Four hours, three dozen book reviews, fourteen theater openings and countless museum showings later, they were no closer than before they’d started.
Caleb sat sprawled on the floor at the side of the bed; she sat at the table, squinting at the blurred print in front of her. She’d read the same sentence three times and still didn’t know what it said.
With a groan, she arched her back and glanced at the clock. One-thirty a.m. Except for a short break where Caleb had taken Wolf for a walk and settled him in the truck cab for the night, they hadn’t stopped.
“You okay?” Caleb asked without looking up from the newspaper spread across his knees.
“Wonderful,” she said crossly, and immediately regretted her tone. Caleb had been tireless, forcing her to drink some of the coffee he’d brought back with him and gently waking her every time she’d fallen asleep, teasing her that he shouldn’t have kept her up the night before. She reminded him that she’d done her fair share of keeping him up, as well.
Setting his paper aside, he rose and walked over to her, stepping over his “maybe” pile, which Sarah was to reread after she’d finished her own. “Why don’t you go on to bed,” he urged gently.
She shook her head. “I only have three more papers to go through, then the stack you’ve set aside for me.”
He leaned over her and glanced at the article she was reading. “What’s this one?”
Stifling a yawn, she rolled her head to loosen the knot that had crept into her neck. “Robert did a series of articles about a group of ten paintings by a seventeenth century artist named Mouton, which were stolen twenty years ago.” She frowned at the black ink on her hands, then wiped it off on a napkin. “A few months ago seven of those paintings were discovered in a warehouse in Los Angeles. Robert was very excited about the finding and wrote an entire article on each painting. I’m working my way backward. This is number three out of seven, a piece titled Carnal Interlude.”
“I’d like to see that one,” he murmured, brushing his lips over her ear.
It didn’t seem possible that the need could still rise in her as quickly as before. But it did, and she shivered at his touch. “You’re too late,” she whispered. “They’re going to be auctioned off next week, privately. Unless, of course, you have twenty or thirty million stashed away somewhere.”
“That might take me a few days.”
Not sure if he was kidding, she glanced up sharply. He grinned.
“What about you?” she asked, gesturing to his stack of papers. “Any possibilites?”
“There’s a review on a mystery book about art forgeries. Robert slammed the book, stating, and I quote, ‘Justice Department files were more interesting reading.’ If Victor hadn’t killed Robert, no doubt the author would have.”
Sarah sighed. “Robert was a frustrated writer himself. He’d always wanted to write the great American novel about the art world, but was too insecure to actually start a book. He just did a lot of research.”
Caleb frowned. “Did you ever help him?”
She shook her head. “Never with the book research. He was very guarded about that, but I often downloaded bulletin board information and files for him from the International Foundation for Art Research and gathered data bases for artwork appearing on the international auction blocks. Nothing unusual, considering his work.”
“Didn’t you say he used the computers at the library himself?”
“Of course. He even used mine occasionally, after hours, but we don’t archive users’ files. The user is responsible to keep his own disk. Everything connected to the main terminals is automatically deleted once a week. I cleaned everything out the day before I was supposed to leave for Mexico.”
“And you’re sure he didn’t leave any disks at the library?”
She pressed her fingers to her closed eyes. “Yes, I’m sure. There weren’t any at his office, either. He had no family, so one of the women in his office brought me the personal items from his desk. There was nothing unusual, certainly nothing suspicious. If he had any disks anywhere, Victor got there first and found them.”
“Not necessarily,” Caleb said. “That’s what Victor’s worried about. That Robert left something incriminating with you.”
“But he didn’t,” she protested. “I don’t know anything.”
“Maybe you do, and you just aren’t aware of it yet,” he said thoughtfully. “We’ll work more on that in a few hours, after you get some sleep.”
“I can’t—”
“No arguments.” He took her by the arm and pulled her to the bed. “We’re both going to get some rest.”
“Bully.” She fell onto the bed with him and didn’t resist when he pulled her to him. She snuggled against his shoulder. “You smell fruity.”
He frowned sharply at her.
Smiling, she ran her lips over his neck, touching the tip of her tongue to his skin. “Strawberries,” she murmured.
“That’s what I get for taking a bubble bath,” he muttered, and slid his hand under the back of her T-shirt.
“That wasn’t all you got,” she teased boldly.
He lifted his brows in mock surprise. “Why, Miss Grayson, you shock me. Whatever would the patrons of the library think if they heard such talk?”
Her lips moved over him like a hot whisper, tasting, exploring. “They’d say I was one lucky librarian.”
Chuckling, he pulled her on top of him, inching her T-shirt up until bare breasts met bare chest.
“I thought you wanted to sleep,” she breathed, moving down his chest. Her hands moved between them as she reached for the snap on his jeans.
He closed his eyes. “I am sleeping.”
“So you’re a somnambulist.”
He didn’t answer her for a moment, just sucked in a sharp breath as her lips traveled over his stomach. “A what?” he finally managed.
“You know, a sleepwalker.” She slowly drew down the zipper on his jeans.
“I wouldn’t call this walking,” he said hoarsely, twisting his fingers in her hair.
“What would you call it?” she asked, then laughed softly at his crude response. The muscles in his stomach jumped and tightened as she caressed him with her mouth. The hard, velvety strength of him excited her, gave her courage to explore a sensuality she’d never dreamed existed in her.
With no thoughts other than of him and the newfound power of complete love, she moved over him, stoking the fire until it raged through them both, out of control. Nothing, and no one, existed out of this moment but the two of them.
Afterward, nestled in each other’s arms, they slept.
She stood at the edge of a cliff, surrounded by darkness. Snakes slithered out of the night, rising up in giant twisting coils, circling her…she tried to run, but her legs refused to move…relief poured through her as Caleb stepped forward between the writhing snakes, his hand outstretched. She reached for him, but it was no longer Caleb, it was Victor Howard. He laughed as she opened her mouth to scream. No sound came out. “M’lady,” he said, his black eyes malevo lent as his icy hand closed over hers, “I’m waiting for you….”
Heart pounding, Sarah sat abruptly. She struggled to breathe; her hands shook as she dragged her fingers through her hair.
A dream. Thank God. Only a dream.
She released a slow breath, letting the nightmare fade and her fear subside. It seemed so real. Shivering, she clutched the covers to her naked body and reached for Caleb.
He was gone.
She called his name softly, thinking he might be in the bathroom. Silence. The clock glowed 4:30. Slipping out of bed, she parted the drapes and looked out into the parking lot. The truck was gone, and Wolf, too. When she turned on the light over the table, she saw the note he’d left: “Didn’t want to wake you. Had to meet a fax coming in from Washington at five, our time. Expect to be back by seven. Bringing more newspapers.”
She groaned aloud at that. She still had three more to read, plus the pile Caleb had set aside for he
r. Reluctantly she decided she might as well get them out of the way now.
A cool shower woke her up and she dressed quickly, pulling on the slacks and sweater Caleb had bought for her the day before. With a heavy sigh she sat on the bed and picked up where she’d left off, which was with the opening review for the showing of the recovered Mouton paintings. Robert started the article with a description of the painting: “Seduction whispered in her midnight eyes, passion flowered in her supple body, a flower waiting to be picked…”
Sarah read on, amused by Robert’s interpretation of the painting. “But alas, this painting, Silent Maiden, along with Portrait of a Mistress, and Lady in Waiting, are three ladies that shall be kept waiting until the Gods of Art see fit to bring their abductor to justice…”
A slow, almost numbing sensation settled into her limbs. She stared at the words, but they blurred together and another image came to her…no, not an image, a voice. Victor’s voice.
My ladies are waiting for me.
Those were the words he’d used that night in the mountains, when he’d been speaking to the other men. She’d mentioned it to Caleb when she’d regained her memory, but she’d assumed Victor had been referring to real women, not paintings.
Her heart started to beat heavily. Victor had stolen the paintings. That had to be it. Robert found out somehow, probably in his research, and when Victor found out that Robert knew, he killed him. She shook at the injustice of it, furious that vile, greedy men like Howard could so easily take the life of another.
But there was no proof. No evidence. Nothing to link Victor to the theft. He could easily fence the stolen work and, except for a bank in Switzerland, who would ever know?
But Robert knew. Using the library computers, he’d uncovered something, and she’d have to find out what it was. The files in the main computer would have been deleted, but there was a possibility that the steps he’d taken, the path he’d used, might still be in her own personal computer. If she could retrieve his steps, she’d be able to pull up the files and connect the dots.
It was a long shot, but it was the only shot she had.
She glanced at the clock. She needed to get into the library before it opened, while there was no one there. She didn’t have her keys, but the guard knew her well; he’d let her in. She could download everything quickly and bring it all back here. She could even be back before Caleb returned, but just in case, she quickly scribbled a note as she called for a cab.
Victor Howard was going to jail, she told herself resolutely. And she intended to make sure he stayed there.
Eleven
The office was small. Large enough for a desk, two file cabinets, a copy and fax machine and a computer. There were no pictures on the walls, no comfortable chairs. One window with bulletproof glass overlooked the now empty parking lot of the business center, and a complicated alarm panel inside and outside the entry door ensured total security, as well as complete privacy.
Caleb leaned back and stretched; the desk chair creaked and groaned under the pressure. With a heavy sigh, he downed the last of his coffee, then stared blankly at the piles of paperwork on the desk top in front of him.
Victor Howard, forty-four. Special agent, Federal Bureau of Investigation, twenty years. Worked in Law Enforcement Assistance, Justice Department and Internal Affairs. He’d reached a commendable security level, as Mike had already told him, but had received promotions slowly. Based on the files Caleb had received over the fax, it appeared they’d often been given reluctantly.
Twenty years. The man could retire any time he wanted. Why would he jeopardize his career and pension at this point by killing Robert and trying to kill Sarah? It had to be something big, and undoubtedly money was the motivator. Whatever it was, Robert had found out about it, Victor had killed him and had been cleaning up loose ends with Sarah when he’d brought her up into the mountains. It could have been weeks before anyone had found her body, which was obviously what Victor had been counting on. A flat tire, and Wolf, were the only things that had saved her life.
He thought of her that night when he’d found her, half-drowned, nearly frozen, and his rage at Victor rose to the surface. He crumpled the paper coffee cup in his fist and threw it into the trash can, his jaw tight and eyes narrowed with anger. He looked forward to his next meeting with Victor Howard.
Sarah had been sound asleep when he’d slipped out of bed almost two hours ago. She hadn’t even stirred when he’d turned on the bathroom light to find his clothes. After he’d dressed, he’d stood over her, watching the rise and fall of her steady breathing, the soft curve of her fingers against her cheek. So innocent in sleep, he thought. Yet only a short time earlier, when they’d made love, innocent would have been the farthest word from his mind.
How could he ever have thought she was an agent? Too many years of mistrusting people, of watching over his shoulder, had left him with nothing and no one to believe in. He’d fought hard to hold on to that belief, but somehow, with her soft blue eyes and trusting spirit, she’d slipped in under his thick skin and into his heart. Nothing in his life had ever been more difficult than to admit to himself that he loved her.
He did love her. It still amazed him. And the only thing more difficult would be letting her go.
A new and different rage filled him. A rage at having to walk away from the only woman he’d ever truly cared about, the only woman he’d ever loved. A woman he would die for, not because she was his job, but because she was his next breath, his next heartbeat, his life and his soul.
And the fact that she’d been willing to die for him yesterday, that she’d offered herself to Victor to protect him, had left him shaken and overcome with an emotion he’d never realized he was capable of.
If only there was a way…
But there wasn’t. The rage in him disintegrated and left a black, empty hole in its place. Agents didn’t leave his department, and there was no way in hell he’d ever bring her into that life.
The fax machine sprang to life again, spitting out a response to the request he’d made for a listing of Victor Howard’s assignments for the past five years. Caleb glanced over the report, which started with the present and worked backward. Victor’s current assignment, which he was in charge of, dealt with surveillance of an insurance company employee suspected of transporting stolen art out of state.
Caleb straightened. Not for a second did he believe it was a coincidence that Howard’s assignment dealt with art. He quickly scanned the earlier assignments, his gaze halting abruptly when one name nearly jumped off the page at him.
Mouton.
Cursing, Caleb grabbed the files, shut down the office and headed back to the motel.
The night guard at the library not only let Sarah inside, he loaned her the money for the cab when she explained she’d accidentally left her purse at home. After listening to the elderly guard’s lecture on young girls being out at odd hours, she took the stairs to the third level, then entered the double doors that led to the fine arts department. When the doors closed behind her with a loud echo, leaving her in darkness, she felt as if the bottom of her stomach had dropped out.
She hadn’t much time. It was nearly five-thirty. She moved past the main light switch, thinking it best if no one besides the guard saw her. The cleaning crew would be in sometime around six, and she wanted to get in and get out before they arrived.
Swallowing the lump in her throat, she felt her way through the rows of tall bookshelves and headed for her office at the back of the cavernous room. She’d worked enough late hours to know her way in the dark, and a moment later she sat at her computer and switched it on. The motor hummed and danced, then the screen glowed, filling the small room with a pale amber light.
She knew whatever documents Robert had worked on wouldn’t come up automatically, but if his instructions to the computer still existed, she could at least follow the same path he’d taken through the Internet and find them. She pulled up his user ID number, entered th
e code, then sat back and watched the addresses appear. The Art Loss Recovery…International Foundation for Art Research…
The Justice Department.
Excitement twisted in her stomach. If her guess was right, she now knew what she was looking for: Mouton.
After a simple word search, she began to download everything in the files connected to the painter and the stolen pieces, plus descriptions of paintings, inquiries and private auctions.
She scanned the first few pages already printed out, stopping occasionally to absorb not only the information, but the implications. And as the pieces fell into place and she began to understand what Robert had stumbled onto, a chill seeped through her clear down to her bones. She had to get this information to Caleb, quickly.
She glanced at the clock on the wall. The second hand sprinted in circles while the printer strolled leisurely.
Hurry…hurry…hurry…
Fifteen minutes later she gathered the papers she’d printed and stuffed them into a folder. She reached for the Exit button on the computer.
“Hello, Sarah.”
Her hand froze. Slowly she stood, then turned. The silhouette of a man filled the office door. He stepped into the room, and the yellow light from the computer screen glowed with sickening transparency on his unsmiling face. Oh, God, no.
Victor Howard.
“How did you get in here?” she whispered hoarsely.
“It wasn’t difficult to convince the guard.”
Panic rose in her, and she prayed they hadn’t killed the man. Behind Victor, back in the shadows, she spotted another figure. Luther. No doubt Frank was close by, as well. There was no one she could call to. No one who could help. Caleb, I’m so sorry. If only I’d waited.
“How did you find me?” she whispered, pressing back against the desk.
“I admit we did lose you for a little while, but we assumed you’d return here at some point. Your friend, Mr. Hunter, is quite resourceful for a man who sells insurance. Something tells me there’s more to his dossier than meets the eye.” He sighed. “Given the time constraint, though, I’m afraid I won’t be able to explore the matter before I—” He glanced at the folder in her hands and lifted his brows. “And what have we here?”
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