Cross Roads, page 16
“Nor do you peddle anything besides Irish artwork. So why take a Catawnee?”
“I don’t know where you got your intel, but your painting isn’t here.”
“Because you’ve already moved it?”
“You’re relentless, Lena.” He gazed at her as if everything about her delighted him. “It’s one of the qualities I’ve always adored about you. A quality that made you an excellent forger. But a quality that makes you a pain in the ass at this precise moment.”
“You really shouldn’t have communicated with Bobby Balor through email. Quite sloppy of you. Simon would be quite disappointed.”
“A perpetual state for him, when it came to me. Or Izzy. Or the rest of the gang.” His voice took on an edge. “Not you, though. You were the sole benefactress of his attention, his talent, and his—”
“What do you want?” she interrupted, not wanting to rehash old arguments. Pure willpower kept her attention centered on the man before her and not scanning the area for Rohan. The last thing she wanted was for him to catch her and Xander in an intimate tête-à-tête.
“Want?”
“I don’t have time for your games. Tell me what you want in exchange for the Catawnee and let’s be done with this.”
“Afraid your new lover might see us together? Would he be jealous?” His voice hardened. “Or are the two of you just fuckmates?”
“He’s not my lover,” she bit out.
“Yet. You have an appetite that cannot be suppressed for long—”
“Xander, shut up.”
A smile spread across his handsome face. “He doesn’t know about your past.”
The icicle growing in the pit of her stomach blossomed into a full-fledged stalagmite.
She took a step toward him. “And it’s going to stay that way.”
He held up his hands as if to ward her off. “Of course, Angel.”
She ignored his term of endearment. It used to melt her bones—right into his bed. Now it just pissed her off.
“You created this elaborate scheme to get me here, so cut the crap and tell me what you want.”
His blue gaze traveled over her features, down her torso, and along her hips before making the slow trip back up to her eyes.
What he’d intended as an erotic suggestion made her skin crawl. Quite the opposite response than when Rohan’s eyes lingered on her longer than was appropriate for colleagues.
“You give me far too much credit, Angel,” he said. “But I’ve never been able to pass up a golden opportunity.”
“Xander—”
“A painting for a painting.”
She frowned. “A paint—” Then she understood. “No, I don’t do that kind of work anymore.”
“Don’t kid yourself, Angel. What you do as a copyist is only one lie away from how you spent your youth.”
She thought of the blank canvas in her cabin and the copy of the Catawnee sitting next to it and felt the truth of his words.
“Where is the Catawnee?”
He considered her for a long moment. “Someplace close. You have my word that it will stay there until you deliver.”
She wanted to snort, to tell him that her paintbrush was worth more than his word.
But despite Xander’s failings, he had never flat-out lied to her.
Betrayed her, yes.
Lied to her, no.
“What painting am I . . . copying?”
“The Fountain by John Singer Sargent.”
“A transition piece?”
He smiled. “From 1907.”
Many art experts considered Sargent as one of the finest portrait painters of his generation. He not only captured his model’s likeness with an accuracy that could bring tears to a viewer’s eyes, but he infused their essence into every brush stroke. Literally bringing the portrait to life for a single moment in time.
Lena recalled when she’d first viewed Lady Agnew of Lochnaw’s portrait. Sargent’s mastery made her believe the young barrister’s wife had been on the cusp of an action during their session. Maybe she’d been about to ask for a glass of wine or rush off to her next engagement.
But after years of painting portraits, Sargent had stopped doing formal sittings and began exploring watercolors, landscapes, and people in their everyday lives. Many considered The Fountain as his transition piece to plein air painting, which captured a balance of portraiture and natural setting.
Not in a thousand years could she do justice to a John Singer Sargent.
“Are you out of your damn mind?” she asked.
“Not even a little.”
“Has anyone ever successfully replicated his work?”
“Don’t tell me Angelena Kamber is afraid to take a crack at a Sargent.”
A part of her welcomed the challenge. The thought of succeeding where so many others had failed excited her, made her hand itch to get started, but the logical part of her mind—no, the emotional part—knew she would fail like all the others.
However, the survivalist in her sealed the deal. “Once I deliver my current commissions, I’ll get started.”
He shook his head. “Sorry, Angel. I need the painting ASAP. I have a studio stocked full of supplies.”
She still needed to complete Woman Walking and deliver the painting by Saturday. No way could she paint a Sargent and finish the Catawnee in the same time frame. The Sargent alone would require two weeks to do it justice. “Your timeline is impossible.”
“As I recall, you always did your best work under pressure.”
31
Rohan returned to the main floor, hoping Lena had had better luck at locating the art dealer than he did.
“Byrne’s a bust,” she said, whizzing past him and slamming through the gallery’s front doors.
Rohan followed. “Wait a second. What do you mean he’s a bust?”
“He’s off looking for his next masterpiece.”
Why hadn’t the upstairs attendant used Byrne’s acquisitions trip as a viable excuse to get rid of him? She seemed to believe he’d be making an appearance today.
Lena tapped Wrangler’s tailgate. A silent request for him to unlock it. When he did, she started pulling out her belongings.
“What are you doing?”
“Checking into a hotel while I wait for the art dealer to return.”
“When will that be?”
“Friday.”
“Cutting it close, don’t you think?”
“I don’t have a choice, do I? Byrne holds the key to getting the painting back.”
“What about the Caravaggio?”
“I’ll get back to it on Sunday.”
Rohan rubbed his temple while he worked through a plan. “Okay, we’ll hole up here until Byrne returns. I’ll let Zeke know about the delay with the Caravaggio.”
“I can handle Byrne on my own. There’s no need for you to stay.”
“I’m not leaving you here to question the art dealer on your own. That’s what you’re paying us for, remember?”
“My contract with BARS is done. I hired your company to find the Catawnee and you have. I can take it from here.”
Something was off. On every level. Yet Rohan couldn’t decide what had his pulse racing more—the realization that Lena was keeping something from him, again, or the fact he wasn’t invited to her sleepover.
“You hired BARS to recover the Catawnee. My job isn’t done until the painting is back in your possession.”
“Your job is done when I say it is.” She twisted her wrist, checking an imaginary watch. “Which is now.”
Anger boiled his blood. “You know nothing about this Byrne guy. You start snooping around and asking questions, he might take extreme measures to protect his investment.”
“A scenario that might play out whether you’re here or not.”
“I have a set of unique skills to protect you.”
“What are you going to do? Bash him over the head with your keyboard, then tie him up with a power cord?”
Rohan forced back his instinctive response. She knew nothing about the special training he and his brothers went through to ensure each recovery was a success. A secret few knew about outside the family.
“Go home, Rohan,” she said in a quiet voice. “Protect your family from the Collective.”
He stepped closer, placing a hand on the laptop inside his messenger bag. “I have everything I need to do battle right here.”
She seemed to sway toward him, prompting him to place a hand against her cheek. Anger still simmered there, just beneath the surface.
“Let me stay.” He didn’t recognize the low, urgent quality of his voice. “We’ll figure this out together.”
She squeezed her eyes shut for an aching moment. When she opened them again, the softness he’d imagined seeing there was gone.
“This thing you think is growing between us is nothing more than a distraction.” She stepped away. “Something neither of us can afford right now. Go home, Rohan.” She strode away with all the leisure of a window shopper.
Distraction.
Yeah.
Right.
Rohan tapped on a name in his cell’s favorites list. Waited for the call to connect.
“What’s up,” Zeke asked.
“I need your help.”
32
After the third growl from her hollow stomach, Lena set down her paintbrush and rubbed at her gritty eyes with the heel of her hand.
Lifting her head, she scanned Xander’s studio for her phone, finding it on the white, squat-back leather couch.
As she’d done a thousand times since fleeing Blanche’s Motel, she scrolled through the local news for information on Ruthie’s death. Other than the initial report of officials vowing to bring her murderer to justice, the web had been silent.
Lena rubbed her temple, trying to puzzle out the reason behind Ruthie’s death. Was it related to the break-in at her apartment or an isolated incident?
The police had been on-site with lightning speed. That was unheard-of in rural areas, adding weight to her suspicion that it might be premeditated murder.
Her stomach ripped off another reminder, and Lena decided it was time to feed the machine. Italian? Sushi? Pizza? Indian?
A big bowl of linguini puttanesca didn’t sound too bad.
But not as good as a stack of savory samosas. Her mouth watered at the mere thought of sinking her teeth into the pastry’s crispy outer shell and all that warm, potato-y goodness and explosion of spices hitting her tongue.
Definitely Indian tonight.
While she waited for the browser to load the nearby eateries, Lena’s skin prickled.
She’d had the feeling several times throughout the day, but no amount of searching the building across the street had uncovered anyone with a spyglass watching her. Nor had she located hidden cameras inside Xander’s studio.
Once, she’d caught a blur of movement near the balcony. But with her being five stories aboveground the most likely culprit was a pigeon.
First Steele Ridge and now Atlanta.
Paranoia or a sixth sense?
If the studio had drapes, she would’ve closed them, despite what it would have done to her natural lighting.
Especially now.
The more the sun set, the more prominent her reflection became in the windows. A sense of vulnerability and eeriness tangled in her stomach.
Her thumb raked through nearby dining options. Best of India Cuisine was only a half mile away. Perfect.
Palmer’s deadline was fast-approaching, and she still had so much more to do on The Fountain. She forced back the panic.
Eat first.
Paint later.
She pulled up her ride-sharing app and typed in her destination. Before she could hit Select, a knock sounded at the door.
Only one person knew she was here. Xander. And she’d made it clear to him at lunchtime that she was here to work, not reminisce.
Maybe one of Xander’s friends saw the light on and decided to drop by. She blew out an exhausted breath, not in the mood to engage with other humans.
Unless the human was Rohan. But he was long gone. She’d made sure of it.
Even though she’d done some questionable and, at times, downright unethical, things to survive since she’d fled Neil’s house all those years ago, she had few regrets.
But she regretted her parting words to Rohan. He’d flinched as if she’d sliced his chest open. In a way, she had. She’d taken something he’d told her in confidence and thrown it at him like a weapon.
For her, it had been a shield. She wouldn’t allow herself to bond with someone again.
It was too dangerous.
Another knock. This one harder. Irritated.
The door handle rattled, and Lena was glad she’d flipped the lock and dead bolt after shooing away Xander earlier.
As quietly as she could, she moved toward the door. Her pulse pounding through her veins like an ancient drum. She pressed her ear to the barrier in an idiotic attempt to divine who was on the other side.
Silence.
“Dammit, Lena,” Xander said a heartbeat later. “Open up, or I’ll feed this pasta to the rats in the alleyway.”
Pasta. She hoped it had big fat meatballs and red sauce.
And pickles.
She loved eating pickles with her marinara.
As soon as she opened the door, he pushed inside. His hands were empty.
She checked the hallway. No carryout bags.
“Where’s my food?”
“I’ll treat you to dinner after I see your progress.”
Her fingers rolled into fists, and she indulged in a mental bout of boxing. She laid him out in two seconds flat.
“I was right to pick you for this job.” He admired her canvas as if he observed a Rembrandt in progress. “As much as I hate to admit it, your skill is a league above my own.”
More like ten leagues, but Lena kept her assessment to herself. Xander’s skill was adequate enough to fool the untrained eye, which made up ninety-eight percent of the population.
“Your originals sell well enough,” she said.
“Unbelievably well.” He sent her a mischievous smile, the one that had always had the power to melt the icicles around her heart. “Street rats to legitimate entrepreneurs. Who would have guessed three kids randomly plucked off the streets would have our level of success? Not Simon.”
Simon’s selection hadn’t been completely random. Unlike some of the homeless living in Pritchard Park, she, Xander, and Izzy had set up a small business of drawing caricatures of tourists with popular landmarks in the background like Biltmore House, Tupelo Honey Café, Blue Ridge Mountains, or Malaprop’s Bookstore. Whatever the tourists wanted to help commemorate their time in Asheville.
One of them would draw, while the other two carried caricatures of themselves around downtown. People would inevitably ask, “Hey, where’d you get that done?”
In the beginning, Lena had done most of the drawings. She’d been sketching her whole life. It was the one thing she didn’t have to leave behind. Her burgeoning talent had traveled with her from one new town to the next.
Eventually, Xander and Izzy had tired of their pandering roles and talked Lena into giving them drawing lessons. She worried they would want to work with the tourists before they were ready. But they both recognized they had to create a quality product or the customer wouldn’t fork over the twenty bucks.
Which would’ve killed their budding business.
On busy days, they had sat behind her and drawn their own caricatures. On rainy days, Xander had roamed local art galleries and Izzy made jewelry.
Cheap beaded stuff at first, then as their enterprise grew, Izzy transitioned into sterling silver. As it turned out, she made better bling than caricatures and Xander slowly became an expert on everything from the Renaissance masters to emerging techniques.
Lena had spent her free time painting. Anything and everything. A bird’s nest, a storefront, a distant mountain peak. She played with colors and textures and light.
Simon had watched all of this unfold. Had observed them for two years, hustling nonstop through the tourist season and scrounging their way through the off-season.
His selection had been far from random. It had been strategic.
And thank the mountains for it.
“If your business is rocking,” Lena asked, unable to tamp down her curiosity, “why do this?” She pointed to her forgery-in-progress.
“More.”
She raised a brow.
“I have expenses. The gallery, this studio, my penthouse condo downtown, a flat in Dublin, plus I just signed a lease for a new gallery in New York City.”
“New York? Aren’t you spreading yourself a bit thin?”
“Only until the new gallery gets established.” A soft look entered his eyes. “You’ve always been content with just enough. Such an existence would wither my soul.”
Maybe when she was younger, but not as an adult. However, the difference between her and Xander was that she had abandoned the criminal side of her old life.
Until now.
“I saw Izzy the other day,” she said, monitoring his features. “She asked about you.”
Surprise flickered before his expression soured.
She had never quite understood the two. When Lena had finally given in to Xander’s relentless pursuit of her, Izzy had grown distant and angry. A year later, Izzy had set her sights on Xander. Pursued him in the same relentless way he had Lena.
But Xander hadn’t held out for years, as Lena had. His love for her had kept him strong for nine whole days. And Izzy had detached her tentacles from him twelve hours later.
Turned out, Izzy had been right. She should have resisted Xander.
“Don’t mention her name in my hearing,” he said.
“It’s been two years, Xander. Let it go. You’ll be much happier.”
His expression hardened. “Like you let it go?”
“I did.”
“Then why don’t you ever call me back? Why didn’t you accept my invitation to the gallery’s grand opening?”
“Because I’ve put that time of my life behind me.”
“Including me?”
