He entered the house. He hadn’t seen another car, so a visitor was unlikely, but there were many places an intruder could park hidden from the road and then walk in if they didn’t want to be seen.
From the living room, he heard her.
“I can be in position on Friday afternoon, once I figure out how to get us in at the gala.”
Hudson relaxed. She was on the phone. He started to go farther into the house, to alert her to his presence, but stopped at her next words.
“Why on Earth would I invite Hudson into this mess?” A pause. “You’re crazy. I told you the last thing I need to worry about is a civilian while I’m trying to steal a painting worth…I know, at least the Mondrian is small.”
She wasn’t serious, was she? Her voice was normal, as if she was discussing the weather, but her words were out of The Thomas Crown Affair or something.
“Let’s decide later. Can you make it back up here with the specs, or can we risk email? Okay. Some of my gear is in San Francisco, though I do have my gun, but….”
What the hell was going on? He barged into the kitchen, intent on finding out.
She fumbled with the phone when she saw him, but she was cool under pressure, he had to admit. She changed her tone to an even calmer, more solicitous one, probably to signal to the person on the other end of the line that she had company.
“Of course. I have to go now. Thanks for calling.” She hung up as if everything was ordinary. “Hello.”
He thought he was too angry to speak, but he managed to growl a greeting.
“What brings you by?” she asked brightly. “I was bringing in my groceries when I got a phone call. I have flats and flats of impatiens and geraniums in the car.”
“You know I overheard you,” he said, ignoring her attempts to smooth things over.
“I don’t know what you think you overheard—”
“I heard things about stealing paintings and Mondrians and guns, for God’s sake,” Hudson barked. He couldn’t remember the last time he was this angry.
“Oh.”
She tucked her hair behind her ears and put on a placating smile, but he wasn’t about to be handed a load of bullshit. He’d suspected there was something off about her, and he finally had the leverage to find out what she was hiding.
“Don’t even try. I want to know what is going on, what you are involved in, who the hell you are. Guns and stealing and Cézanne masterpieces in your bedroom!”
“I’d hardly call it a masterpiece. One of his better from the period, but—”
“God damn it, Eve!”
“Let’s bring in—”
“Screw the impatiens.”
“I won’t have ice cream melting all over my beautiful hardwood,” she shot back. She strode past him, defying him with every step. Buying herself some time.
He kept within five feet of her at all times, grudgingly helping her carry in what seemed like a hundred grocery bags to the kitchen, following her when she went out to lock the car, then handing her the perishable items to stow in the refrigerator once back in. They were both silent as they acted out the domestic scene. He had a feeling she was trying to figure out what lies she could tell him to make him go away. He wasn’t going to let her off the hook, and he’d play house with her all day—and all night—if that’s what it took to get her to confide in him.
Finally, Eve gestured for him to take a seat at the kitchen bar. She filled her electric teakettle, got out mugs and a teapot and Rue’s honey. The gentle hissing of the water coming to boil faded to the background as she spoke.
“I know what you heard sounds suspicious. I was talking with John. He and I used to work together, until I retired.”
She tried to make it sound normal, like they’d been colleagues at a bank. Of course, no bank employee retired when they were as young as Eve. Unless they’d been very naughty.
“What exactly did you do when you were working together?” Hudson tried to remain calm, waiting for her to volunteer the information when he felt like shaking it out of her.
“Maybe I should go back a little,” she started. “When I first moved to Paris, I met John’s father. He was a customer at the gallery I worked at. I was an errand girl being paid a pittance to take abuse from all the curators. And Mr. Norton introduced to me to John, and John taught me the business.”
“The business of what?” His patience was at its breaking point.
“He taught me how to be an art thief.”
Chapter Nine
“John’s father was a great thief and a brilliant forger in his own right. He taught John the business, and then John taught me. He was my partner. We only did a few jobs a year, always in different locations, always with a slightly different MO so the authorities wouldn’t connect all our crimes. Patterns get you caught. We did not want to get caught.”
Hudson tried to focus on her words and not the buzzing in his ears. He’d suspected she could have been involved in something illegal, but it was a bit surreal to hear her admit to it. “I take it from the Cézanne and the Rembrandt that you were good at it.” He kept his voice even.
She smiled a little. “Over the years, I got better. We found a willing market in some Chinese businessmen we met in Italy. Finding buyers is really the art in art theft. Stealing something worth millions is one thing, any criminal with half a brain for planning can do it, but finding a way to turn it into cash is another. Once we had steady buyers, our profit margin went way up.”
Hudson’s brain was racing. “So you did it for the money?”
Eve hesitated over the teakettle. She appeared to be considering the question honestly. “No, I wouldn’t say that. I know it sounds naïve, but at first I thought I was doing something good. Or, at least, if not good, then not bad.” She smiled and gestured with her hand palm up, as if inviting him to understand her point of view. “John and his father came along when I had no one in the world, and I would have latched on to anyone who showed me the slightest interest. In my position at the gallery, I was of some use to them, and when they saw that I was a quick study with nothing to lose, they brought me into their world. After a while, I found I liked it, the challenge of setting up a complicated heist, the rush of pulling it off, the feeling of holding something priceless in your hands. The compensation was very, very good. John and I split our profits down the middle, though I fear his have been mostly frittered away on bad investments.”
“And you put your profits into your paintings,” Hudson surmised. “Or did you steal those, too?”
“A little of both,” she admitted. “Some I took in trade. Great art holds its value and is lovely to look at in the meantime. I can always sell something if I need the money.”
He was bursting with questions, but didn’t know where to start. Eve, his mysterious, sexy Eve, was a criminal. The implications of this were only beginning to unfold in his mind. If he was smart, he’d stop her there and leave forever. But the idea that she was still involved with the life, that she might be in some kind of danger, had him rooted to the floor.
“You talk like it’s all in the past, but that phone call….”
She poured the hot water from the kettle to the pot. Steam drifted out and Hudson barely registered the delicate scent of chamomile as his brain worked to process everything he was hearing.
“High-end art theft is a small world. Even though John and I kept to ourselves, you still hear about others in the same line of work. We worked on spec, identifying the pieces we wanted to take, betting that we could find a buyer for them. Some people take commissions—a Russian oligarch wants a specific painting for his collection, he hires someone to go get it, that kind of thing. We didn’t. But there was still competition. John and I worked a job to get a Chagall. We spent a year setting it up, and we got it in the end. We didn’t know that another thief had plans for it. Deacon. We got there first, and he felt we’d taken something that should have been his. He’s delusional, of course, but dangerous. He freelances for a very
scary crime syndicate out of Naples. He seems to have a lot of contacts, even here.” She shivered.
Hudson clenched his hands, furious at anyone who would frighten strong, spirited Eve.
“Anyway, long story short, he says if I can get him a painting that is going to be in Montecito next week, then he’ll forget all about our misunderstanding. If I don’t, he’ll kill me, or, if he doesn’t want the trouble, tip off the authorities and I’ll never be safe in America. I told him I’m retired, but that argument didn’t get very far.”
He wasn’t buying Eve’s casual tone. Deacon scared her and he hated it. “Why did you retire?”
She took a long moment before answering. “I didn’t want to get caught.”
He could tell there was more to it than that, but he let it slide. He was still reeling from Eve’s fantastic confession. He quietly sipped his tea as he considered everything she’d said. His initial bluster had faded somewhat and he was oddly fascinated that this slip of a woman had managed to create such a career for herself, even if stealing anything, especially art, was reprehensible. More than the shock at finding out about this side of her, he felt an overwhelming fear for her safety. He didn’t want her anywhere near either the police or this menacing Deacon character. He couldn’t protect her if he didn’t keep her close.
“So what’s the plan?”
“What do you mean?”
“The plan, you know, how are you going to steal the painting?” He spoke more calmly than he felt.
“I hardly think you need to know about that.”
“John mentioned involving me. Let me help.” He needed her to let him help her. He couldn’t stand by and let her face the threat of prison, bodily harm, or death all alone. Somewhere between her locked front door and the Rembrandt, Eve had become his to protect, and he wouldn’t let her down.
She pushed back from the bar, hands on her hips. “John was out of his mind to suggest such a thing, and you have no business being anywhere near this situation.”
God, she could be stubborn. “Then why did you tell me about it?”
She goggled at him for a moment, then ignored his question. “John and I can handle it. We have to get access to a museum fundraiser where the painting is going to be displayed and take it from there. It’s simple really. You’re not needed.”
Hudson saw his window and he went for it. “A fundraiser? Not for the Santa Barbara Art Museum?”
She was slow to respond. “Yes, actually.”
His chest surged with relief that he could offer her something that might help her stay out of harm’s way. “I donated a print to their charity auction. It’s a joint fundraiser for the museum and for art education scholarships for low income high schoolers.”
“Of course it is,” she grumbled.
“Which means I have an invitation,” he said. “Want to be my plus one?”
She bit her lip and crossed her arms. She wouldn’t be able to turn down his perfect way in, and he’d be at her side, keeping the wolves at bay.
“It’s dangerous, you’d get us all caught.”
He smiled. He knew rationalizations when he heard them. She was going to cave any minute.
“You need my help,” he said, moving closer. “I don’t like the thought of you out there up to no good on your own.” They were so close they were practically breathing the same air.
“I won’t be alone,” she said halfheartedly. “I’ll have John.”
He wasn’t above playing dirty. He slid a hand around the back of her neck, stroking the soft hair that covered it like a waterfall. It took physical effort to keep from shuddering at the intense pleasure the sensation brought him. “I really don’t like the thought of you out with John at some swanky party. You’ll probably be dressed to the nines. High heels and everything,” he murmured.
“Jealous?” she breathed.
“Very.” And he kissed her.
Every cell in Eve’s body screamed “finally!” as her need, as vast as an ocean, crashed against Hudson’s in equal measure. Her relief over telling him the truth and not being met with condemnation, but acceptance, had quickly morphed into aggravation over his insistence he get involved and then a torrent of sexual need the minute he touched her. She’d wanted those lips for days, and she clung to him as if daring him to take them away from her.
He didn’t.
All of her indecision, all of her rawness from expressing something she’d never shared with anyone before, smoothed over and fell away as they moved as one, drinking each other in. She tasted the chamomile tea, and a hint of sweetness on his bottom lip—sweeter than honey. She wanted more. She bit into that succulent bottom lip lightly, teasingly. He groaned and she bit harder. His response was to lift her up and onto his lap as he sank onto a kitchen chair. She straddled his waist, happily sinking her own soft, warm sex against his hard bulge. There were two layers of denim between them, but it didn’t stop her from rubbing and feeling the sizzle of promise up and down her entire body.
They sat there, hip to hip, chest to chest, lip to lip. His hands held her close, kneading and stroking her back, her hips, her ass. Everything he did made her hotter, wetter. How quickly could she be pushed right over the edge? She was using her hands to get her fill of his thick, curly hair, grabbing it by the handful, making love to his mouth with deep, long kisses, stroking his tongue with hers. She could have died like that and been happy. Almost.
She broke the kiss. “Upstairs?” she asked breathlessly.
They both knew what she meant, and Hudson tripped in his haste to set her on her feet again and take her in that very direction. Unfortunately, the break in physical contact allowed one stray, non-sex related thought to enter her brain.
“But….”
“Don’t worry, I have condoms,” he said, breathing heavily, his eyes satisfyingly glassy. He wanted her, badly.
She smiled faintly, “Good to know, but not what I was worried about.”
“Oh.”
She tugged her hand from his and he frowned. She instantly wanted to say never mind, to go back to the closeness they had been experiencing, to erase that frown and prove to him she wasn’t cold, wasn’t aloof. But she didn’t.
“I need to think,” she said.
Hudson stepped toward her, put a hand under her chin. “You think too much.” Then he kissed her again, softer, slower, and Eve thought she’d die when she pulled away from him a second time.
“I know.” She might regret it later, but she refused to apologize for the frustration she was causing both of them. “I need to keep my head focused until this job is over. You should think about what I’ve told you, and then stay far away from me. It’s dangerous to get involved with a…criminal.”
He narrowed his eyes. “I thought you said you were retired. What’s past is past.”
His capacity for forgiveness overwhelmed her. “I am, but as you can see, it’s not easy to get out. I don’t want you to get tangled up, too.”
“You don’t need to worry about me. I can help you.”
“I don’t want to worry.” She could see he understood what she wasn’t saying. That she’d worry about him anyway.
Hudson’s inquisitive, searching gaze made her achy and wistful, wondering what he was reading on her face. Most people didn’t look at what was in front of them. Their obliviousness was one reason she’d been able to do what she’d done for so many years. People glanced at her and saw what she wanted them to see. Hudson had made a career out of observing and translating what he saw into color and shape and showing it to the world. What might he see in her? Someone worth redemption? Or a common criminal to pity?
She pushed the thought away. “Let’s sleep on it. Separately.”
“Sleep on what? Letting me help you?”
“That and…the other thing.”
He thrust his hands into the pockets of his jeans like a boy denied a candy bar at the checkout line of the grocery store. “Sex,” he said flatly. “All right, if that’s the
way you want it.”
“It’s the way it needs to be.”
Chapter Ten
Eve stayed up late considering the offer Hudson had made. He’d instantly jumped in to help, brushing off the scope of her past misdeeds. He seemed willing to face whatever might happen. Brave of him, if foolhardy. He could even get her into the stupid party where she could do all the needed reconnaissance, helping to ensure the success of the mission. She was terribly tempted to take him up on it.
It wouldn’t be the end of the world to have another person on the team. She mulled it over some more the next morning, leaning against the open French door and watching the thick marine layer over the ocean burned off by the June sun. It could be useful to have three people, and it would solve the problem of the party.
But the minute she started thinking about how to structure the job, she got sidetracked reliving their close call. She and Hudson had very nearly had sex. She’d wanted to, he’d wanted to. It would have been incredible. And probably muck everything up. Not that things were going so great between them. She had all but told him to stay away from her after revealing her second biggest secret in life.
He’d kissed her instead of running away. It almost seemed like he wanted to be with her, as if he didn’t care what she’d done to get herself to this place. As if he wanted to stay with her.
If he was along for the ride, she’d only be distracted.
If they stayed apart, she’d only be wondering what he was doing, worrying about him when she couldn’t do anything about it.
If they didn’t have sex, she’d be thinking about tearing his clothes off every time she saw him.
If they had sex, she’d be reliving that every five minutes, and probably trying to have it again. That was the way it worked.
She was definitely damned if she did, damned if she didn’t.
Eve returned to the house, checking her email and her voicemail for the sixth time that morning. No word from either John or Hudson. Since Friday was the party, and their deadline for delivering the painting was Saturday at noon, they had five days to plan. She’d worked under tight timelines before, but she didn’t like the way she was being maneuvered into a corner on this one, by Deacon, by John, and by Hudson.
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