She had to wait for the man to leave, and hope no one else came through the door. If the video cutting out alerted backup or the guard through his earpiece before she could get to him, then she would be done for. If he turned his head ninety degrees, he’d see her in the half open doorway, and she’d be caught.
She breathed in and out, slowly, calming her racing heart. Once. Twice. Three times. As she exhaled, the middle-aged man finally stepped over the threshold out of the line of sight.
Eve wasted no time. She closed the door behind her, making sure it stayed unlocked. She drew out her gun. Walking silently on the balls of her feet, she positioned herself behind the guard, and swung at the base of his skull. One crack and he was on the floor. Her whole body jarred at the impact, but he’d be fine in a day or two. She wanted to take his earpiece to see what the other guards were saying, but it would be one more thing she’d have to discard later, so instead she went straight to the Mondrian, lifted it off the wall, and wrapped it in Hudson’s jacket. Then, hearing clapping from the ballroom as the winner of one of the auction lots was announced, she walked out the door she’d come through.
Luck was on her side, as the hallway was deserted. Instead of going left toward the bathroom and her alibi, she turned right, hoping a side door would put her in the vicinity of the car.
It took her another long minute to find a door that led outside. Again, she didn’t hear any alarms as she exited through a billiards room’s French doors onto a patio, but that didn’t mean there weren’t any. Since she carried the wireless jammer with her, by that point anyone watching the video feed from the painting room would see there was an unconscious security guard on the floor and a blank expanse of wall where a ten million dollar painting was supposed to be.
She ran across the patio and stared. Her luck had run out. All she saw was a kidney-shaped pool, a pool house, and a ring of rose bushes.
The cars must be parked on the other side of the house.
She was running out of time to get back inside, but she was afraid that if she stashed the painting on the grounds, there would be so much police presence they wouldn’t be able to retrieve it before the deadline.
Eve kept moving around the perimeter of the house. She cursed the marks her high heels were making on the patches of grass she couldn’t manage to avoid. There was supposed to be no physical evidence. Why had she thought this was such a great idea? She’d been underprepared for it, and she was left stuck with a hot painting in her arms.
She estimated five minutes had passed since she’d left Hudson. Ten more and he’d abandon the plan. She hoped John appreciated what she was going through for him. When she got her hands on Deacon, she might not be responsible for the consequences.
Finally, she saw cars parked on a long gravel driveway. A few valets were clustered in conversation at the far end of the drive near the front of the house, but no one else seemed to be stirring. If she could stash the painting in the Lotus, then she’d be one step closer to success.
It took her another two agonizing minutes to pick the silver sports car out of the lot and hustle up to it. She nearly dropped the painting twice, but kept it safe. She lifted the hood, slid the painting into the heat-proof, padded area she’d prepared between the hood and its foam liner, and shut it as quietly as she could.
The activity around the front of the house started to increase. There was nothing for it. She had to run.
***
Hudson put an ear to the bathroom door and listened. The faraway murmur of commotion in the ballroom was getting louder. That was bad. It meant the painting had probably been discovered missing.
Where was Eve? By his watch, she was over five minutes later than she’d estimated she’d be, closing in on the time when he was supposed to abandon ship. Did she know that was something he had no intention of doing?
A thought occurred to him. Was she going to come back at all? Had she parked him here, out of sight, to take on all the responsibility herself? He didn’t even entertain the idea that she might be setting him up, since he technically had no alibi for the time of the theft.
No. She’d come back. And if she didn’t, he’d go and find her.
It took every ounce of willpower to wait the full fifteen minutes before peeking outside the door into the hallway. He began to ease the door open, but it was yanked from his grasp and he was attacked by a disheveled pixie in a tight midnight blue dress.
Eve slammed the door behind her. “I don’t think anyone saw me come in here!” she panted.
“Well, you certainly sound like you’ve been engaging in some party hanky-panky,” he said, his profound relief at seeing her safe coming out in a dry quip.
“You look like you’ve been taking tea with the queen,” she snapped.
He turned toward the mirror; he didn’t have the appearance of someone who had just had hot bathroom sex. He was a little sweaty, but that was from nerves.
He reached up to muss his hair a little. “Is that better?”
Eve rolled her eyes, and untucked his shirt, then undid the top two—no, three—buttons. She got a tube of lipstick out of her purse, freshened her lips, then planted smacking kisses on his mouth, his neck, and hurriedly smudged them away. He could see the imprint if he looked closely.
“Too bad this is all for show,” he grumbled, and she ran fingers through her hair to make it look as if she’d made an effort to make it presentable after being mussed.
“I agree,” she said, with surprising vehemence.
“Okay, let’s get back out there.”
“Wait, aren’t you going to ask how it went?”
“No. Now that I’ve seen you in action, I’m sure it all went according to plan.” He opened the door calmly, though his nerves felt like they’d been pulled as tight as guitar strings.
Eve smiled and he had to stem a rush of pride he felt for her. She was amazing.
But they weren’t home free yet.
Chapter Sixteen
The buzzing in the ballroom was not about who won the week-long stay in Paris at the Georges V.
Word had gotten around that one of the guests had tried to leave, but had been refused exit by a security guard. No one seemed to know the reason, but the host, Jim Kwan, could be seen talking with the emcee, and a uniformed police officer waited by the entrance to the ballroom. The door to the room with the Mondrian was closed.
Hudson and Eve circulated around the ballroom, to make sure they were seen by as many people as possible. He kept his arm possessively around her waist. It felt good there, and she liked the reassurance of having him right beside her as they faced this final act together.
“They aren’t going to be able to keep this many important, rich people here for very long,” she whispered. “They’ll get a guest list and follow up later.”
“So they might not even question us?”
“What will they ask? ‘Did you steal the Mondrian?’ If they do, say, ‘no.’”
“Got it,” he said. “Has anyone ever told you that you have a brilliant criminal mind?”
Eve sighed. He thought he was hilarious. “All the time.”
The emcee retook the stage. “Ladies and gentlemen, sorry for the delay. We’re going to finish the auction, and then there will be a word from our generous host, Jim Kwan.”
Chatter rippled across the crowd. Speculation began at once. Black-clad security guards took up position at every entrance and exit.
Eve barely listened as the emcee tried to cajole the crowd into paying attention for the last two auction items.
“The winner of the fabulous week in Paris at the Georges V is…Hudson Cleary!”
There was applause, which grew louder as a few of the patrons more well-versed in contemporary art connected the winner’s name to the abstract artist whose work hung in the museum’s contemporary wing.
“Thank you for your generous bid, Mr. Cleary. The museum is grateful for your support. That trip will be a romantic getaway for you and someon
e special.”
She turned to Hudson. “You bid on the Georges V?”
“Yeah. I’ve never been there.”
“I have,” she said. “It’s exquisite. Their safe is very well designed.”
“I don’t want to know under what circumstances you know that.”
“No, you don’t.”
“I thought maybe when this is all over, we might—”
He broke off as a young woman with a nametag that identified her as a volunteer approached him with a packet of information and a clipboard laden with forms.
“Hi, Mr. Cleary? I have the contract for your auction item. We take cash, check, or credit cards.”
Eve was saved from whatever Hudson had been about to say by the flurry of paperwork. She tuned out their interaction and kept her eye on the guards, as well as on the stage, where the emcee was wrapping things up.
“The museum thanks you for your support,” the girl said, handing him a file folder and taking the clipboard away with her.
Hudson put his wallet back into his pants pocket. He raised his eyebrows at Eve’s expression. “What? I like to support the arts.”
“You’re a pushover, that’s what. Shhh!” The host was taking the stage. He looked very serious.
“I apologize for the mystery, everyone,” he said. “There’s been an incident, and I can’t go into details now, but if the police should contact you at some point, the museum and I would deeply appreciate your cooperation. Thanks for coming and supporting the Santa Barbara Art Museum’s art education programming. Good night!”
The band struck up an upbeat number as he exited the stage. The crowd seemed unimpressed by the vague announcement.
Eve looked puzzled.
“What’s wrong?” Hudson asked.
“Nothing, only it seems like they aren’t horribly worried.”
“They probably don’t want a panic, or a scandal, or something. I mean, he isn’t going to announce to a room full of important people that his priceless donation has vanished.”
“No, but….” Eve clutched Hudson’s arm. “We need to go, right now.”
Chapter Seventeen
“Pull over up here,” she said, indicating a dark residential street.
Hudson stopped the car and killed the headlights. He popped the hood at Eve’s request and waited until she’d retrieved the painting from its secret location.
They were a mile from Kwan’s house and a few miles from their hotel. They’d driven around a little while, to make sure they weren’t being followed. Eve wouldn’t say what had made her so worried, even though they had come away from the scene of the crime without incident. As far as he was concerned, they’d won the battle.
She handed him the painting and then climbed back in the car. A flashlight beam cut across the canvas, illuminating its bold geometric lines and fierce colors. The picture was enclosed in a deceptively simple wooden frame. Hudson knew how much frames like that cost.
Eve handled the piece carefully, turning it over, using the flashlight to illuminate the edges of the canvas nestled next to the frame. She brought it close to her face, and then swore as vehemently as she could in a whisper.
“What’s wrong?” he finally asked.
She held up the back of the painting. “Smell that.”
He was confused, but he brought his nose close to the frame and took a deep sniff. Wood, and something else. Turpentine.
He said as much. “So what’s the big deal?”
“For one thing, the frame looks too new, and in everything I could find out about this painting, it was last reframed forty years ago. Second, that turpentine smell is all wrong. Why should a ninety-year-old painting smell of turpentine?”
“Maybe they were stored together and the painting picked up the fumes?”
“I’m afraid not. There are a few other little details, and I can’t be a hundred percent certain, but I think we stole a fake.”
“A fake? As in, not an original Mondrian?” He didn’t understand.
“Exactly. Not the original.”
“Why would a billionaire art collector donate a fake to his pet museum?”
“I don’t think he planned to donate a fake. I think he had a reproduction made, fairly recently, to serve as a double for the real painting.”
“Why would he do that?”
“It’s done often, to appease nervous insurance companies or to address security issues or concerns over the impact of hanging fragile pieces. Sometimes, they are used for special occasions; sometimes they’re what you see whenever you go to a world-class museum. You think you’re looking at the original.”
“No one can tell the difference?”
“Maybe one in ten thousand. What does it matter? No one is going to make a fuss if they think the Vermeer is a fake. It looks as good as the real thing. Some people say the Mona Lisa hanging in the Louvre is a reproduction and they have the real one safely under lock and key.”
He whistled. “So they had a reproduction made of this painting, in case someone decided to steal it?”
“That, and to make transporting the real one easier. Any number of reasons. That’s why there weren’t police crawling all over that mansion as soon as the painting was found missing. All they had lost was an excellent reproduction worth about twenty grand.”
“That’s how much a good reproduction sells for?”
“It depends on the painting, the skill level, the circumstances. On the open market, let’s say you wanted this painting for your living room. You could commission one for about that much.”
“Not a bad gig,” he mused.
“Of course, some paintings can take weeks or months to recreate, depending on the medium. This one was probably made in a week or so.”
He hadn’t been prepared for this turn of events. He supposed that was what she’d meant by unforeseen circumstances. “What does this mean?”
“It means we lost our leverage when dealing with Deacon. We didn’t steal the real Mondrian. He wants the real one.”
“Will he be able to tell that this isn’t it?”
Eve frowned. “I’m not sure. He talks a big game, but is he capable of in-depth authentication? If I could tell after a couple of minutes, then we have to assume that he will be able to, as well.”
“But he won’t necessarily know that there are two paintings, so it’s not like he’s going to be looking that hard.”
“It would be better if he had outside confirmation that we stole it. He’s probably monitoring the police bandwidth, but we can’t be sure what they’ve said on it.” She spent a minute thinking. “This is bad. With the painting in hand, we at least had a bargaining chip. Now he has no reason to keep John alive.”
“He still wants the Mondrian. You could get it for him.”
“There’s no time. Now that the fake’s been stolen, security on the real one will triple. We don’t even know where it is. It could be in a different city, a different state.” Eve tapped the screen of her cellphone. “We have ten hours to deliver the painting or come up with something else.”
“Something else?”
“Let me think,” she said.
They both fell silent. Hudson could hear little but the tick of the car’s engine behind their heads as it cooled off. A pair of headlights ahead of them cut through the blackness, and he moved quickly, catching Eve’s chin in his hand and her lips in an openmouthed kiss.
Though his eyes were closed, he could tell that the car had passed them. It hadn’t even slowed down, but he held the kiss. The tension from the evening and from not knowing exactly when he could be with Eve in all the ways he’d been fantasizing about had him craving the simple contact.
It felt so right to be with her, whatever they were doing, wherever they were. He’d come to expect Eve to introduce the unexpected into his life, and as much as he enjoyed the adrenaline of doing something crazy that he’d never done before, he loved knowing that she was with him while he was doing it. He loved knowing t
hat she had his back and that she wanted to be with him. At least, he thought she did. She was a closed book sometimes, but he couldn’t misread the way she responded to his touch, his kiss, the way she looked at him like he was an éclair she looked forward to savoring.
This kiss, like all their kisses, ended too soon. Her body slackened under his hands. She must have been exhausted from the stress of the long day.
As they eased apart, he tried to lighten the mood. “I’ve always wanted to do that.”
“Do what?” she asked, her voice husky.
“Make out in a car to protect our cover.”
She let out a laugh. “We’re not on a stakeout or anything.”
“True. I guess I just can’t keep my hands off you, then.”
“Can’t you?”
“Not even a little bit,” he said, dead serious.
She smiled, then yawned.
“I either need sleep or an espresso,” she said. “I’m not sure which would help me better figure out this mess.”
“I think we could both use some sleep, and if that doesn’t work, there’s always caffeine.”
“I like the way you think,” she said. “Let me put this back.”
She hopped out of the car, and he popped the hood again.
As they drove off in the direction of their hotel, he spoke up. “You know, I’ve been thinking. We know the painting is a fake, but presumably Deacon doesn’t or he wouldn’t have sent you in there to steal it.”
“Right. He probably got some bad intelligence.”
“He needs the real painting to pay his debts or whatever.”
“John made it seem like if Deacon didn’t get the painting, he was as good as dead. Not that I know how he was going to get it out of the country. Maybe he already has a buyer in the States.”
“So we need to maintain the illusion that this is the real one until we have our hands on John.”
“Yes. If we have John, and Deacon thinks he has the real painting, then we should be okay. But only until he gets it authenticated or tries to sell it. Then he’s going to be back and after my head.”
Love Unlocked Page 13