Portrait of a Girl

by Luanna Stewart

  Serial killers weren’t known for their pets, were they?

  “Heather, talk to me.” He’d returned to the kitchen. “Tell me what’s going on or I’ll call the police.”

  “No! I mean—ah—that won’t be necessary. But I do have a favor to ask.”

  A chair scraped across the floor in the kitchen, followed by a creak as he settled back. “I’m listening.”

  Why she’d thought this would be easy was beyond her. She hardly knew the guy, but what she did know was that he was impatient. Along with kind, caring, and a good kisser. But definitely impatient.

  “Okay.” She squared her shoulders, marshaling her bravery. “You remember how we discussed that you would do the painting in the house, so I wouldn’t have to be here—there? Because you weren’t happy with the idea of me snooping around, even though I wasn’t snooping.”

  “You’re not doing a very good job of explaining whatever the hell you’re trying to explain. Just spit it out.”

  She rested her head on her knees and squeezed her eyes shut. “I’m locked in your basement.”

  Silence.

  Well, except for his heavy breathing, which was becoming quicker. And was that the sound of his teeth grinding?

  “You—”

  “I’m sorry, I really am. But I was out walking, saw you weren’t home. I wanted to be sure I got all my dad’s stuff out of the house, so I came down here to take a quick peek. But then you put a lock on the outside door and I had already put a lock on the inside door. So I’m stuck.”

  The chair above her head crashed to the floor. Delilah barked, her nails clicking in frantic circles against the wood. The phone clicked off and Heather slid her own unit back into her pocket.

  Was he going to leave her down here? Or was he going for his razor-sharp meat cleaver?

  A few seconds later, the lock at the top of the stairs rattled, accompanied by muffled curses. Delilah whined and continued to prance around excitedly. When the door didn’t open, she crept up the stairs and put her ear to the door.

  “Tony, are you still there?”

  “Where the hell else would I be?”

  The lock continued to rattle. “What are you doing?”

  “I’m picking the damn lock, so I can let you out. Is there something you’d rather have me do?”

  “The key to this lock is at my—” Picking the lock? From her experience, limited as it was to TV, books, and movies, only cops and crooks knew how to pick locks. And the occasional private eye. Magnum and Nash Bridges sprang to mind.

  Holy crap, he was a cop. That’s why he knew how to drive like a pro and talk like the guys on Law & Order. Maybe he was onto her and knew all about her dad’s shady past.

  Although he could have picked up the correct lingo by being arrested a time or two. He could be the one creeping around her house.

  Either way, she was screwed.

  The lock clicked open and her heart stopped. The door swung into the kitchen, the late-afternoon light making it difficult to see her rescuer, a looming silhouette in the door.

  “Would you like to come up?” He backed away, holding on to Delilah’s collar. The dog’s exuberant greeting threatened to knock her back down the stairs.

  “Um, sure. Thanks.” She slid past him and scurried to the other side of the table, closer to the outside door and freedom. “I won’t keep you, you’re probably busy—with something. Thanks again for—”

  Her hand was on the doorknob when she sensed his presence. A millisecond later his tanned and muscled forearm came over her shoulder, and his hand slammed into the door, a few inches from her head.

  “Sit down, Heather. Let’s chat.”

  Her mouth dried instantly, and her heart threatened to beat its way out of her chest. Wobbly knees that verged on giving out barely got her to the chair. She slouched down and stuck her hands into her coat pockets, trying to make herself appear as small and nonthreatening as possible. Her icy fingers encountered her phone and she whipped it out, frantically trying to punch 9-1-1.

  Everything seemed to move in slow motion. Her muscles didn’t respond to her brain’s commands. He plucked the phone from her hands and turned it off before tossing it onto the counter.

  He sat across from her and rested his elbows on the table, keeping his gaze on his folded hands.

  “So tell me again why you were in the basement.”

  She had to clear her throat a few times before her voice worked. Delilah seemed to sense her distress, because she sat next to her and put her head in Heather’s lap. She stroked the dog’s large silky ears, and her heart slowed to a more normal rate.

  “Well—”

  “The truth. What were you doing down there?”

  “Of course I’ll tell you the truth. I don’t lie or deceive. Not like some people.”

  His eyebrows raised, then dropped into a deep scowl. So maybe it wasn’t smart to start a war of words.

  “Well, as I started to say before I was so rudely interrupted, I’m missing some—ah—papers of my father’s.”

  He sat up straighter, his gaze so focused it felt like he could read her thoughts before she thought them.

  She cleared her throat and forged ahead. “I was sure I had everything when I moved into the gatehouse, but I’m missing some—papers. I thought perhaps there were more boxes in the basement. I’d planned to take a quick peek and be out of there before you got home, and you’d never have to know. Since it upsets you so much. For some strange reason.”

  He leaned across the table, an intense gleam in his eye. “And did you find what you were looking for?”

  “Pfft, no. There’s nothing down there except spiders and dust. So like I said, sorry to bother you.” She rose from her chair.

  His hand clasped her wrist.

  “What are you doing?” she gasped, pulling against his grip.

  “You must have heard me putting that lock on the outside door. I made plenty of noise. Why didn’t you call out?”

  She continued to tug and twist but it was no use. He was too strong. His hand completely circled her wrist. She was alone in the house with a man who could overpower her and do whatever he wanted. If she screamed, no one would hear. All the questions she had about who he really was came stampeding into her consciousness. She was seriously in danger of peeing her pants.

  “I knew you’d be upset, and I was trying to think of another way out.” Keep talking and think of a way to get out of this mess.

  “How did that work for you?” His hold relaxed, and he commenced rubbing his thumb against the inside of her wrist.

  That’s where the shiver started. It traveled along her arm and settled low in her belly.

  No, no, no, she was not getting turned on. She really, really needed to get out of this house. Now.

  “Not—not so good.”

  He raised an eyebrow and tugged lightly on her arm, moving her slowly around the table to stand directly in front of him.

  Standing over him gave her an advantage. She wished she knew how to do one of those flying karate kicks. But she didn’t. And besides, she was afraid it would hurt him.

  “Is there anything else you’d like to tell me?” He continued his light caress, his dark eyes growing darker. He grinned, a small dimple creasing his cheek, right next to his mouth. His full, classically shaped lips surrounded by a day’s growth of dark beard parted to reveal a gleam of white teeth.

  She wanted to tell him everything, every worry, every question. Maybe he could make sense of it, or at least offer some comfort.

  The cut on his cheek from the cemetery reminded her that too much weird stuff had been happening. Ever since she arrived in Portland.

  Panic tightened her chest.

  No, the weird stuff started when Tony moved into the big house.

  Twisting her wrist, she escaped his hand and took quick steps away from—danger? Temptation? She grabbed her cell phone from the counter and opened the door. “I’m not telling you anything.”

&nb
sp; She slammed the door and jumped down the steps. The walk home was more of a jog. Not until she was safely inside, with the door bolted, did she let out the breath she’d been holding.

  Cripes, she was a ninny. Sure she’d been running into him a lot lately, but this was a small city. It’s not like he was stalking her. He had a dog—what better place to go than the biggest park in town. He was a photographer, and sure, it had seemed strange that he’d choose the cemetery. But the picture she’d seen framed through the viewfinder had been striking. So maybe he took artsy type photos as well as the stuff for the magazine.

  Throwing her jacket onto the couch in disgust, she stomped into the kitchen. “Samson, your mother is nuts. I’m seeing bad guys around every corner.”

  The cat gave her a look and returned to his nap.

  She emptied the clothes dryer into a basket. In the living room she connected her smartphone to a small speaker and scrolled through her music, looking for something to match her mood. She turned the volume up all the way and folded clothes to the beat of Adele.

  …

  Tony closed his laptop and rubbed his eyes. Maybe he needed glasses. The print seemed to get smaller the longer he read.

  Rolling his shoulders, he did a few circuits of his office. What he really wanted was to take Delilah on a hard run. But he was afraid to leave Heather unguarded for too long.

  Before turning on any lights in the living room, he went to the front window. He looked down the hill at the gatehouse, at the brightly lit windows, and at Heather moving around inside. He could go upstairs to his scope and know exactly what she was doing. But it was more fun to guess.

  She appeared to be talking to someone while she folded laundry. Probably her cat.

  No, she was singing.

  And dancing.

  Good thing she lived so far from the main road. She wouldn’t want other people watching this sexy dance. All that was required to complete the picture was a pole for her to rub against.

  He adjusted his suddenly snug pants and leaned against the window. She pulled a towel from the basket and held it to her chest. Folding it in half, she ran her hand down the length, over her breasts, her stomach, her thighs, all while moving her hips in a rhythm that suggested two bodies wrapped together getting sweaty.

  He let out his breath.

  Come on, baby, fold something else.

  The next item from the basket was a T-shirt, one he’d seen her wearing a few days earlier. It had hugged her body like a second skin.

  Who knew laundry could be such a turn-on?

  She must have sensed being watched, because she paused in mid-gyration and stared out the window. He knew the instant her gaze found him. She jumped to the window, grabbed the blind, and jerked it down.

  Busted.

  Even though he knew it would be close to impossible to concentrate, he went back to reading the journal pages he’d photographed, hoping to find a clue.

  Chapter Eleven

  The ringing and buzzing of the phone jolted Heather from sleep. Cripes, she’d missed the end of her favorite TV show. Now she’d have to search the internet to find out if Val would be dancing next week. She struggled to dig her cell phone from her front jeans pocket. Blocked call.

  “Listen, do you have any idea—” she began, prepared to give the marketer an earful.

  “Allo? Is that you, Miss James?”

  “Mr. Jeffers?” Good heavens, it was almost midnight. She sat up, brushing a clump of hair from her face. “Are you okay?”

  “Oh yes, chérie, quite well. However, it seems that I have misplaced something of great value to me.”

  “That’s too bad. What is it?” And why the heck are you calling at this hour, you old fart?

  “Something your dear father helped me to acquire many years ago. So you see, it holds great sentimental value, as well as obvious monetary value. I planned to discuss this with you during dinner, but my unfortunate illness cut short our time together.”

  “A painting?” Something Dad had stolen from one of his friends, no doubt. She punched a throw pillow into shape and leaned back, dreading what was to come.

  “Mais oui, a small picture, more of a drawing. By the master Fragonard. Perhaps you would be willing to let me have it back now?”

  Heather sat motionless, gazing around the practically empty room, wondering what the heck he was talking about. The only paintings she’d found in the big house were piled in the corner, and they’d all been oils. Cheap copies, she assumed, since her father had disposed of everything of value.

  “Mr. Jeffers, I’m sorry. I really don’t know what you’re talking about. What exactly are you looking for?”

  “I told you!”

  His voice exploded out of the phone, raising the hair on the back of her neck.

  All of a sudden, her cozy little house turned sinister and menacing and unfriendly.

  “Pardon me, I beg of you.” He cleared his throat and continued more quietly, his voice clipped. “It has been a tiring day. The Fragonard I speak of is a small pen-and-ink view of an Italian villa. I am sure you would recognize it immediately. I will wait while you look through your collection.”

  Heather didn’t know whether to laugh or scream. How was she supposed to convince this man that she didn’t have what he was looking for?

  “Mr. Jeffers, please listen. There is nothing here like you described.” Her grip tightened on the phone, her palm slippery with sweat.

  “That cannot be. I tell you he had it. He took it from me. Perhaps it is in a safe, or a secret hiding place. Look again.”

  The voice coming through the phone was hard and cold, reminding her of passages she’d read in the journals. Stories about the punishment of a colleague. Details of the bribe paid to an official. A recounting of the destruction of someone’s prized rose garden.

  Fear inched up her spine. She wanted to end this call and go somewhere brightly lit and full of people.

  “Okay, I’ll look again. Can I call you tomorrow? It’s really late and I was sleeping—”

  “No.” Menace dripped from the single word. “I insist that you return to me what is rightfully mine. I am coming there now—we can search together.”

  “No, wait—” The line was dead. She pressed the off button with a shaking hand and put the phone as far from her as she could reach, afraid it might bite.

  If Jeffers drove at the speed of most old men, he’d be at her house in twenty minutes. But if he had one of his assistants drive, he’d be there in half that time. As the minutes ticked by, she became convinced she didn’t want to be there when he arrived. She straightened her clothes and tucked her hair back into a loose bun.

  Where to go was the next question. She could call Sally, but didn’t want to bother her so late at night. The buses on her route stopped running at midnight. She didn’t have money for a cab. She hated feeling vulnerable and scared.

  Knowing she had to get out of the house, she grabbed her coat from the rack and burst through the door. She glanced up the hill. A light burned, and she saw a moving silhouette through the thin curtains.

  If nothing else, she could hide in the shadow of the porch. She set off, thankful there was no full moon.

  Almost at the big house, the sound of a car crunching up the drive quickened her pace. She watched from the darkened corner of the large house as the car parked behind some trees a good distance away. What was he up to? When the car door opened, no light came on. He pushed the door closed carefully, making no noise.

  A fresh wave of terror slithered up her spine. Only someone up to no good would be intent on being so quiet. She crept backward toward the dining room window.

  When had her life become a freaking spy novel?

  Keeping out of the glow from inside, she tapped on the glass, hoping the noise wasn’t as loud as it seemed. When there was no response, she tapped again a bit harder. She could hear someone pounding on her door and suspected he would get impatient. He might even look around. She didn’t
dare move from the shelter of the house for fear of attracting attention. She had to get in the big house. She tried one more time knocking on the window, not wanting to move from the shadows.

  A hand clamped over her mouth. She squealed. She was pulled back against a hard body, an arm of steel circling her waist and lifting her a few inches off the ground.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Tony whispered into her ear.

  She slumped with relief, feeling safe despite being trapped. Trying to whisper, she told him she was coming for a visit, but it came out garbled.

  “Tell me once we’re inside. Nod if you understand.”

  She nodded frantically, wanting only to get a safe distance from the menace at the gatehouse.

  Tony set her on her feet and removed his hand from her mouth, keeping a firm grip on her waist. They hurried to his back door, which was partially open. Once inside, he closed and locked the door. He’d added a dead bolt that hadn’t been there the last time she was in the house.

  Ushering her into the front room, where the lights were low and the curtains drawn, he whisked off her coat and placed it on the chair. Then guided her to sit on the couch. He stood facing her, hands on hips, a frown creasing his forehead.

  “Explain,” he said, his voice low and firm.

  “I—ah—well. You see—” She sputtered to a stop, and honestly didn’t know how to go on. It seemed silly now, being frightened of an old man. Her face heated as she imagined Tony’s reaction to her story. Even to her ears it was pretty lame.

  “Heather? What’s going on?”

  She started to shake. “Cripes, I feel like a fool. I did a good job of scaring myself, and I hoped you’d—”

  He crouched in front of her and took her hands in his broad, warm grasp. The frown of annoyance was replaced with one of concern, his dark eyes pinning her in place, daring her to give him less than the complete truth. “What happened?”

  She shook her head and shrugged. “I don’t know. Well, I got a phone call—”

  “Was it threatening?”

  It was like a switch had been thrown, and now she was looking in the hard eyes of a soldier or a cop.