Portrait of a Girl

by Luanna Stewart

  An old crime and an irresistible new lead…

  When her wealthy art dealer father died, Heather James was expecting a fortune. Instead, his bank account was empty and Heather’s working in a bakery, wondering exactly what happened to her father’s millions…until someone tries to kill her.

  Tony Simons is on the trail of an art theft cold case that’s practically giving him frostbite. He’s hoping that by sticking close to Heather—the daughter of his deceased prime suspect—he’ll find the answers he needs. Instead, he’s finding himself distracted by a gorgeous woman who drives him crazy in every way imaginable…

  Now Tony’s in serious trouble. Even if Heather can’t—or won’t—tell him where the stolen paintings and money are, she may well have stolen his heart.

  And now someone wants her dead…

  Table of Contents

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Discover more Entangled Select Suspense titles… Untrue Colors

  Cuba Undercover

  Risking It All

  Double Jeopardy

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2015 by Luanna Nau. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.

  Entangled Publishing, LLC

  2614 South Timberline Road

  Suite 109

  Fort Collins, CO 80525

  Visit our website at www.entangledpublishing.com.

  Select Suspense is an imprint of Entangled Publishing, LLC.

  Edited by Allison Collins

  Cover design by Fiona Jayde

  Cover art by iStock

  ISBN 978-1-63375-331-0

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  First Edition July 2015

  This book is for my dad.

  Chapter One

  Portland, Maine

  Heather James closed the cash drawer and walked into the back room of the bakery. “I’m done with the receipts. Anything else before I head out?”

  “Why don’t I give you a ride home? It’s pretty late.” Sally rinsed a large mixing bowl and upended it on the counter to drain.

  “It’s only four thirty. That’s not late.” She grinned and grabbed her coat from the hook. Her boss was only three months pregnant but had already started thinking like a mom.

  “The roads are probably slippery—”

  “Which is exactly why I don’t want you driving up that hill to my place. The bus drops me close enough, and the snow has barely started.” She wound a scarf around her neck and headed for the back door. “Everything’s locked up out front, and the lights are off. Will you be here in the morning?”

  “I’m not sure, depends on how my tummy feels. Certainly not when you get here at five, but I’ll open for customers.”

  “Good night, then.”

  “Are you sure—?”

  Heather waved and closed the door behind her, catching her breath at the blast of frigid air whipping through the alley. She shoved her hands in her pockets and hurried to the bus stop. Riding in a nice warm car would certainly be preferable to huddling in the bus shelter.

  Working the extra shift meant it was dark as she got off the bus. The walk up the long drive was normally enjoyable and calming. But tonight she felt jumpy.

  In fact, she’d been jumpy all week. It wasn’t just living alone in a strange city. She’d done that plenty of times. And after being here for close to two months, she’d gotten to know her neighborhood and felt comfortable.

  Tonight, something was off.

  The back of her neck prickled, as if someone were staring at her, watching her every move. She moved faster, but glanced back several times, only to see the empty driveway and one set of footprints in the fresh snow. Hers. She quickened her pace. Just because she didn’t see anyone didn’t mean no one was out there.

  She broke into a run, convinced a pair of clawed hands was about to grab her. Turning onto the walkway leading to the gatehouse of the estate, her heel found a hidden patch of ice, and she went down. She sucked in her breath as pain lanced through her hip and her back teeth knocked together.

  “Blast it to hell and back.”

  Frantic to reach safety, she scrambled to her feet and raced to the door. She fumbled with her key, desperate to escape the unseen menace. Glancing over her shoulder for a last look, she pushed the door open, then slammed it and turned the lock. Her heart thudded in her chest as she leaned against the door, breathing in hard, sharp gasps. She pushed away, then hurried through the small house, turned on every light, checked that every window and door was locked, and pulled the blinds.

  She tried to convince herself it was her overactive imagination. Laughing at her foolishness, she remembered acting the same way as a young girl. Her bedroom in the house in New York had been at the end of a long hallway. Every night she’d raced to her bed, feeling the hounds of hell nipping at her heels.

  This latest dash to safety had no doubt been fueled by too much work and too little sleep. Working both shifts at the bakery left her with little energy, and even though she was happy to help out while the regular clerk recovered from the flu, she’d be glad to get back to her normal schedule.

  And seriously, who would want to follow her? There’d be no sense mugging her since she had a grand total of seven dollars in her wallet. And her small house held no jewels or other treasures. She hung her coat on the rack and headed to the kitchen.

  Something touched her leg, and she nearly jumped out of her skin. She looked down as Samson brushed against her leg again, mewing his high-pitched cry.

  “Cripes on crutches, you’ve got to stop doing that, Samson.” She took a deep breath, willing her heart rate to slow. “Come on, kitty-cat, let’s get supper.”

  Though not particularly hungry, she heated a frozen dinner and forced herself to eat the marginally balanced meal. One of the bonuses of working in the bakery was an unlimited supply of sweets. Which was also the major drawback. Since she’d started working at Wicked Good Treats two months earlier, her pants had become a bit snug. It was silly to expect anyone to resist those freshly baked goodies. She limited herself to two items a day. More than reasonable, in her opinion.

  After checking the locks one more time, she turned off the lights and trudged up the stairs, knowing her alarm clock would ring at four in the morning whether she was ready or not. And as much as she grumbled w
hen her feet hit the cold floor, she really did enjoy that time alone in the bakery, getting the breads and rolls ready for the day, surrounded by the moist heat and heady, yeasty smells.

  She left the light off in her room and crossed to the window. There were a few lights on in the big house up the hill, and she stood watching, hoping for a glimpse of the guy who’d moved in the week before. So far, she’d seen him only from a distance. Tall, dark, and handsome barely scratched the surface.

  Could it have been Tony she sensed outside? Walking his dog? No, there was no way the dog wouldn’t have made its presence known, all eighty pounds of hairy mutt, if she were to guess.

  Still fueled on adrenaline from her mad dash to the house, she had no desire yet to sleep. She retreated to the kitchen and pondered her baking supplies. Now was as good a time as any to be neighborly to her new neighbor, since they both happened to be at home.

  Strange that her lifelong love of baking was being used to keep body and soul together. She’d never considered baking as a profession she would enjoy.

  Winter always made her crave gingerbread, so she dug through her folder of recipes, some cut from magazines, some scribbled on index cards. Chewy ginger cookies with candied ginger would hit the spot. Twenty minutes later she had the first pan in the oven. She quickly brushed her hair and teeth, and stood staring at the oven timer.

  “Samson, your mommy has the patience of a flea.” Assuming that fleas hopped about due to lack of patience, and not some other reason.

  Finally the timer beeped, and she transferred a dozen cookies onto a plate. They’d cool on the walk up the hill.

  Halfway there, she paused. What if he wasn’t alone? She hadn’t seen anyone else around, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t entertaining a lady friend. Or a man friend. No, there was no way she’d let him be gay.

  In for a penny, in for a pound. She continued the trek and knocked on the front door. She already knew the doorbell was broken. Another thing to fix in the dilapidated house.

  A few seconds later the door swung open, and there he stood, even cuter up close. Black hair, fashionably short; piercing brown eyes; and a few days’ growth of beard. In other words, yum.

  “Uh—hi—I thought I should introduce myself and”—she held out her plate—“welcome you.”

  He took the plate with his free hand, his other wrapped securely around the dog’s collar. “Come in, please.” He closed the door and released the dog. “Delilah, behave.” The dog immediately sat, though her tail wagged so quickly, her butt moved along the floor.

  “What did you call her?”

  “Delilah, like in Samson and Delilah. You know, the song, and the Bible. Why?”

  “It’s just funny—my cat is named Samson.” If she believed in fate, or powers of the universe, she’d see this as a sign. Of something.

  He grinned and held out his hand. “Tony Simons. And that is quite a coincidence.”

  “Heather James.” She took his hand, noting appreciatively that it was warm, dry, and strong. But not bone-crushing. This guy had nothing to prove.

  “My landlord.”

  She smiled. “Evidently. Everything okay so far?”

  “Yeah, fine. Come into the—the parlor, I guess.”

  “Said the spider to the fly.” She slipped off her jacket and hung it on the newel post before following him into one of the front rooms. A small fire burned in the fireplace, and he’d clearly been working on his laptop, given the jumbled state of the coffee table. Delilah settled into her bed in the corner and subsided with a sigh.

  “There were plenty of spiders in the chimney, but they’ve been taken care of, one way or another.”

  “Sorry the place wasn’t more—”

  “Hey, no problem. Would you like a drink?”

  “I can’t stay. I just wanted to say hi and bring over those cookies.”

  “They look amazing.”

  So do you, big guy. She glanced around the room, looking for evidence of a female, but nothing jumped out at her. No bra dangling from the doorknob, anyway.

  “You’re a photographer? The rental agency guy wasn’t clear.”

  “Yes, freelance. Here are some of my recent shots.” He woke up his computer, and the screen was filled with small pictures that appeared to be all black and white. “These are for a travel magazine doing a feature on New England winter vacations.”

  Tony pressed a few keys, starting a slide show of the pictures in full size. She leaned close, drawn in by the stark beauty, the contrast of light and dark, an icicle hanging from a tree limb, and a column of smoke from a chimney.

  “Oh, I love this one.” The picture was of the harbor and a dock, with mist rising from the water. She could almost feel the chilled moisture on her face.

  “I took that a few days ago.” He pressed another key to stop the slide show on that picture.

  Dang, he was good. Well, he’d have to be to earn a living. He probably got to travel all over the world, much like she’d done. Except she hadn’t had a profession requiring travel. More like lack of profession in her case.

  She smothered a yawn. “Sorry, it’s way past my bedtime.”

  She didn’t miss the way his gaze traveled over her body at the mention of bed. She was fairly sure there’d been a spark of interest. She’d checked him out pretty thoroughly, too. She was definitely interested. He had the build she most admired, judging by how his jeans and sweater fit. Toned muscles, and six feet tall. Perfection.

  “Yeah, I’ve noticed you keep early hours.” He crossed his arms over his chest, pulling her gaze to his biceps and shoulders. No way he got those muscles just taking photos.

  “Comes with the job—I work at a bakery in town.”

  He motioned with his head to the plate of cookies sitting on the mantel, safe from Delilah. “Hence the cookies.”

  “Actually, I baked those at my place. Just now. They might still be warm.”

  His brows rose, and he grabbed a cookie, consuming half with one bite. “Mm, that is good.”

  “Thanks. I’m always trying new recipes, so you may get more.” She bit back another yawn. Dang, her work hours were messing with her chance of a social life. “I’ll let you get back to your work.”

  She retrieved her jacket and went to the door, sensing Tony right behind her. Not the spooky, unseen menace from earlier. More a warmth, and a desire to lean into him. He reached past her to open the door, brushing her arm. She sucked in a breath. He smelled of wool, ginger, and warm skin. She forced herself to not turn her head. Not look at him. He was too close. Heaven only knew what her body would do; it seemed out of her control. She called a quick good-bye and jogged down the steps. Thank goodness the frigid air cooled her body. She glanced over her shoulder. He stood framed in the doorway, hands in pockets, a smile on his lips.

  Oh yeah, she’d be doing more baking.

  Once in the safety of her little house, she tidied the kitchen, storing the remaining cookie dough in the fridge. She’d bake the rest of the cookies at the bakery and drop them off at the adult day care around the corner.

  Now that there was a big, strong guy living a couple hundred feet away, all thoughts of being followed could be forgotten. It was just the dark, a strange noise, and being tired. She could concentrate on the bakery and getting to know her handsome neighbor.

  She pulled the blind and got ready for bed. Safely tucked under her thick comforter, she picked up her dad’s journal and leafed through it. Again. She’d read it so many times she could recite passages from memory. Only the first half of the small leather-bound volume had been used. The final page seemed to end in mid-thought.

  …ghosts from the past are exacting revenge…

  Finding the rest of the journals might help solve the mystery of his life. And his death.

  Tomorrow. Tomorrow she would sort through his boxes. Two months was long enough for the spirits to settle.

  …

  M. Marcel Jeffers leaned back in the comfort of the upholstered
chair and surveyed the hotel lobby. He would miss this understated elegance. One of the perks of being good at his job was being able to afford the best, and the Portland Harbor Hotel was certainly that. He had slept better than he had in weeks, his morning coffee had been the perfect temperature, and if he had so desired, his morning erection would have been taken care of with as much care and attention to detail. Unfortunately he wasn’t here to enjoy himself. At least not yet. Perhaps after his business was concluded.

  If he didn’t accomplish what he’d traveled across the ocean to do, he wouldn’t be able to afford any of the luxuries he’d grown accustomed to.

  Live as though you’ll succeed, and you will.

  That had been his personal motto since he’d started in the business over thirty years earlier. And for the most part it had worked. It wasn’t every thief who could claim they’d spent no time behind bars.

  That alone was reason enough to celebrate.

  Yes, he’d find time for a reward before he returned to his château. He’d have one of his assistants find a suitable companion for his last evening in town. One smart enough to keep her mouth shut as soon as she was done putting it to good use. He shifted in his chair, lowering his newspaper to cover the bulge forming in his trousers. It was good to know that some parts of his body still functioned.

  “Excuse me, sir. Maxim has returned with the car.” Nicholas, the more muscular of his two assistants, bowed slightly. It had taken some intensive training, but Jeffers was satisfied with the help for which he paid handsomely.

  “Thank you, Nicholas. I’ve decided to pay the young lady a visit myself.”

  “Very good, sir.”