Concern lanced through Tom. “Is she blocked often?”
“No. The muse is a bitchy mistress, though. She’s painting with an edge of desperation—like if she doesn’t get it out, it’ll be gone. I’d leave her alone for a bit.”
Tom had planned on going over after shift, maybe taking her to an early supper or a drive to the reservoir. He’d have to wait now. Disappointment clawed against good sense. He was going crazy. The out-of-his-control feeling made him edgy. Struggling for composure, he focused on the job at hand. “I filed a report on the forgeries this morning.”
Jonathan nodded, obviously expecting that. “I talked with the private investigator last night.”
“And?”
“All the paintings sold from that gallery I believe are Summer’s. I won’t know until I actually look at the photos, which he’s express mailing to me. I still need to do some verifications and confirm with Summer, but it appears that isn’t an avenue we need to worry about.”
“Exactly how long ago did you discover the first forgery and how?” Tom leaned back in his chair, twirling his pen from finger to finger over his knuckles.
“The woman who owns the gallery in Miami is a…ah…personal friend. She’s been handling Summer’s art for quite some time. She noted something seemed off when the first painting arrived about a month ago. She was remodeling and set the canvas aside to confer with me, but I was in Europe. Then last week two more paintings arrived at her shop. Her suspicions were triggered by the plain packaging with no return address and no shipping papers with appropriate reference numbers. Also, something bugged her about the composition, as Summer pointed out. She called me, and I had her ship the paintings to me. I told Summer, but she left to come here and hadn’t actually seen them, hence why I brought pictures of the works.”
“How many galleries handle Summer’s work?”
“Four.” Jonathan took a sip of coffee. “New York, Deer Valley, Phoenix, and Miami. We’re adding one in Santa Fe in three months—she’s having a show there.”
“Have you checked with them?”
“Assigned that to the private detective. He’s going to check each store personally and confirm their inventory. I’ve asked each gallery owner to cooperate. By tomorrow, I should have pictures of all the paintings they have on hand, coupled with their sales lists to verify. That way we can see if there are any “extras.” We keep digital photographs of each painting for website promotions and my staff assigns unique reference numbers to each painting to track before shipment.”
Tom sat quiet for moment. “Let’s talk about motive again. Money, destroy her reputation, thrill?”
Jonathan sipped his coffee. “A few forgeries aren’t going to destroy her reputation, unless it becomes an ongoing problem. There’s always something about a knockoff that tips you off to this being a cheaper version of her art and probably not done by her. Unfortunately, that’s not the case here. These look as close to hers as anyone has ever gotten. Art forgery dates back two-thousand years. It’s been handled a multitude of ways, some more inventive than others.”
Tom raised a brow. “Like what?
“Picasso once said that he’d sign a very good forgery. Jean Corot painted seven hundred paintings, and signed copies made by others because he was honored to be copied. It wasn’t such a lucrative business back then, though, with millions of dollars at stake and laws to punish artistic infringement. Obviously, these are unique original copies of Summer’s style, not copies of her work.”
Tom dropped his pen on the table and made his way to the refrigerator in the corner of the day room. “Interesting you should mention that. I had a long talk with our prosecuting attorney this morning. That’s essentially our problem here. These aren’t copies of Summer’s actual work, but they are done in her style so that people think they are hers, and yet no money is exchanging hands. Hence, no profit for motive.” He took a Coke from the fridge and settled back at his desk.
“So prosecution is going to be difficult?”
“Certainly you’d have a civil case, but a federal or criminal case? That’s dicier. But let’s not cross that bridge yet. We need facts. We need to find out who and how and why first. Then we’ll worry about how to prosecute the person.”
“I’ve confiscated the three we found, compensating the gallery owner for her trouble. All the gallery owners will be on the lookout now. And I’ve put in place more stringent shipping protocols so there will be a red flag if they arrive in a different manner.”
Tom leaned back in his chair. “Good. I’ve also scheduled to fingerprint all the paintings at the house. Maybe the person handled Summer’s work. We’ll see what pops there.”
Jonathan twirled his coffee cup in his hands. “What are the chances our answer is in the fingerprinting?”
Tom shrugged. “Slim to none. Summer’s handled them. I’ve handled them, but we’ll see. Can a gallery carry her work without being authorized?”
“Happens all the time. If they buy a painting she sold to a private client, certainly. That’s what gives me nightmares. She has customers all over the world with the usual array of galleries, city by city. Someone decides to change their decorating and sells her piece; it can go to another person or a gallery which we know nothing about. It’s like dominos. But I can backtrack from her “sold” paintings list and confirm where each painting is, but it’s going to take time.”
“For me, the question is why leave four fake paintings in Walter’s house? That logic doesn’t track.” Tom tapped his pen on the table. “I’ve made a list of all the people in town who have one or more of her Echo Falls series.”
“Her Echo Falls series. I like that.” Jonathan shoved the large binder across the table. “I had pictures reprinted of all her paintings. Some of these are shown on her website. I thought that might help. Obviously, none of the Echo Falls paintings are in here.”
Tom took the hefty binder, stunned at the size. “Thanks. Essentially, I thought we could start by visiting each person here in town and confirm authenticity. Depending on our results, we’ll decide what to do next from there.”
Jonathan rose, tossing his empty coffee cup in the trash. “Good plan, but wait until she’s finished painting. This one looks like a masterpiece.”
“How long will that take?”
“Only the muse knows. Check late tonight.”
Tom walked him to the front door, promising to leave Summer alone. Reining himself in was going to be an impossible challenge. He took his time going back to the desk, clearing his mind.
When he sat down with the binder, he focused his concentration on Summer’s paintings. She had a stunning array—landscapes from all over the world, from Napa Valley to Italy, from the Badlands to Brazil. He considered himself a pretty good cop. He had the patience, the procedural knowledge and experience to sift through the information, and the smarts to find the answers.
The man struggled with maybe she’d go, maybe she’d stay.
The cop was determined that no one would continue to hurt her.
££££££
Summer stood with the refrigerator open and gulped a bottle of water. Paint smeared the plastic, matching her hands. In a few solid swallows, the water was gone. Her stomach growled, but the shelves lacked anything appetizing. The light pierced the darkness, intensifying the burn in her eyes.
Where had the day gone, and what time was it? Her shoulders, neck, and feet throbbed with pain and fatigue. Yet, the painting was finished, and the swell of joy and utter satisfaction in her heart couldn’t be contained.
She did a little jig around the floor.
The porch swing creaked, stopping her mid-jig. Her cell phone was upstairs, and there wasn’t even a paring knife in the kitchen any more. And for crying out loud, she didn’t even know if the wind was blowing outside. She’d been in the zone all day. It could be nothing.
She tiptoed back down the hall to the front door in the dark and edged apart the dusty curtains on the window ov
erlooking the porch.
There in the moonlight in all his dark, handsome solidness, sat Tom. He was pushing the swing with one foot and had a paper bag at his feet—a dream in the darkness. Colors rushed at her in a bold, compelling swirl, and she nearly collapsed to her backside on the floor. “I am not swooning, and I’m definitelynothaving a reaction to a surge of lust. I’m hungry, and the man has food.”
She eased open the door and gently pushed the screen door. Even though careful, it still squeaked. By the time she peered around the doorframe, he had risen to his feet, ruining the archangel image. What a disappointment.
“Hand over the food, and you won’t get hurt.” Her voice rusted out of her like a tired wagon wheel.
He chuckled, and the genuine sound started the damn colors in her head again. “Come and get it.”
“What did you bring?” She could make out the Sonic logo on the sack, and her mouth watered.
“Burgers, chicken strips, fries, onion rings, milkshakes. Didn’t know what you liked, so I brought a bit of it all.”
Bastard. “That’s a heart attack waiting to happen you know.” She licked her lips, smelling the burgers, the onion rings. Or maybe she was so hungry she was imagining things. Her stomach growled, calling her a liar.
“I heard that, honey. Come on out here. Sit a spell. We’ll snack. And tomorrow, we’ll exercise it off.”
Visions of white sheets and strenuous activity flashed through her brain like a sprinkler head erupting.
She hesitated, a bit of feminine pride plaguing her. “I’m a mess. I’ve been painting. I’ve got it all over me.”
“A little yellow on my shirt won’t hurt me.”
She shrugged. “Okay, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
She let the screen door slam behind her and walked across the porch. “What time is it anyway?” He took his place back on the end of the swing.
She sat beside him and pulled her knees up to her chest, breathing in the night air, the subtle sweetness from the flowers, the mouth-watering aroma of the food, and the musk of a warm, sexy male.
“It’s almost midnight.”
A hamburger appeared near her nose. She snatched it from his hands and devoured it much the same way she’d downed the water. He watched her, amusement in the quirk of his mouth.
“What? I haven’t eaten since last night.” She forced herself to slow down, to chew the remaining bites slowly, as if at a state dinner.
“There’s plenty,” was all he said.
She ate, he nibbled. As he handed over food, he snagged a few of her fries, a bite of her chicken strips. And he kept the swing moving at a slow, easy pace. Finally full, she wiped her hands on her shorts—really they were ruined with paint anyway.
“Chocolate or vanilla?” Tom asked.
“Vanilla.”
“That surprises me. I figured chocolate.”
“I like my chocolate in cake, in coffee, in candy— not in my ice cream.” She shrugged. “I’m weird. What can I say?”
“No need to say anything. I’m flexible about my shakes, don’t mess with my coffee, and I don’t eat like this all the time, so you better enjoy.”
“Oh, I did.” She turned sideways in the seat and stretched her feet over his lap.
He handed her a milkshake, and she took a couple of sips of the cool concoction, letting it roll around on her tongue before she swallowed.
She nearly arched out of her seat when he placed his thumbs on her feet and massaged the sore spots. “Oh, God. That feels so good.”
“You shouldn’t paint so long at a stretch.”
“Yeah, well I have to do what I have to do.” She pressed her foot toward him, silently asking for an increase in pressure.
He accommodated her with a full foot massage. Gads, this guy was a keeper.
She sat up at that thought. No, no, no warred with yes, yes, yes.
“Your grandfather worried about you.” The air sucked out of the night.
It took her a minute to get her mind off his hands stroking her feet, and the tingling in her breasts and between her thighs. “We probably shouldn’t talk about that now.” She didn’twant to talk about that now.
“I was harsh with you when you first got here.”
“Yes, you were.” She bit her lip, frustration rising. For the sake of finishing this conversation for good, she continued. “I’m not sure it wasn’t justified though. I just don’t know anymore.”
“In my defense, I was grieving his loss. He’d been a good friend to me. I of all people know how complicated family relationships can be. I don’t blame you.”
“He never believed.”
“He did. At the end for sure. Maybe before that.”
“I never gave him the chance to tell me.” The regret punched up behind her breastbone; tears welled in her eyes.
He squeezed her foot, transmitting an understanding of her emotion. “He was worried about you, about what would happen to you when he died. You’d lost so many. He was all that was left.”
“He could see how much my art meant to me, though. Why couldn’t he have just understood that, let me try?”
Tom stroked her foot, a caress now more than a continuation of the massage. “I don’t have the answer to that. You were a subject we skated around.”
“But you tried to talk to him?”
“I did once or twice. He just kept saying you made your choice, and that in the long run, it turned out to be right.”
“Why doesn’t that make me feel better?”
He stroked a thumb under her eye to wipe away a tear. “I didn’t mean to kill the mood. I just wanted to say I’m sorry for the way I acted when you got to town. I’m sorry for the things I said. I was only viewing the problem from a narrow perspective, and I know better than that.”
She leaned sideways to set her shake down, and then reached for his hand. He gave a strong pull and moved her to his lap. His hands attacked the muscles in her neck and shoulders, and she dropped her head to his chest, moaning like a pampered cat.
She wasn’t sure how long she sat there letting him rub tight muscles into submission, wasn’t even sure if she hadn’t fallen asleep against his chest. The rumble of his voice against her ear roused her.
“I should go.”
“Why?” She wiggled closer, feeling his hardness against her thigh. Instantly she surged from relaxed and compliant to aroused and teasing. She buried her nose in his neck, rubbing against the warm skin, then lightly bit his neck.
He jerked, his arms tightening around her.
“My world has turned on its axis since the reality of you arrived,” he whispered against her ear. The colors burst behind her eyes again. She yearned for his touch, along her cheek, across her breasts and stomach, at the very core of her. “We aren’t ready for this,” he muttered, setting her away from him and back to her spot at the end of the swing.
Her mind agreed, but her body didn’t, and that ignited her temper. “Speak for yourself.”
He swiped a hand through his hair and over his face, then gave her a look that melted her from fingertips to soul. “We’ve had one date.”
“So?”
“So are you always so argumentative when a guy’s trying to do the right thing?”
She deflated, unsure of herself. “Do what you want. I need sleep.”
Summer rose to her feet, trying for a haughty exit, except Tom put his hand on her arm. The warmth of his touch sizzled through layers of confused emotions. She plunked back in her seat.
“Kiss me goodnight,” Tom whispered, drawing her down the bench.
“Is that an order?” She crossed her arms, comforting herself against a rush of need.
“You know it’s not.” He leaned in, and settled his mouth against hers.
She wrapped her arms around his neck. His mouth swept over hers and it was unclear who was doing the devouring, him or her. She traced his lip with her tongue—tasting chocolate and some essence of Tom that sent a shiver from
head to toe. He deepened the kiss, his heart pounding next to hers. She anchored her fingers in his short hair and shifted closer, but Tom broke away to kiss her nose, eyelids, her forehead and down the side of her cheek.
“Every damn time, you wreck me,” he whispered.
She nuzzled her nose against his neck. “You wanted a kiss goodnight.”
Tom’s silent chuckle rubbed her breasts against the solid plane of his muscles. She arched her back desperate for more. She would have been offended when he coaxed her from his lap, but he was moaning like a man in pain.
“I really have to go.”
Summer’s body screamed an objection. But her mind chose that moment to acknowledge why she’d come here, and that she’d be better off protecting her heart and remembering where she belonged. She slid to the other end of the bench, finding by some miracle, backbone in her spine. “Go then. I need to sleep.”
He reached to run a finger down her cheek. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“If you wish.” She bit her lip against the desperate edge in her tone.
He hesitated for a moment, then went down the walk. She rose and leaned against the porch post, waiting for the engine to start, the tires to roll on the gravel, the moment to close.
But his truck door hadn’t opened. She peered through the dark. He stood with his hand on the handle, his other hand braced on the cab, staring at the ground in utter stillness.
She stayed frozen, breath stopped in her throat. She needed him to turn around and come back to her, she wanted a night—one night before she left, one night to know if what she was feeling was true. Just one night.Please, Tom, please. Turn around.
He slapped the edge of his truck, the sound swallowed into the night like a rabbit disappearing into its warren. The crickets sang to them. The lush scent of roses drifted on the air. He straightened and stared at her. Her silent plea became hope.
He started back toward her, and didn’t stop until he hit the porch and he’d lifted her into his arms.
“I can’t leave. Walking away may be the right thing, but it feels dreadfully wrong.” His head rested on the top of hers for a moment, long enough for the pleasure of being swept off her feet to settle in a tight fist in her womb.
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