The Canvas Thief

by P. Kirby

  “I’ll get to the point, Ms. Stephenson—”

  “Maya, please.”

  “Maya.” He spoke her name with care, as though tasting both syllables. “I don’t want to alarm you.”

  Huh? Wasn’t that how television reporters started off segments with cheerful titles like The Crime Epidemic?

  “The burglary at your home fits a profile of a suspect I’ve been following for some time.”

  She almost blurted, A suspect named Benjamin Black? The agent’s resemblance to Adam Sayres made her head spin. Instead she said, “So you don’t think it was a mistake. I mean, the thief didn’t hit the wrong house?”

  For a beat he said nothing. Then he leaned toward her, violet-blue eyes locked on hers. “Why would you think that, Maya?”

  Trapped in his gaze, she rolled the question around in her mind, searching for a coherent thought. Her brain felt sticky, thoughts gummed together. Like a needle in an old record, her brain lodged in a scratch, repeating the names “Adam Sayres,” “Adam Richards,” “Adam,” “Adam,” “Adam.”

  “Here you are.” The waitress, carrying a tray with tea and a cinnamon roll, had arrived. Maya exhaled, reaching for a tea bag and concentrating on the task of getting it into the cup.

  A spoonful of sugar and some stirring later, Maya managed a response. “This suspect, he targets middle-of-the-road commercial artists with nothing of any real value?”

  Adam Richards lifted his cup to his mouth, his shapely lips conforming to the cup’s edge. He took long sip and then said, “I’ve heard you’re good. A lot better than middle-of-the-road.”

  Heat rose to her face. Maya tore off a piece of cinnamon roll, stuffed it in her mouth and chewed deliberately. “I like to think so. But Santa Fe is filled with artists who ‘think’ they are good.”

  “But you have a real talent.” He lingered over the word talent. “An ability to capture the essence of a person on canvas.”

  Maya’s blush grew in intensity, probably beyond the bounds that her dark skin could hide. “Says who?” she said, managing a grin.

  “I’m the government. I know things,” he responded, matching her grin.

  Was he flirting with her? Even if he wasn’t, her body was responding as though he were. Her heart fluttered and the electric shiver of attraction moved down her spine.

  “So this guy, or…gal—” there was no point in being sexist “—is he or she dangerous?”

  “To you? No.” If Maya wasn’t mistaken, there was a suggestion of contempt in his reply. Odd.

  “So why are the feds after…?”

  “The incendiary device that triggered the fire in your studio closely resembles that used in several higher-profile incidents.”

  “Oh.” She nibbled on the roll, letting the butter-drenched goodness slide over the trembling parts of her stomach. “Maybe there’s no connection. Maybe my thief picked up his device on eBay.”

  “Your thief?”

  Maya felt another blush coming on. At this rate, she’d be a permanent shade of reddish mahogany. “You know what I mean. Don’t make fun of me. I want to help, but I don’t know what you want from me.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “Nothing was stolen, but a painting was destroyed. Was there any special significance or value to that painting?”

  She wasn’t prepared for that question. She took a sip of tea, waiting for the warmth to wash down her throat. “Yes. But only to me.” The conversation felt odd, here with this man who could be the model for Adam Sayres.

  “Are you certain?” he asked. Maya met his eyes and saw a strange expectation. In the intensity of his gaze, Maya temporarily forgot to breathe. She finished her tea before replying, letting the heat of the drink push away the weird desire to tell him all about Adam Sayres and her comic books. It’s just a coincidence, girl. Get a grip.

  “I’m certain. It had sentimental value to me, but no one else.”

  It was gone before she had a chance to assimilate it, but for an instant she saw irritation in his eyes. Then his expression softened with that wonderful smile spreading across his face.

  “I’m sorry, Maya. I’m grasping at straws. Sometimes the oddest things can be the turning point in a case.”

  “Would you like to see the, um, scene of the crime?” Maya said before thinking.

  “No. Local law enforcement seems to have done a good job. The device is being sent to our lab in Phoenix. And I bet you’ve already cleaned up anyway.”

  Maya nodded, almost disappointed that she had cleaned the room. What am I doing? Trying to lure him to my house?

  “But—” he turned and fumbled with his jacket, which hung on the back of the chair, and extracted a business card “—if anything comes to mind, anything you might have missed, I’d appreciate a call.”

  “Of course.” His fingers touched hers as she took the card. On impulse, as she slipped the card into her purse, she pulled out one of her own. “If you have any more questions,” she said, handing him the card. What am I doing? I’m not coming on to the ATF guy, am I?

  He reached for the card, but didn’t take it from her fingers. Hand frozen a few inches from hers, he offered a slight smile and said, “How about an inappropriate question?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Inappropriate, unprofessional. Like, say, ‘Would you like to go to lunch sometime?’” He slipped the card from Maya’s suddenly slack fingers.

  “Well, um, yes.” Maya smiled, feeling a rush of pleasure.

  “‘Yes,’ I can ask, or ‘yes’ to lunch?”

  “Yes to both,” she said, matching his smile.

  The chirp of a cell phone interrupted any further conversation. Adam Richards pulled out a silver phone, gave it a quick look and shoved it back in his jacket. “I’ve got to go.” He held out his hand and Maya took it. His palms were dry and warm, and she hoped hers weren’t too sweaty.

  A momentary odd sensation passed between their hands, like electricity. Before she could determine if it was just her imagination, he released her hand and said, “Thank you for speaking with me. I’ll give you a call about lunch?”

  As he left the café, Maya watched him go, her palm still tingling from his touch, the rest of her tingling with a strange elation.

  Chapter Four

  Maya reached for her favorite pajamas: pink flannel and “utterly sexless” according to her ex-fiancé, Daniel. She stripped off her work clothes and replaced them with the comfortable flannel. It wasn’t as if anyone was going to see them anyway. Certainly not Daniel.

  After checking that the front and back doors were locked, she flung herself on her bed. She switched off the bedside light and stared up at the ceiling, lost in the temporary blindness of eyes that had not adjusted to the darkness. Adam Richards. Even without the uncanny resemblance to Adam Sayres, he was fascinating. Remembering the intensity of his violet eyes, she shivered with a little frisson of delight that trickled down to her toes.

  The long day caught up with her and she drifted to sleep, thoughts on Adam Richards and his sexy eyes.

  For a dream that had started out so pleasant, it turned nasty quickly. It began with Maya and Adam Richards in her bedroom. Though the lights were off, she could see his eyes. They burned with a cold blue fire. Though her attraction to him flowed through her, liquid heat gathering between her legs, she felt a strange aversion to his eyes.

  His cool fingers slipped up her neck, over skin made sensitive by arousal, and lifted her chin. Spellbound, she met his weird gaze. Like an animal trapped in a car’s headlights, she froze, and then her legs gave out beneath her.

  He must have caught her before she fell. The familiar scent of her bed brought her to her senses. Cold air washed over bare skin and she realized he had undressed her.

  This is wrong, she thought. And then her mind reeled as a wave of hot breath washed over her left breast. Her nipple hardened and warm pleasure swept down her body. Despite her body’s reaction, she squirmed and said, “No.”

 
She awoke with a loud gasp. Warm and comforting, her flannel pajamas were still where they should be. Except she could still feel Adam’s weight on her, heavy on her thighs.

  Then hands grabbed her wrists and pinned them to the bed above her head. Maya blinked, wondering if she was still dreaming. A dark presence loomed above her.

  “Don’t scream, I have a knife,” said the dark shape, and cold metal pressed briefly against her cheek. Because of the streetlights it was never entirely dark in her room, and she saw the faint glint of the knife’s edge.

  Petrifying fear took over her body, and for a few seconds she surrendered to it. This is real, there’s really someone here. Her heartbeat throbbed in her ears and her throat seemed to constrict.

  But Maya had never been one to just give up. She remembered a conversation with a group of college friends, discussing just this scenario. Is it wise to fight back or should a woman cooperate? Which approach held the greatest risk of harm?

  Cooperation might have been the best approach, but it had never been her style. Under her fear, anger smoldered at the intruder’s violation. Focusing, she used that simmering rage to break her paralysis. She took a slow breath and then hurled all her energy into throwing off her attacker.

  Again she squirmed, this time with hard spasms; she twisted her wrists in his grip and pushed her shoulders into the bed, trying to leverage herself free.

  Though he only held on with one hand, his long fingers encircled her wrists and tightened as though they were bands of steel. His weight, holding down her legs, made it impossible to move her lower body.

  “You’re just going to hurt yourself,” he said when she stopped struggling, her breath rushing out in angry gasps. “Did I mention the knife?” When she didn’t respond, he said, “The sooner you give me what I need, the sooner I leave.”

  Oh, God. She knew what that meant. Not without a fight. But he was so much stronger and she lay helpless, frustrated by the reality of being the so-called weaker sex.

  There had to be something… Mind racing, she remembered another snippet of advice. Make him see you as human, not just an object. The victim humanizes herself.

  She licked her dry lips and spoke: “W-would you want someone to do this to your mother or sister or…girlfriend? What if someone raped them in their bed? How would you feel?”

  “Rape?” Surprise and a touch of indignation ringed his voice. “I’m not a rapist.”

  “Then why? What do you…?”

  “I want to go home and you’re going to help me, Maya.”

  “What— How do you know my name?” She strained to see through the darkness. He seemed to have light skin, though she couldn’t see his features.

  He ignored her question. “Here’s what we’re going to do.” His grip loosened on her wrists. “We’re going to get up and go to your studio. Once we’re there, you will collect every drawing, painting and sketch that you have ever done of Benjamin Black.”

  “Benjamin? Why?”

  “Shhhh. Then we’ll get a fire going in the fireplace and feed them all to the fire.”

  “Burn my work?” Without thinking she said, “No!”

  “No? They’re just drawings, Maya.” He leaned toward her. “Are they worth your life?”

  “No,” she said, appalled by the waver in her voice. She wasn’t stupid. Yes, they were just drawings. But they represented so much.

  Like all children, she had used her imagination to craft wonderful, and sometimes not-so-wonderful, people and places. Monsters and heroes and imaginary friends. When she was lonely or bored, she’d slip away into her imagination. But after her promise to her mother, she kept even her thoughts from such things.

  All except two characters: Adam Sayres and Benjamin Black. Starting the moment she first imagined them and persisting even now, she’d had a fascination with drawing them, getting their images just right, exactly as she saw them in her head. She’d first accomplished that, seen the real Benjamin on paper, when she was seventeen. Staring at the intruder, at the features she knew by heart, time seemed to shift, and once again she was a teenager, transfixed by the drawing of a fictional young man who felt as real as anyone she knew. That little drawing was currently buried in the “Benjamin drawer.”

  That day, when she’d seen Benjamin’s face staring back at her, every nuance of his bone structure perfect, his soul gleaming through his eyes, she knew that she was made to be an artist. The Adam and Benjamin artworks were so much more than just “drawings.”

  Fire. The pieces fell into place. This was the guy who broke into her home yesterday. The darkness made the color hard to see, but this man seemed to be wearing black. He was not, however, wearing a ski mask.

  The cold edge of the knife touched her throat and she flinched.

  “I’m going to let go of your hands. If you don’t want to get hurt, you’ll cooperate.”

  “Okay,” Maya said, “whatever gets you out of here.”

  Except she had no intention of cooperating. It wasn’t smart, seeing as how he had a knife, but for all she knew, he would kill her as soon as he destroyed her life’s work. He released her hands and started to ease his weight off her.

  She tensed her right arm and then struck, jabbing the heel of her hand at his face, driven by a stiff, straight arm. He saw the motion and dodged. Her attempt with her left arm only glanced off his shoulder.

  To her surprise, he yelped and slumped to the side. Pulling her legs free, she kicked, catching him in the chest, sending him toppling off the bed. She scrambled off the bed and made for the door. Adrenaline rushed through her along with an amazing fury.

  Son of a bitch! She would see his face and he would see hers. She wasn’t going to be reduced to an anonymous victim. With a dull click, the light flared.

  Squinting in the sudden glare, she saw him struggle to a sitting position, his back against the foot of the bed, a hand clutching his shoulder. He lifted his head and their eyes met.

  The face she saw was as familiar as her own. Shock hit her with a concussive force. “Oh, shit,” she said and then her vision darkened.

  No, I’m not the kind of woman who faints. Unfortunately, her consciousness ignored her and a black curtain dropped over her eyes.

  She awoke to the smell of burning wood.

  Like very sheer orange silk, ripples of light, cast by a fire, moved across the ceiling.

  Leather. The unmistakable smell of leather told her she was lying on the couch. Timidly, she moved a couple of fingers and then lifted her arm, stopping when she felt the tug of cloth. Someone had thrown the afghan over her.

  Icy panic gripped her. What had he done to her? She flung the afghan aside, and found herself still wearing the pink pajamas. Nothing looked out of place, although there was a dark stain on her side. Inspecting it, she found it was blood, but no corresponding wound lay under the flannel. It looked like a handprint.

  The fire popped and Maya flinched at the familiar sound. She turned and faced the intruder. Bright yellow flames licked dark logs and waves of heat from the well-established fire stroked her skin. She took a deep breath, trying to tame the dizzying union of anger and fear that roared in her head.

  “What do you want?” she asked. “Why destroy my work?”

  “You really have no idea, do you?” he replied without turning from the fire. He had the fireplace poker in his left hand, and he awkwardly jabbed a log with the tool.

  “No. Why are you doing this?” And how can I get you out of my house?

  “Isn’t it obvious?” he said. “You don’t really believe the resemblance is coincidence?” He turned and sat on the banco, the fireplace tool across his knees.

  Stupefied, Maya’s jaw dropped. The fire’s light caught his hair, bringing out bright metallic highlights, just as she had always envisioned it would. Rather than the usual ruddy, freckled complexion of most redheads, his skin had golden undertones and was flawless except for a scar on his chin. His bone structure was finely articulated, almost delicate, a
lthough his nose had a slight bump from a poorly set break. Dark eyebrows swept across his brow in a way she always described as fey, and even from the couch, she could see that he had long, dark eyelashes.

  He was Benjamin Black personified. This isn’t real. It’s somebody’s sick practical joke. She darted a quick look around the room, half expecting to see the gleam of a camera’s lens tucked behind a wall hanging or in Delilah’s aquarium. The idea made her angrier. Anger pushed aside some of her terror. “Because you bear a passing resemblance to one of my comic characters, you set my studio on fire?” she asked.

  His long eyelashes made his startled blink apparent. “I didn’t set fire to your studio.” Seeing her expression of disbelief, he said, “I broke into your house. Tried to steal a drawing. Then the Hungarian Annie Oakley showed up and I left. End of story.”

  “Bull! Studios don’t set themselves on fire.”

  “It wasn’t me,” he said with enough force that she believed him. Except that meant someone else had set the fire the very same night he’d broken in. Why me? she thought, glancing around the room, still expecting a grinning television host to appear and announce that she was on Candid Camera. Is this a dream? Why can’t I wake up? She pinched the skin on her arm, but was rewarded only with pain.

  His gaze dropped to the floor, and she wondered if his eyes were slate gray. Hoping to find a difference between the man before her and the fictional Benjamin Black, she studied him. Just like Benjamin, he was tall, built of long bones and possessing a quiet grace. When he turned his head in profile, she had an interesting revelation. He’s gorgeous. Did I mean to make Benjamin Black that good-looking?

  The tall thief had been nothing more than a foil for her real interest, Adam Sayres. On the other hand, Benjamin had always been the more fun to draw.

  She gave him a hard look. “You haven’t answered my question. Why burn my drawings?”