Gift of Gold

by Jayne Ann Krentz

  “How awful,” Verity said with more depth of feeling than Jonas would have liked under the circumstances. “Was he a friend of yours?”

  “Merely a business acquaintance.”

  “Did the police ever catch the murderer?” Verity persisted.

  “I have no idea. I didn’t follow the story.” Kincaid dismissed the subject as he glanced around the throng. “So the mysterious, reclusive artist finally greets her public. I must admit she’s doing it in grand style. Miss Evanger is a striking woman. Pity about the scar and that leg.”

  “She was in an accident,” Verity muttered defensively. “She’s lucky to be alive.”

  “Is that right?” Kincaid studied Caitlin from across the room.

  Jonas gave serious consideration to throttling his lady. He contented himself with putting his arm around her waist and squeezing. Hard. She flinched and slanted him a reproachful glance. Silently he shook his head and she finally got the message. He saw the chagrin in her eyes as she realized she was getting too mouthy in front of Caitlin’s enemy.

  Verity’s problem, Jonas decided objectively, was that she tended to be too mouthy most of the time and the tendency got worse when her temper was aroused.

  “You’ll be back here tomorrow along with the other bidders?” Jonas asked smoothly, hoping to distract Kincaid from his intense study of Caitlin.

  “Yes. I can’t say I appreciate the delay or all this nonsense Evanger is insisting upon, but I guess we must humor the eccentric artist. A relatively small price to pay for a chance at Evanger’s final work,” Kincaid replied absently. “What about you and Miss Ames?”

  “We’ll be at the auction, but we won’t be bidding. We’re here as Caitlin’s guests,” Verity volunteered.

  Once again Jonas let his grip tighten unmercifully around her waist. Jonas didn’t want Kincaid to have any more information than he already possessed. The whole damn situation was already too dangerous.

  “I see. Miss Evanger must value your company,” Kincaid said blandly. “Have you known her long? I understood she had few acquaintances.”

  “We’ve known her awhile,” Jonas replied stonily, wishing Kincaid would leave before he pried any more information out of Verity. In the next moment, he got his wish.

  “There’s someone I should speak to across the room. A fellow collector. I’m surprised he’s here tonight. He usually avoids this kind of gathering. If you’ll both excuse me?”

  “Of course,” Verity said primly.

  Kincaid’s eyes went to her bare shoulders and the white skin above the blue bodice. “I hope you will honor me with a dance later, Miss Ames. Unless, of course, Quarrel objects?” He smiled blandly at Jonas.

  “He does,” Jonas said easily. “I keep close tabs on Verity. I’m sure you understand.”

  “For heaven’s sake, Jonas,” Verity exclaimed in exasperation.

  Kincaid chuckled and moved off into the crowd. Verity rounded on Jonas. “Let’s get something clear, Jonas. I don’t particularly want to dance with that bastard, but I’m perfectly capable of making the decision and acting on it myself. I don’t want you thinking you can pick and choose my dance partners for me.”

  “When it comes to partners like Kincaid, I’ll make the decision and you’ll abide by it,” Jonas said calmly. He reached for another slice of paté on toast.

  “Damn it, Jonas, who the hell do you think you are to talk to me like that?”

  “I’m the man you sleep with these days. That gives me all kinds of rights.”

  He could tell his imperturbable attitude was getting to her. Verity’s eyes were glittering more brilliantly than the jewel on her forehead.

  “Jonas, this is an asinine argument to be having right now.”

  “I couldn’t agree more. Let’s skip the argument and have something else to eat.”

  “How can you eat after talking to that man?”

  “It’s simple. I just put this cracker into my mouth and chomp down with both sets of teeth. Works every time.”

  “Jonas, that’s the man in Caitlin’s painting. Don’t you understand? He’s the one who…Oh, my God, the painting,” Verity gasped.

  “What about it?”

  “I just realized. It’s unprotected upstairs. Caitlin locked the door to her studio but that’s the only precaution she took. But what if you’re right and he is suspicious? What if Kincaid snuck up there and destroyed it before he walked into the party? That would explain why he was late arriving tonight.”

  “Verity, be reasonable. How would he know where the painting is or what Caitlin painted in the first place?”

  “He knows there’s a painting for sale and he must remember this house. In fact, it must look very familiar to him, because Caitlin admitted she never changed a thing in it. He’d know his way around the place. If he’s at all suspicious about what’s going on here tonight, it would be perfectly reasonable for him to sneak a look at Bloodlust. After all, this whole get-together is focused on that painting.”

  “Your logic is unassailable,” Jonas admitted dryly. “But what makes you think he could sneak up those stairs and find the room she uses as a studio with all the people coming and going around here?”

  “I told you, he knows this house. He’d remember the back staircase. He’d know the big corner room on the third floor would make an excellent studio. The light would be perfect up there. Lord only knows how much else he’ll remember.” With sudden decision, Verity picked up her velvet skirts.

  “Let’s go.”

  “Where?”

  “To check on the painting,” she hissed impatiently.

  Jonas swore softly. “Not so fast. I’ll go. You’re staying here in the crowd.”

  “No, I’m not. I’ll come with you. I want to see if anything’s been done to Bloodlust.”

  “I’ll check it out and report back to you. Word of honor.”

  “Jonas,” she began in that tone of voice that told him she was about to put her foot down, “I said I’m coming with you and I mean it.”

  Jonas sighed and tipped up her stubborn little chin. He looked down into her defiant gaze and deliberately pitched his voice to a low and dangerous level. It was time she learned there were limits to the kind of orders he would take from her. He had been indulging her far too long.

  “Listen closely, Verity. You’re not leaving this room. I will check on Bloodlust for you but you will stay right here with all these people until I get back. I’m not taking any chances this evening. This subject is not open for further discussion. We are not voting on who gets to go upstairs and who doesn’t. I’m making the decision and you will follow orders.”

  “Your orders?” she sputtered. “What makes you think I’ll follow orders from you?”

  “If you don’t, I swear I will turn you over my knee and paddle you in front of all these nice people.” He didn’t make a threat out of it. He made it sound like a promise.

  Verity was so shocked that for a few critical seconds she couldn’t find any words to fling at him. Jonas nodded once, satisfied that his message had been received and understood. He released her chin.

  “I’ll be back in a few minutes. Try to keep your mouth shut around Kincaid. You get too chatty when you get mad.” He stepped into the crowd before she could recover.

  Sometimes you had to get firm with a tyrant. History showed it didn’t pay to appease one. Little tyrants turned into major nuisances if given a chance.

  The hall outside the kitchen was empty. The light had been turned off. Jonas surveyed the narrow, shadowed staircase and decided Verity was right. It would be relatively easy for someone to make his way upstairs without being noticed, if he knew about the back stairs.

  Reflexively he touched the hilt of the aluminum dagger and then dropped his hand in disgust. It would have been worth his life for a Renaissance lord to carry a fake
. Jonas’s hand moved under the black cloak to check the utilitarian knife that hung over his hip.

  Theoretically there no need for concern. Kincaid was safely occupied in the main salon. But Jonas was aware of a frisson of uneasiness as he loped swiftly up the stairs to the third level of the house.

  The hall at the top was empty and dark. He made his way through the shadows, listening to the splatter of rain on the skylight overhead. One quick look at the painting would reassure him and he could then reassure Verity.

  The door to the corner room where Caitlin practiced her art was still locked. Jonas tried it and knew a strong sense of relief when the knob failed to turn under his fingers. It didn’t prove that Kincaid hadn’t been inside, but it was an indication that all was still safe.

  It wouldn’t hurt to be certain. Besides, Verity would want to know if he had checked the painting itself, not just the lock on the door. Tyrants could be extremely demanding.

  Reluctantly Jonas slipped the thin aluminum dagger out of its sheath and inserted the tip between the door and its frame. He had heard that a credit card worked well on this kind of simple household lock but he hadn’t carried plastic for nearly five years.

  The dagger point did the job just fine. The lock gave way and the knob turned in Jonas’s palm. He slid the fake weapon back into its sheath and stepped into the darkened room.

  Something moved in the shadows and Jonas froze. A small pocket light switched on and he automatically looked away from it, trying not to let himself be temporarily blinded by it. The light revealed a gun locked in a beefy fist. It was pointed at him.

  “Hold it right there. One move and I’ll blow you away. There’s a silencer on this. No one downstairs will hear a thing.”

  Jonas surveyed the dark, solid shape in front of him. He couldn’t make out the features, only a general impression of size and strength behind the glare of the small flashlight, The hick accent was grating on the ears but there was no doubt the gun was rock steady. The man seemed quite comfortable with it.

  “Are you up here to deliver an opinion on modern art or are you just lost?” Jonas asked.

  “Shut up. Throw down that knife. Now.”

  For an instant Jonas thought the man had guessed about the real blade that hung beneath his cloak. Then he realized with a vast sense of relief that the man was referring to the aluminum dagger. Here in the darkness the thing looked amazingly real. Obediently Jonas removed the fake and tossed it aside.

  “Don’t move.” The gunman put the flashlight down on a nearby table, making certain it continued to illuminate Jonas. He reached for an object that hung at his hip and flicked a small switch. Then he released it. “All right, let’s go.” He picked up the flashlight again and motioned toward the door with the gun.

  “Go where?”

  “Outside. I just alerted Kincaid. He’ll be along in a few minutes. We’ll wait for him at the back of the house.”

  “Kincaid’s carrying a pager?”

  “You got it. Now move.”

  Jonas weighed the odds and decided to take a realistic view. There was no way he could get the knife out of its sheath before the gunman pulled the trigger. He turned slowly toward the door.

  “What about the painting?” he asked deliberately. If the man hadn’t accomplished what he’d been sent up here to accomplish, finishing the job might provide a distraction.

  “Forget the painting. I’ll take care of it later.”

  Jonas glanced at the wall where Bloodlust stood. In the weak glare of the flashlight he could see that the painting was still draped in a white sheet. The intruder must have only recently arrived.

  Jonas and the man behind him made their way slowly down the back stairs. Jonas indulged a few useless fantasies of accidentally encountering another guest or two who might have slipped away from the salon to search for a bathroom, but that proved futile. This part of the house was deadly quiet.

  The gunman knew where he was going. He guided Jonas unerringly out the back door of the house. As they moved outside, Jonas got a clear view of the ski mask that shielded the man’s features. They stood on the steps under the porch roof and waited.

  It had been raining on and off for the past couple of hours but now the drizzle had turned into a steady downpour. The noise of it was a steady hum above the distant sound of the surf.

  Kincaid appeared almost immediately. He stepped through the back door and eyed Jonas with cool satisfaction.

  “So you got him, Tresslar.” he said to the man with the gun. “Excellent. That proved simple enough and it takes care of the main problem.”

  Jonas shook his head. “Your problems are just beginning, Kincaid.”

  “No, my friend. They are nearly over. I would like to know a little more about you and where you fit in to this, but I’m afraid I can’t risk taking the time to interrogate you. I don’t want anyone realizing I’ve left the party. Don’t worry, though. I will question the little redhead instead. I’m sure she’ll be able to tell me a great deal about you.”

  Jonas fought down the cold rage that threatened to swamp him. “Verity knows nothing about any of this.”

  Kincaid’s mouth curved faintly and his eyes glittered with an unnatural excitement. “We shall see. One thing is certain, I shall enjoy getting her to tell me what she does know. The experience should prove interesting. There’s a certain sense of delicacy about her, a look of freshness that I find appealing. I have a feeling she will respond well to the stimulus of pain.”

  “I’ll kill you if you so much as touch her,” Jonas promised softly.

  Kincaid’s smile widened. “Brave words for a man who is about to become a ghost.” He signaled to the gunman. “Get rid of him. Don’t use the gun unless it’s absolutely necessary. I would prefer the death to look like an accident. You know what to do.”

  Tresslar nodded. “Yeah,” he said laconically. “I know what to do. But I didn’t get a chance to check the painting, Kincaid.”

  “I’ll take care of it later. Right now your priority is to get rid of him before he can cause any further trouble.” Kincaid opened the back door and went inside the house without a backward glance.

  “Well, that’s that,” Tresslar announced. “Out of sight, out of mind, I guess. Let’s go.”

  Jonas gave him a thoughtful look. “Where, exactly, are we going?”

  “To a place along the top of the cliffs where the fence is supposed to be broken. Kincaid described it to me. You, my friend, are going to have an accident. You’d had a few drinks, took a little walk outside to get some fresh air, and got too close to the edge of the cliffs. Real sad.” He lifted the nose of the gun. “Move.”

  Jonas turned and went slowly down the porch steps. The cold rain drenched his face and hair within seconds but the cloak provided some protection for the rest of him. The only consolation was that the gunman was getting equally wet. The spongy ground made a good excuse for slow progress toward the cliffs.

  “I said move, Quarrel. I haven’t got all night.”

  Jonas deliberately stumbled in the mud but Tresslar made no attempt to get close enough to pull his victim back to his feet. He merely hefted the weapon with increasing impatience.

  Jonas got back to his feet on his own. As he did so he slid the knife he had retrieved from its hip sheath into the gathered sleeve of his shirt. Then he undid the fastening of the cloak, as if he intended to discard its doubtful protection.

  “Leave the fancy little coat alone. It goes over the cliff with you,” Tresslar said.

  It didn’t take long to reach the cliff edge. Not nearly as long as Jonas would have liked. There was no time to create a distraction or come up with a brilliant plan of action for disarming Tresslar.

  One thing was certain: whatever happened at the top of the cliffs was going to be messy and totally lacking in finesse.

  “All right, th
is is the place.” Tresslar swung the flashlight’s beam along the broken railing at the edge of the cliffs. The unconnected posts jutted out of the wet ground at an odd angle.

  Jonas swung around to face Tresslar, the edge of the cloak gripped in one fist in what he hoped looked like the white-knuckled grasp of a very nervous man. “You expecting me to jump? If so, you’re in for a long wait.”

  “You want a helping hand? Glad to oblige.” Tresslar reached out and picked up one of the pieces of broken fence railing. Without any warning, he heaved it heavily toward Jonas.

  Under ordinary circumstances, a man would have instinctively stepped back to avoid the length of splintered wood aimed at his head. But a step backward in this case would be a step into the sea.

  Jonas realized what was happening as he saw Tresslar’s aim move, but even so he was vaguely surprised at how difficult it was to stifle the instinct to get out of the way.

  Jonas tightened his grasp on the edge of the cloak and swung around in a small, stumbling circle that could have been mistaken for an attempt at scrambling to evade the piece of wood.

  It took Tresslar a couple of seconds to realize that Jonas hadn’t flinched backward but had only turned around. By then it was too late. The cloak was swinging in a wide arc at the end of Jonas’s arm. The heavy, wet length of it struck Tresslar’s hand just as the broken length of wood thudded against Jonas’s shoulder.

  For an instant Jonas saw the psychic corridor in his mind and he wanted to scream in rage. The last thing he needed now was that kind of distraction. An image started to materialize, the picture of a man falling to his death over the cliffs. He was reaching desperately for the fence post and it was breaking free in his grasp. A frozen scream shaped the man’s mouth.