Dang, there was her signature on the card. She didn’t remember signing anything for this bank, but she supposed she must have. The rest would be a piece of cake. She hoped there weren’t sentimental mementos in the box—she couldn’t handle more memories right now. It was a shame she hadn’t had access to the money in the accounts before it was all gone. Maybe if she’d been aware of her dad’s spending, she could have cautioned, offered advice, borrowed some just to keep it safe. Then she wouldn’t be left with a money pit and no way to climb out.
The teller frowned. “I’m afraid there’s an overdue notice on this account. I can’t allow you access to the box until it’s been paid.”
She swallowed, picturing the meager balance on her bank statement. “How much is it?”
The teller handed the card to her, pointing to the amount.
Seventy-five dollars. There was barely enough in her account. But she’d be paid in a few days. And Tony’s rent was due in a week. She could survive off two-day-old muffins if she had to. And maybe all the money that had dwindled from her dad’s accounts would be safely tucked inside the box. At least some of it. The money had to have gone somewhere. Why not just a few feet away?
She wrote the check, and the teller became all smiles again.
“If you’ll sign and date right here, I’ll open the door for you.” She held out her hand for Heather’s copy of the key, then went to one of the larger sections in the bottom row. A moment later, the teller placed the heavy box in her hands.
It was very heavy. Lots of money would be heavy. Had he converted the cash to gold? Her heart rate kicked up a notch. Holding onto the unwieldy box with only one good arm, she followed the teller to a small private room. As soon as the door closed, she shrugged off her jacket and sat at the table. Her hands shook slightly as she undid the catch and raised the lid.
The breath she’d been holding whooshed out. Stacked neatly inside were twelve leather journals, her father’s initials clearly embossed on the cover of each.
Nothing else.
Peeking from under the cover of the topmost book was a small envelope, like the kind you’d get from a florist. The note inside was simple, but it said everything. “Forgive me, my dear.”
She jumped at the knock on the door.
“Do you need any help?” The teller had come looking for her. Heather had no idea how long she’d been sitting there, staring into space, her final hope quashed.
Heather opened the door. “I’m sorry, I lost track of time. Do you have a bag for this stuff? I don’t need the box any longer.”
The look of pity from the other woman made her realize her face was wet with tears. She swiped at her cheeks, embarrassed that she’d been caught crying. They weren’t tears of sorrow so much as tears of utter disappointment. All hope gone, she was now well and truly on her own, and with barely a penny to her name.
Time to make plans.
The bus ride home was interminable after her shift at the bakery. She hadn’t had a chance to look at the journals while at work, and she was more nervous than ever about what she’d find. The note from her father led her to believe it wouldn’t be good news, but she had to know the truth.
Suppertime had come and gone when she gave up reading. Midway through the third journal, written around the time of her birth, she realized she hadn’t known her father. The man who wrote with this hard edge of anger, the snide insults, he was a stranger. Not the dad she’d known and loved. She threw the journal to the floor and flopped onto the couch, pulling a crocheted afghan over her chilled body.
She was disgusted with the direction her life was taking. It was time to regain control. No more waiting for things to happen. She’d make them happen.
Jolted awake by the sound of grinding gears and a loud engine, she jumped to her feet and went to the window. She knew it wasn’t a snowplow, because the driveway had been cleared by the time she’d gotten home from the bakery. She had no idea who the fairy god-plower was, and at this point didn’t much care.
She pulled up the window blind in time to see a large delivery truck trundle past, activating her outdoor floodlight. If the lettering on the side of the truck was anything to go by, Tony had just bought a new bed. She staggered into the kitchen, flipped on the light, and stopped in her tracks. The cat clock with the swinging tail showed ten o’clock. Ten freaking o’clock. Who the heck delivered at this time of night?
Well, this meant Tony must be home. She’d take along a few of the whoopie pies she’d baked earlier and see what sort of bed he liked to sleep in.
Not that she had any intention of making use of that information.
Probably not.
She shoved her feet into her boots, grabbed her coat and a plate, and hurried out the door. Despite her lack of sleep, absence of money, and discovering her father was a stranger, there was a spring in her step.
She walked into the large house without knocking, turned right, and entered the former sitting room, now apparently a bedroom. Tony and the deliveryman were busy on the floor with screwdrivers and wrenches.
Tony looked up, like it was perfectly normal for her to appear in his house late at night.
“Hey, how’s it going?” He sat back on his haunches and flipped the wrench around with his fingers. He had strong hands, with neatly clipped nails and a fine sprinkling of dark hair starting at his wrists. Her gaze wandered past the snug sleeves of his navy turtleneck and across his broad chest to rest on his manly jaw. Heck, all of him was manly.
“Heather? Do you need something?” he asked, interrupting her blatant perusal. Good thing, since they weren’t alone.
“I brought some cookies. Well, not really cookies, more like cakes. Small cakes.” She held out the plate. “Whoopie pies.”
The other man stood and held out his hand. “Hi, Tom Brady, Brady’s Fine Mattresses and Futons. Here’s my card. We were supposed to come out yesterday, but with the storm…”
She stared at the brightly colored card in her hand, then shoved it in her pocket. She focused on Tony. “I’ll put these in the kitchen.”
He stood and walked across the room toward her. She fought the urge to take a step backward. He was so tall, and big, and powerful…and big. Damn, he could crush her in his bare hands. He took the plate. “We might need sustenance.”
“Do you need help?”
“I think we’ve got this.”
“Well, if you want an extra set of hands…”
“I’d hate for you to hurt your finger again.” He winked, clearly alluding to her failure to install a lock.
If he weren’t so cute, she’d kick him.
Then he crouched again and got to work. “Mr. Brady is a pro at this bed assembly. I won’t be sleeping on that lumpy couch tonight.”
She perched on the edge of a chair, one of the few pieces of her dad’s furniture that remained. Tony had his back to her—his broad, smooth back. His sweater looked soft, and she wondered what it would feel like to run her hands down his spine, grab that tight ass, and—
She slipped her jacket off in the increasingly warm room.
Five minutes later, Tony walked the other man out to the truck, the sounds of deep, masculine laughter drifting through the open door. He returned after a few minutes and immediately went to a bag in the corner of the room, from which he pulled out a set of sheets and several wool blankets. Then he commenced to make the bed.
She went to the opposite side of the bed and grabbed an edge of the fitted sheet. “I hope you don’t mind me dropping by tonight.”
“How could I mind a delivery of whoopie pies?” He shook out the flat sheet and smoothed his side with military precision over the queen-size mattress.
“They’re pumpkin spice with cream cheese filling. So if you don’t eat all of them tonight, they should be refrigerated.”
He tossed her a pillowcase and a pillow. “I don’t expect to be up much longer.”
“Me neither.” She plumped the pillow and placed it on the bed, nex
t to the other one. She glanced at him and caught him staring at her. And there was no question what he was thinking. That they should both go to bed. In this bed. Together.
She retreated to the chair where she’d left her jacket. “Well, I should probably…”
“What would you like to do?”
She hugged the jacket to her chest. What, indeed? Well, she’d like to jump his bones. Have wild monkey sex and mess up the brand-new bed.
But she should practice some restraint, go home, and get a good night’s sleep.
She turned to find he’d moved to her side of the bed. He sure wasn’t making this easy, standing there all handsome and strong and sexy.
Dammit.
“Good night.” She strode out the door and hoped Samson was in the mood to cuddle.
…
Late afternoon the next day, Tony opened the front door and ushered his boss into the living room. “Thanks for dropping by, Sam. Can I get you a beer?”
“Is the pope Argentinian?” Sam made himself comfortable in the chair by the fire and grinned.
Tony grabbed a couple chilled longnecks from the fridge and a bowl of pretzels, and returned to the room that wasn’t his office or his bedroom. He could call it the living room, if he had a life. “Here you go. Prost.”
They clinked bottles, and he settled on the couch. “How was your flight? By the way, I want off this case.”
Sam took a long drink, set his bottle on the floor, and stared at the crackling logs in the fireplace. A minute later he swung his attention back. “Why?”
Tony stood and paced around the room. He was filled with equal parts frustration and impatience. He shoved his hands into his chino pockets and wished he had some keys to jingle.
“I’ve been in the field for almost ten years. I need a break.” He stood in front of the window and looked at the gatehouse.
Heather had arrived home from work an hour earlier, and he knew that she was now reading one of her dad’s journals, curled up with her large cat on her lap, a bowl of popcorn perched on the arm of her chair. He’d watched her through his scope for much longer than necessary as she curled a lock of hair around and around her finger.
He could tell she wasn’t enjoying reading about her father’s life. He’d skimmed the diaries once already that morning as he photographed each page, but he’d be sure to read them more closely at the next opportunity. Perhaps there was a clue he’d missed. If nothing else he’d find out what was making her alternately angry and sad. That’s why he’d watched her for so long—he’d been waiting to see her smile.
“This has nothing to do with Wilson and what went down two years ago?” Sam slouched lower in his seat and propped his feet on the hearth.
He turned away from the window. There was no way he could get away with a lie that big. His desire for a desk job had everything to do with his partner’s career-ending injury. And his own unwillingness to be responsible for another man’s life. Just being armed wasn’t enough to protect someone. You had to be in the right place at the right time. And you had to know your enemy.
The lowering sun glinted off the fresh snow and called to his inner skier. Racing down a mountain, dodging trees and death on the black diamond run would be easy compared to convincing his boss—and friend—to take him out of the field.
Tony moved back to the fireplace. “Let me fill you in on what I have so far and you’ll see I’d be more use elsewhere.”
Sam snagged his beer from the floor and took another pull. At least he had the good grace to not smirk.
Tony threw another log on the fire and leaned against the mantel, staring into the flames. Which is where he felt he’d landed, after jumping out of the pan. “The art thefts date back to the late sixties. The thieves took only a few things of value from each house, and the authorities never had a solid lead. It all stopped in ‘82.” Tony returned to the couch and polished off his beer.
“Have you found evidence of any of this happening in the States?” Sam gestured with his hand in the general direction of the gatehouse, and Heather.
“No. Spain, Germany, Italy, primarily France. The wealthy homeowners refused to believe the culprit could be an acquaintance of theirs, even though the thefts invariably occurred during a house party. Two of the original suspects, the guys most likely to be the culprits, have shown up on the radar. One being Robert James, who died a couple months ago, leaving almost nothing to his sole heir. Several things in his dossier don’t add up, and he disappeared from the jet set the day after the last burglary.”
“And the heir is Ms. James.”
Tony sighed and got to his feet again. “Yeah, Heather. She doesn’t have two pennies to rub together. It doesn’t make sense.”
“What about the other suspect?”
His interest was piqued despite himself. He always enjoyed this part of the job, solving the puzzle, finding the missing pieces. “Marcel Jeffers lives in Tournus, a small town in eastern France. Never married as far as we know. He’s usually accompanied by two bodyguards when he ventures out from his secluded château, so he won’t be easy to approach.”
“You’re sure Jeffers is here?”
“Someone matching his description is staying at a swanky hotel downtown. With a couple of bodyguards. I’d bet my baseball card collection that it’s Jeffers.”
Sam grinned. “You don’t collect baseball cards.”
“When will I learn it’s a waste of time to try to fool you?” Tony replaced his grin with a frown. “When can I go to France to check out that end of things?”
“You may not need to. I’ve got your new partner’s file here—”
This conversation was not going the way he’d planned. “You said I was on my own for this one. That was part of the deal.”
“And as far as I’m concerned that would have been okay.” Sam pushed up from his chair, grabbed his coat, and threw an envelope onto the couch before heading for the front door. “But there are other governments involved, and they insist one of their guys be part of the investigation.”
“The European Union?”
“Yes. Contact me when you have something we can take to a prosecutor. Until then I’ll be shopping for my retirement home and planning on moving into it soon. Don’t disappoint me, Tony. I had to go out on a limb for you on this one.”
“Gee, you’re giving me the warm fuzzies.” He gave a mock salute and closed the door. He wasn’t too surprised that Sam had been overruled on the question of his going it alone. It sounded like his unknown partner would be based overseas. Working together, they should be able to clear this case and earn him his promotion. He opened the envelope and became acquainted with his new partner.
“Well, Chas. I hope you know what you’re doing.”
Chapter Five
After his second cognac in the hotel lounge, Jeffers felt calm and affable enough to place his call. “Allo? Is that you, Miss James?”
“Yes…who is this?”
“Bonjour, ma petite. It is M. Jeffers, an old friend of your papa’s. How are you this evening?”
“Oh—Mr. Jeffers, hi. I’m fine. Um, how are you?”
Jeffers smiled. The young lady sounded flustered. Perhaps she’d been hoping to never hear from him. Perhaps she was feeling a little guilty.
“I am well, Miss James. I am visiting your charming city and would be honored if you would join me for dinner this evening. Shall we say eight o’clock?”
“Well…”
“It is good to meet with old friends,” he said, waiting patiently through the pause. He hoped he wouldn’t be forced to insist.
“Okay, I can meet you—”
“I wouldn’t hear of it. I will collect you from your home. Au revoir, my dear.”
Jeffers clicked shut his cell phone, wiped it clean with a cotton handkerchief, and dropped both in the nearest trash can. He had a few more phones in his travel case, and he’d gotten in the habit of disposing of each one after a few days. No sense leaving a trail to m
ake it easy for the cops or the bad guys to track him down.
He smiled as he walked toward the elevator. He looked forward to meeting his former partner’s daughter. Perhaps exact some retribution for past slights.
His grin widened as he approached the door of his suite. Nicholas and Maxim had been given precise instructions for his predinner entertainment. Anticipation had his body already tightening with desire as he opened the door. He walked toward the sumptuous bathroom, the location for act one of the drama, and pulled the cravat from his neck.
…
Heather dabbed at her mouth with the thick linen napkin and watched the elderly man across from her as he effortlessly ordered another bottle of wine. It had been many years since she’d heard the French language, but she was able to pick up a few words. Evidently the sommelier was pleased with Mr. Jeffers’s knowledge of wine, and he also offered his congratulations for having dinner with a “ripe, juicy peach.” The man thought she and Jeffers were on a date. She shivered.
“Now, where were we? Ah, yes. Your job at the patisserie. How did that come about?”
She knew Jeffers and her dad had been close in the past, business partners for several years. But something had driven them apart. Her primary reason for agreeing to dine was to learn something to solve the mystery of her dad’s missing fortune. She was tempted to ask about events recorded in her dad’s journals, but no names had been mentioned, just initials. She was hesitant to talk about a certain “MJ” because it might not be the “MJ” sitting across from her who’d had a man’s fingers crushed. But it might.
That would be awkward.
Besides, the debonair man was very good at steering the conversation away from the past.
“Well, I stayed in college a bit longer than planned, trying a few different majors. When I finally graduated, I moved around a bit. I worked in a gallery for a few months, and even though my knowledge of the art world was helpful, I found myself surrounded by pompous fools. And, well, I may have expressed that opinion a time or two.”
He chuckled. “Sometimes the greatest pleasure is taking those pseudo art experts to task.”
Portrait of a Girl Page 4