“No, that’s okay,” Cassi said. “I’m sure we’ll catch up to them at the gate.”
“That’s what I’m worried about.” Carl handed her the tapestry case and her manila envelope. “Now could you put my chair back in gear?”
Thanking the girl, Cassi held the door for Carl to guide his chair out of the bathroom. Her muscles tensed, but as the girl had said, their pursuers had vanished.
“Come on,” Carl said, turning toward the ticketing desk. “Let’s get on with it.”
Due to the customary last-minute cancellations, there was a flight available on the next plane to New York. Cassi stood with Carl as he checked his padded equipment case. He kept the manila envelope with his copy of the address papers to study on the plane.
Cassi worried about him finding a flight from New York to San Diego, but he waved her concern aside. “I can take care of myself,” he said. “Don’t worry. And once I get these papers to whoever is in charge at the FBI, they’ll find Jared. Now get out of here. Do you have enough money?”
“I have plenty,” she said, patting the pocket of her jacket. “I saw a booth back near the entrance, if I need more. “I’ve also got my brother’s credit cards.”
By the time Carl was on the plane, it was nearly four o’clock, Paris time. Cassi found a relatively isolated spot near a large potted plant and pulled her papers from the manila envelope. There was a delivery marked for four o’clock that wasn’t too far away from the airport—if her memory served her correctly. Placing the envelope inside the tapestry case, she headed outside to hail a taxi.
“Is this far?” she asked in English, showing the driver the address.
“Fah? Thees?” he glanced at the address. “Non. Not fah.Verrry verrry neerrr by.” He rolled the r’s in the back of his throat, unlike the Spanish speakers Cassi had known who rolled their r’s on their tongues. Either of the sounds made her mouth ache when she tried them, although she was fairly good at imitating the accents French speakers used when they tried to speak English. The actor in her, she’d always thought.
When the taxi driver pulled up at the building, Cassi fumbled with the French money she had obtained during their layover in New York. Finally, the driver leaned over the seat and chose his own remuneration. “I keep thees forrr teep, non?” he waved a bill in front of her face. “Forrr geeting you heah, verrry fahst.” It took a moment for Cassi to understand that “teep” was tip and “fahst” meant fast.
“Fine,” she said, exiting the cab. At least their brief interchange had given her heart a chance to recover from their harrowing drive through the narrow, crowded streets.
“You want I wait?” the driver asked.
“No, thank you.” She had hardly finished the words before he charged down the street, engine roaring.
Shaking her head, Cassi glanced at her paper once again, comparing the address to the one on the building. What was she to do now? Ring the bell and ask to see the very expensive painting that had just been delivered?
“I could pretend to be with the people who delivered it,” she thought aloud. “Coming to check up on the delivery and to assure customer satisfaction.” It might work. But why wouldn’t she speak French? Hmm, harder to solve. A new employee? Maybe that would squeak her by. Cassi felt she had no choice but to try.
She was putting the final touches to her mental plan when a familiar white delivery truck pulled up in front of the house. It was twenty minutes after four. Of course, she thought. It’s late. Just like at Dr. Medard’s. She checked the license plate number against the one in her head to make sure they were the same. They were.
Another plan formed in Cassi’s mind. Maybe she could call a taxi and follow the truck to its destiny. She already knew something was odd about the Bonnard painting, so there was a good chance that following these men could eventually lead her to Jared, or to someone who knew where he was. If it didn’t, she was out nothing but the money for a long taxi ride.
She glanced around but found no pay phone. Nor did she have any change to make a call if she could find one. Looking up a taxi ought to be easy enough, but it probably wouldn’t arrive in time anyway. Already the men were carrying a blanket-wrapped package inside the apartment building, once again leaving the back of the truck partially ajar.
Fear grew inside Cassi’s heart—fear that she might miss her only chance, and fear of what she might do because of that desperation. But what did she have to lose by trying? They had taken Jared, killed Linden, and put her on the run. The only thing left was her life—and that she would willingly give to save Jared.
One foot went in front of the other. Slowly, slowly, going past the truck and circling around. The uniformed guard was pacing from one end of the truck to the other, looking far more vigilant than he had earlier. Cassi wished she could get down on her hands and knees to check his progress, but she knew the action would attract the attention of cars whizzing by in the streets and people strolling on the cobblestone sidewalks.
Just look calm and natural, she thought.
She waited until the guard was at the far end and quickly walked to the back of the truck, pushing one of the double doors open enough to admit her. As she scrambled up, her tapestry case hit the door, sending a low bonging throughout the truck. Heart pounding wildly, she sprinted the inside length of the truck, the thudding of Jarelyn’s old loafers against the metal floor sounding loud in her ears.
Praying hard, she dived between several paintings. If these men were part of the group who’d taken Jared, as she hoped they were, she might not live much longer if they found her. But what other choice did she have? She couldn’t let Laranda hurt Jared again.
Cassi’s heart still raced as she heard the guard open the back and peer inside the truck, but aside from that she found herself remarkably calm and coherent. In the last few days she had been in so many frightening situations that she wondered if she wasn’t becoming accustomed to the feelings. Whatever the reason, she was grateful.
The man shut the doors again nearly all the way, but he didn’t leave. Cassi could hear him pacing outside in front of the doors. Even if she had wanted to turn back, it was too late now.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
TRENT AND JARED HAD BEEN locked in a room alone since they had arrived in France sometime during the night. The trip was the quickest Jared had ever experienced to Europe. A private jet had all of the luxuries he had never enjoyed—including no baggage delays or layovers—and he found himself experiencing an appalled fascination with the way Laranda had chosen to live her life. She had ignored them completely on the flight, which for some reason irritated him. He heard her husky laughter a couple of times in the next cabin, but the guard made sure the door obscured the occupants from view.
At the airport, they had been greeted by French customs officials, who came directly to the plane. They were kept well away from Jared. He was sure a lot of money had been exchanged, because the men left after only briefly checking the airplane’s cargo area.
During the drive from the airport to the lush prison they were in now, the guards had once again blindfolded them. It had taken all the self-control Jared could muster not to put up a fight. His body was healing and his anger increasing. Soon he would have to act. He was beginning to feel that he wouldn’t get out of the situation alive, anyway—or see Cassi again. What would it hurt to take a risk?
When Laranda sent for them, Jared was ready. She sat calmly in her wheelchair, her blond hair glistening as though it had been freshly washed and brushed, in contrast to his growing beard and general unkempt feeling. Her green eyes flashed over him lazily. “Did you have a good rest?” she asked Jared, ignoring Trent at his side.
“No, I didn’t,” Jared growled.
She seemed genuinely amused at his ferociousness. “Why, Jared, I think this experience is bringing out the best in you. I wonder why I never saw you as more than a pretty face.”
“I worked the best legitimate art deals you ever had at your gallery,” he
said, stung that all the years he had worked in the art world had, in her eyes, been reduced to his looks.
“Once again, it’s your choice of words. Legitimate. That simply doesn’t contain very much excitement, now does it?”
Jared took two steps toward her, his fists clenched. “It’s satisfying. But you’ve never known that feeling, have you? Do you know what it’s like to be satisfied? Can you even imagine it? No, you can’t. And you never will. You’ll always want more. What kind of life is that?”
Laranda sat up in her chair as though she would arise and walk toward him on her useless legs, using the sheer strength of her will. Her mouth opened slightly and her breath came in shallow gasps. Her cheekbones reddened becomingly, and he fleetingly remembered how attracted he had once been to her. When they had been friends. It seemed so long ago.
The guards at the door tensed, awaiting a command, and Jared could feel Trent’s trembling hand on his back. A warning to watch his words. To not anger Laranda.
Then Laranda laughed. “Oh, I’ve missed you, Jared! I’d forgotten what it was like to have these moral debates. I’m so glad you’re here.”
“Why am I here?” he demanded. “Why can’t you just let me live my life?”
Laranda fingered the controls on her chair, moving away from him. “I didn’t bring you here, Jared. Your snooping did. Big Tommy’s boys brought you because of your prying. If you had just given them the envelope Trent sent you, it would be over.”
Jared moved forward again, motioning for Trent to stay behind. “Would it really? If I had turned over the envelope, would they really have let me alone?”
“Where is the envelope?”
“Answer me. I want the truth.”
She gazed up at him, a smile on her painted lips. “The truth is relative. The truth is what I make it. I am in control here.”
“No.” He leaned down, hands on his thighs, his face almost level with hers. “Big Tommy is in control, and he’ll wipe you away like so many others he has used.”
“He’s a man,” she said. “And he’s mine. I haven’t lost everything, Jared.” She laughed. “You may see me as a cripple, but I’m still a woman.”
Jared straightened. “Why am I really here?” He forced the words to come out steadily, though he wanted to scream.
“Because I want you here.”
A flash of understanding hit Jared like a bolt of lightning. He wasn’t here because of Big Tommy, and he wasn’t here to be killed. He was here because Laranda desired his presence. She wanted to win him, to use him, to own his soul.
“You sent Trent the envelope, didn’t you?” he said, his voice low and accusing. “That’s why there was no mention of your gallery on the papers. You wanted to give me enough to be curious and enough to get Big Tommy worried, but not something that could convict you again if they fell into the wrong hands. Then you let your new bedfellow take the risk of kidnapping me to get the papers back.”
She held a finger against her painted lips. “Shhhh. That’s our little secret—yours and mine.” Her voice was so soft he could barely hear her words. “Even if you tried to tell them, they wouldn’t believe you. Besides, I assure you that right now I’m the only thing standing between you and a cement grave. You think Big Tommy has such patience with nobodies like you?”
Laranda smiled the slow, seductive smile he had known so well, and in that instant Jared knew that no matter what, she would never let him go. She had planned everything so that she could take her revenge in the normal course of her business. It was cold, calculating, and vintage Laranda.
“Live with it,” Laranda said. “We will be good friends again—after I teach you to enjoy what life has to offer.”
Jared wanted to strangle her. And why shouldn’t he? He had nothing to lose. He and Trent were as good as dead anyway.
With one stride he was behind her chair, wrapping his arm around her slender neck. Squeezing. The guards bounded forward, but Jared’s shout stopped them: “One more move and I’ll kill her!” He didn’t stop to consider if he was capable of murder—even Laranda’s.
“Shoot!” Laranda choked out, pointing at Trent.
The guard grabbed Trent and put the gun to his head. “Well?” he asked.
Jared saw the fear in Trent’s eyes and slowly released his hold on Laranda. She glared at him, the anger in her face more terrible than Trent’s fear. “Don’t you ever try that again,” she rasped, one hand at her throat.
Laranda gave a signal to one of the guards, who walked up to Trent and punched him in the stomach. The air rushed out of Trent’s body and he toppled forward, moaning. Jared bounded to help his friend, but the guard’s fist found his face, sending him to his knees.
“That’s enough.” Laranda glided her chair next to Jared and touched the place on his cheek where the guard had hit him. Her finger came away wet with blood. She wiped the finger on his neck, dragging it down his skin past the first open button on his shirt, stopping before her finger hit the cloth. She twirled her finger in the tufts of hair on his upper chest before poking him hard with her fingernail. “You are mine. Don’t ever forget that.”
Jared met her stare with a hard one of his own. Unwilling to make Trent suffer more, he refused to speak, but knew Laranda would understand his silence. He also knew, however, that there would come a time when he would have to submit to Laranda or be responsible for Trent’s death. Better to die myself, he thought.
She licked her lips, like a lion stalking its prey. Jared’s tension increased. Moments later, the door clicked open and a maid carrying a tray entered the room. Jared glanced once at the woman and then stared. His heart lurched, both from gladness and fear. She had very short, tightly curled red hair, but he knew her.
* * *
THE DELIVERY TRUCK MADE TWO more stops before it finished for the night. Each time they opened the back, Cassi held her breath in fear of discovery. But each time they chose a piece of art other than the one she crouched behind. There was a long drive after the last stop, and Cassi let herself doze, occasionally checking her watch. In America, she would have been awake for several hours now, and would be getting ready for her marriage to Jared. The emptiness in her heart filled with longing and more than a little pain. She welcomed the feeling; it was better than the numb ache of Linden’s death.
At last the truck stopped, and Cassi jerked to wakefulness. Wherever they were, it was completely black. Would they now unload the truck? Perhaps rearrange and load more items? Or were they finished for the evening?
Cassi pressed the light on her watch to check the time. Ten minutes passed, and she heard nothing. She began to worry about being locked in. Slowly and carefully she crept to the back door, feeling with her hands until they closed gratefully over a large latch. Listening intently for outside sounds, she undid the latch, pushed one of the double doors open slightly, and peered out. There was enough light seeping in from outside to see that she was in a large garage with three automatic garage door openings, all closed. There were two other cars, but no more delivery trucks. Besides the cars, a row of empty work tables against the far wall, and a few boxes, the garage was empty.
She pushed the door open wide enough to slip through. Her shoes made a slapping sound on the ground as she landed on the hard cement. She listened again and heard nothing. There were two regular doors leading from the garage, and Cassi chose the nearest. First, she shoved the tapestry case, now containing all her belongings, under one of the plywood tables next to the boxes where it seemed to vanish, hidden in plain sight.
The door creaked as Cassi opened it, but the long, narrow room inside was empty. Through the dim light, she could see ten foam-wrapped packages. A huge wooden crate near the door was half filled with bubble-wrap and green packing peanuts. On the far side of the room, she could just make out a stack of five or six expensively framed paintings propped up against the wall without any of the care that had been given to the wrapped objects. Tissue paper, butcher paper, and dark blankets
lay piled on the floor near these neglected paintings. Had Dr. Medard’s so-called masterpiece come from that pile?
She moved past the carefully wrapped packages to the unwrapped paintings. Thumbing through them, she saw none that she recognized, although the artists’ names were familiar. All of the paintings were very good—no, excellent. But were they worth thousands upon thousands of dollars? Cassi doubted it. Even in the back rooms of Linden’s gallery, good art was carefully treated, not stacked up against the wall like kindling.
Next, Cassi returned to the wrapped packages. She opened first one and then another, carefully replacing the tape and securing it with a roll she found on the floor near the crate. The first two were also excellent paintings by prominent artists, but she was not more than casually familiar with either of them.
The third package she opened took her breath away: a painting by M.F. Husain, an artist from India. She had studied this painting as well as the artist’s other work with Grant Truebekon in England until she felt she had memorized each brush stroke. The painting was one from Husain’s Mother Teresa series. As in all of his painting of the nun, her head and face were featureless, a dark void on the canvas. The blue stripe on her white sari bent and caressed the invisible face, making the outline clear, almost visible. Mother Teresa’s hands reached out for a naked, dark-skinned child.
This was no forgery. Even in the dim light, Cassi would stake her professional career on it.
She sat back on her heels, thinking. If these carefully wrapped paintings were the real things, there was no question of forgery. But then . . . Cassi glanced over to the unwrapped, poorly stacked paintings. If those had been forged and were awaiting delivery, then perhaps these carefully wrapped paintings had also been forged, or were going to be forged. Whoever had done the forgeries would need the original to do such a good job. In fact, the originals could have been used to sell the pieces to the unwary buyers. Which might explain why Dr. Medard’s painting had stood up to an expert appraisal.
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