.”

  “We need a better view of the game, plain and simple. When the deal goes down, at the very least we have to be within spitting distance. Even with as much manpower as we can manage, we’ll come up short. And besides, I can’t think of anything else on such short notice that might play in our favor, can you?”

  Something that wouldn’t compromise your principles would be nice, Malik considered for the hundredth time. Or that wouldn’t break your heart. “Not really.”

  “Let’s just do it, then. I’m all grown up and taller than you besides.”

  “Yes, but are you wearing your clean knickers?”

  “Shut up.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Did you pick out the waiter?”

  “Yes. He seems very practiced.”

  “Why, because he’s French and knows a lot about cheese?”

  “No, because he didn’t ask any questions.”

  “How do I look?”

  Malik took a step back from his partner of eight years and gave her the once-over.

  A dark navy Jil Sander suit with bluish gray lapels worn over a pristine white shirt that he and his wife, Anna, had gotten Finn for Christmas. Her matching trousers were cut low and pleated, her silver buckled belt offsetting the harness buckles and rivets on her low-heeled Gucci boots, which she only wore when she was feeling cocky and out for blood. They had been babied over the years as all good leather should be, but they added a rough edge that suited Finn completely. Her soft, black hair was short and spiky about her face and she was as handsome as all hell.

  “Don’t make me repeat myself. You know I hate repeating myself.”

  “Sex on a stick, love,” Malik answered and then felt a twinge of regret, watching several different emotions darken her eyes. She flashed her trademark grin though and stepped into the punch, her right fist landing hard against Malik’s shoulder.

  “Go with God, my little bird,” he said, wincing.

  “Just don’t fuck it up,” Finn grumbled as she stepped from the fire escape and maneuvered through the open window. “Two weeks of surveillance and it all gets flushed because you can’t recognize a magnet the size of a brick.”

  “That wasn’t my fault,” he protested beneath his breath.

  “What was that?”

  He smiled at Finn’s raised voice somewhere behind him as he watched the traffic move along Stockton. The plan was never going to work and he knew it. Not because Finn couldn’t seduce Casey Marinos into slipping up or rushing her hand, but because he knew Finn would never go through with it. It wasn’t her style.

  He took his phone out and dialed. “It’s Malik,” he said in response to the voice on the other end. “Call everyone in, we’re kicking ass from the top on down. The deal fell through on this end.”

  *

  Finn stood just beyond the arch that led to the restaurant, watching Casey Marinos claim her reservation by one of the blue-tinted, etched windows. Her dress was cut low between her breasts and sleek, draped along her body as if the black fabric had spontaneously combusted along her skin in a burst of silk and sexuality. It was a Carolina Herrera original and Finn knew that it would somehow match Casey’s dark eyes, though she’d only stared into their depths through the filter of a surveillance camera.

  The headwaiter caught Finn’s attention for a brief instant and she gave a nod.

  Casey accepted the menu and ordered a drink, no doubt the 1998 Clos des Goisses that Finn knew was her favorite at the moment. The waiter would bring a ’47 Chateau Cheval Blanc instead. It had cost Finn ten grand for the damn thing, and she’d called in a very old favor besides, but it would be worth it just to see her take that first sip.

  Only the best of everything for one of the top ten thieves
in the world.

  Casey had never been caught and as yet, nothing had ever been proven against her. Years of investigations by private firms and Interpol as well, one after the other, and not a single scrap of evidence had ever been brought to bear. She had yet to make Interpol’s Red List, and barring a disaster of epic proportions, Finn doubted she ever would. When a rare work of art went missing, however, any one of Casey’s chosen names could be found on every short list in the world. Among certain circles it was no secret who she was or how she made her living.

  It had started for Finn in December of 2002, and it had started with Van Gogh.

  The police had captured the dynamic duo that had used a ladder splattered with old paint to break into the Van Gogh Museum in Amsterdam, not long after the theft actually, but they’d never recovered the paintings. And while Finn would not have chosen Scheveningen or Nuenen as Vincent’s best, they were worth thirty million collectively and still at large. Elysian Incorporated was on a very big hook for that money and they’d issued a reward that was a dream come true for the safe return of the paintings. Every bounty hunter who could draw a breath had, in one way or another, been on the scent for years.

  That was when Finn had first become aware of Cassandra Marinos, though not under that name. She’d gone by Alyssa Stavros at the time and her papers had been without reproach. It had taken Finn nearly six months to dig through the many layers of paint upon Casey’s elaborate canvas in order to find the true masterpiece hiding beneath. She’d kept tabs from a distance for years now, patiently waiting for her moment. Eleven months ago that moment had presented itself, and Finn had finally met Cassandra Marinos.

  Not in the flesh, never that, though after ten months of intense surveillance she knew more about Casey than she knew about her own blood. She knew what Casey’s favorite breakfast food was, and how she took her coffee. She knew what movies made her laugh, and her favorite authors. And she knew that when Casey was heartbroken, she would go to the sea and bide her time until her scars had healed. Finn knew she liked Australian Blue dogs, but her real weakness was for fat cats that liked the sun and too much food. She preferred the Audi to the Lexus, but when it came to speed she went with the Aston Martin, and she had a Vantage GT2 to prove her commitment to the edge. Finn even knew what toothpaste she used.

  But she’d never spoken to her face-to-face. She’d never looked into those eyes that were so dark they bordered upon black. She’d never smelled the scent of her hair or tasted the curve of her neck. She had watched her seduce more than her fair share of women over the past year. They were unworthy for the most part, in Finn’s opinion. They were careless and shallow in one way or another, and never a match for the depths that Finn saw hiding within Casey, even if she was less than honorable about how she made her living. They were mostly femme and always beautiful, and Finn had yet to see a look of genuine satisfaction upon Casey’s face when out and about with any one of them. She remained apart, only giving them what they needed in order to be satisfied. And if they demanded too much, Casey would quietly disappear, though not without a parting gift that might assuage any hard feelings her exodus might incur.

  It was one of those gifts that had given Finn her best chance yet of proving her theory that Cassandra Marinos was in possession of what she needed most. And it had put her on Casey’s trail in earnest.

  A bauble of diamonds and white gold, but it was a trinket worth twenty grand that had been stolen in Amsterdam just two days before the Van Goghs went missing. In Finn’s mind, it was no coincidence that a thief of Casey’s caliber just happened to be in Amsterdam at the same time the museum job went down. A man named Eric Werner had fenced the remaining items of that well-timed jewel heist, and Eric Werner was the conduit through which Vincent’s lost children would have to pass. He was the number one fence in central Europe, not only for Van Gogh, but Picasso, Monet, and Vermeer as well. For the past twenty years he had dealt exclusively in the underground art trade, and Finn knew that for Werner to take the time and energy to wash what would be for him a pittance in stolen ice, there had to be the deal of a lifetime waiting in the wings.

  Werner was in San Francisco at that very moment, along with a veritable melting pot of possible buyers from around the world. Most were private collectors that were inclined to skate beneath the radar, but Finn knew exactly who they were despite their discretion.

  As she stood there, however, it all seemed incredibly irrelevant.

  She couldn’t pinpoint exactly when she’d fallen in love with Casey Marinos during the past year, but fallen she had. She didn’t need to be told that it was an impossible situation and she didn’t stand a chance, even if the circumstances had been different. Casey might’ve been exactly what Finn ached for within the long dark hours of the night, but she was fairly certain that Casey had other ideas. She’s not why you’re here, Finn, get a grip. Eyes on the prize, Boy-o.

  Finn straightened and walked with confidence into the dining room of the Campton Place Restaurant.

  *

  Casey Marinos watched the tall butch with a close eye, a smile pulling at her lips. She had known that she was being watched but she hadn’t returned the attention, biding her time for the right opportunity. She found the woman utterly gorgeous, though she supposed some might not agree. Her features were strong and clean and from the stark cut of her suit, Casey could see that she had the lean, well-built body to back it up. There were a lot of women who would never find such a masculine energy appealing, but Casey hadn’t been so instantly attracted to another woman in years. She seemed familiar, actually, though Casey couldn’t quite place her. And I’m thinking that I would remember you.

  She looked toward the window once more with considerable effort. Another time, another place, perhaps, she mused, and we might play. She closed her eyes, the storm within her head seeming to ease at just the thought of finding a respite within the strong arms of such a lover. The soft authority of the right top could sway her like nothing else, which was why women like that were far too dangerous.

  Finn walked directly to the table and pulled out the empty chair, Casey looking up in genuine surprise.

  Finn favored her with a crooked grin and sat down smoothly, leaning back as she crossed her legs. The waiter arrived but a second later, setting two wineglasses on the table as a second server placed the ice bucket beside Finn, the ’47 Cheval Blanc nestled within and waiting.

  “It’s not what you ordered, I’m sure, but I have it on good authority that it’s just as good as anything you might find here,” Finn said, her heart beating quickly at the dark brown of Casey’s eyes. I was right…Sweet Jesus, they’re almost black.

  Casey couldn’t help but smile, her eyes filled with curiosity as they studied Finn’s face close up. Flawless skin with strong features and classic lines. Her hair was a lovely, tousled mess of short, black strands and her dark caramel eyes were filled with warmth and more than a hint of challenge. It was their heat, however, that Casey found instantly compelling, so much so that for a heartbeat, it threw her completely off her game.

  Finn poured them each a drink and then lifted her glass with a genuine smile. “My name is Finn O’Connell.”

  Casey laughed, her eyes lighting up at the sheer audacity of the scene. “O’Connell.” Their glasses clinked together. “Something about the strength of a wolf, yes?”

  “I don’t know, it’s all Irish to me,” Finn replied. “All’s I know is that me gran had a feud with an Angus Boyle across the fence. They used to throw potatoes and curse in Gaelic.”

  Casey took a drink, liking the hard, quick feel of her pulse. “Pog mo thoin?”

  Finn laughed, a flush of heat moving along her neck. Kiss me arse.

  “Good God!” Casey spoke in shock, eyeing her glass with pleasure. “What is this?”

  Definitely worth it. “Tell me your name first.”

  An eyebrow was raised.

  “Too bold?”

  “I’d say that train left the stat
ion without you.”

  “Yes, but if I’d waited for you, I’d still be standing all alone.”

  “You think?” Casey asked, letting out a small breath at the crooked grin that moved across Finn’s luxurious mouth. It seemed to be a somewhat permanent fixture on her handsome face, aside from being one of the loveliest things that Casey had encountered in a very long time.

  “Tell me your name.”

  Samantha Drake, Casey thought but didn’t say. It was on the tip of her tongue, waiting and ready, but she couldn’t do it. She liked Samantha. Samantha was always in charge and never at a loss, never in doubt. Samantha was always in control. Control is an illusion. I don’t want control. But I’m thinking that’s not what you see, is it, Finn O’Connell.

  “Okay, how about this,” Finn offered, setting her glass down and leaning forward. “I buy you dinner and we finish the wine… We could go dancing then, if you’d like, or at least in search of some decent music. There’s a place not too far from here, Biscuits an—”

  “Blues.” Casey smiled, finishing her sentence. “And if I were to tell you that I’m waiting for my husband?”

  Finn considered the question. “I’d say…”

  Casey waited patiently, wanting to laugh at the careful expression on Finn’s face. “Yes?”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “You’re so gay I could feel it from across the room.”

  “And you’re never wrong?”

  Finn smiled. “Frequently, but not about this.”

  Casey sipped her wine, distracted by its taste once more and glancing at the bottle. The label was turned away from her, but the bottle was old, sending part of her mind down a different path in search of a vintage.