“So you think he’s haunting the studio.” Luke kept his tone flat, but his stomach churned. The cloak-and-dagger bullshit, the discovery of Stefan’s downfall—all because of some septuagenarian’s delusions.
“Arcoletti had a two-track mind. His art and my brother, although art had the inside track. He wouldn’t let a little thing like death stop him.”
Luke crossed the room in two stiff strides and slapped the check on the mantel. “Here. You need this more than I do. In fact, I’ll refund you my expenses too. Get a psychiatrist. Or a good detox program.”
Franklin’s eyebrows met his hairline. “Easier to believe your friend’s a forger, is it?”
This time, Luke couldn’t stop the derisive laugh. Because as stupid as it was, as crazy as it was, it was almost easier to believe in a ghost. “If Arcoletti’s been haunting you since you were eight, why would he suddenly start producing paintings from beyond the grave?”
Franklin jutted his chin, eyebrows bunched. “Use your head, boy. Arcoletti can’t paint the pictures himself. He doesn’t have hands anymore. He needs an agent. And now he’s got one.”
“If that’s the ghost of Jeremiah Arcoletti, he’s doing a damn good impression of Stefan Cobbe,” Luke muttered.
“Always right, are you?” Franklin pointed his cane at Luke’s face. “Tell me this. How’d your friend forge a painting nobody outside my family knew existed? That nobody but me has seen since 1945?”
Luke shook his head. “There’s bound to be a rational explanation. Always is.” He shoved aside the memory of his inexplicable, near-miraculous rescue from death on a dark Italian mountain, of the reason he was on that mountainside in the first place. “An old newspaper article. Family photos. Maybe your decorator granddaughter needed a tchotchke to park over someone’s fireplace.”
“Told you. No one’s seen it but me for nearly seventy years.”
“Sorry, but that . . . uh . . . woo-woo shit is not worth my time.” He wiped his damp palms on his pants. “You picked the wrong guy.”
“Don’t think so.”
He can’t mean the visions. Nobody knows about those. Luke barely admitted them to himself. “Really? Why not?”
“Two reasons: You’ve read Arcoletti’s correspondence. All of it, including the letters preserved at the Golden Age Library.”
“Yeah, I have. But how do you know?”
“I endow that library. They keep me informed.”
Luke snorted. “I’ll bet. What’s the other reason?”
Franklin drummed his fingers on the head of his cane. He leaned forward and smiled, his wrinkles a chevron on his cheeks. “Hernandez.”
Luke flinched, shoulders hunching, his hands rising as if he could ward off the memory of his Waterloo. One look at the desperation in Hernandez’s face, at the hollow-eyed fear of his children, and Luke had allowed his ethics to drift into a gray area rivaling the clouds outside Franklin’s picture window. Condemning a man to prison, his children to virtual slavery or starvation over a handful of fake pottery shards had been a damn sight different than exposing a million-dollar scam at an auction house. Luke hadn’t been able to do it.
“There were extenuating circumstances.”
“Bet the curator of that museum in Bogotá didn’t think so.”
“Not so much. No.” And Hernandez had gone down anyway, taking Luke’s reputation along with him. “So you think I can’t walk away from your job because I don’t have a choice.”
“You have a choice all right, if you prefer eating to a damn fool grand gesture.”
“No matter how much I like to eat, I dislike being manipulated more.” Luke shoved himself away from the mantel, his hip burning in protest at the sharp movement. “If you’re trying to force me into going along with your little fantasy, you’re no better than Boardman with his one-man forging sweatshop.”
“Simmer down. Only meant that since you’ve learned something about . . . extenuating circumstances, you’re more likely to be open to possibilities than any of those other jokers.”
“And you need someone to be open?” Luke didn’t stint on the sarcasm.
Franklin shrugged. “By my way of thinking, you don’t have much to lose. Stick with the job, prove who’s painting up there—whether it’s Arcoletti or not—and I’ll throw in a fifty percent bonus. Commend you to all six museums I support.”
Fuck me sideways. A chance to live down the Hernandez debacle. To get back in the game for real. The bonus alone would give him the capital to be selective about his next job and pull himself out of his current professional hellhole. But if the price was facing Stefan again, shoving him deeper into the cesspool he’d made of his life? “Not worth it.”
Franklin’s dark eyes glittered, pinning Luke like an insect on a pastel board. “What if Morganstern Art Investigations could announce the unveiling of Arcoletti’s last canvas? Would that be worth a trip up the hill?”
“I . . .” Luke’s heart pounded in his ears. A chance to cop an undiscovered Arcoletti. Nobody had done that. Ever. He could rebuild his name overnight with the announcement. That insidious inner voice whispered that the possibility of proving Stefan innocent was the greater temptation. Did it matter? Screw it. I’ll figure that out later. “Sure,” he croaked.
“Good.” Franklin nodded, his face relaxing into the smile of a jovial rattlesnake. “Text me your updates. Not too early, though. I’m an old man. I need my rest.” He laid his cane across his knees. “And remember, Morganstern. There’s lots of things today that fools don’t believe in. Evolution. Global warming.” He raised an eyebrow. “Vaccines. But just because you can’t see something, doesn’t mean it’s not real.” He jabbed a finger in Luke’s direction. “Doesn’t mean it won’t kill you just as dead.”
Stefan awoke on a choked cough. His shoulder and hip ached from his awkward fetal curl on unforgiving tile, the slick ceramic chilly against his skin. His mouth tasted of rancid meat and the bathtub was inches from his nose.
Christ. Naked on the bathroom floor. Again.
He rolled to his hands and knees, shivers chasing over his body. His brain tried unsuccessfully to beat its way out of his skull, the relentless thump ten times worse than the last blackout, twenty times worse than the one before. He peered at the window, a pale square in the darkened bathroom. The light was coming from the wrong direction for morning. What the hell time was it, anyway? He’d never lost an entire night and day before.
Shit. That Scotch was evil. No more. Not. Freaking. Ever.
He hooked his fingers on the edge of the sink and levered himself up. After he lit the oil lamp on the vanity, he dashed his face with frigid water, and rinsed his mouth. He pressed the heels of his hands against his temples to counteract the throb and realized the pounding wasn’t only inside his head.
Someone was knocking on his door.
The police. His trembling increased, and he clenched his teeth against their clatter. He hadn’t believed Luke would turn him in, not really, not so soon, and surely not without more evidence.
But could prison be worse than this? Never knowing whether he was certifiably insane or just a garden-variety, blackout drunk? Funny how his life hadn’t seemed nearly so pointless and empty before Luke had shown up like a self-righteous yardstick of success.
Stefan stared at his reflection—reddened eyes, pale cheeks, haystack of ill-kempt hair. Yeah, that guy looked capable of anything, up to and including hawking a bad forgery of Whistler’s Mother to Whistler’s father.
His throat tightened, and he took a deep breath. The hell if he was going to prison impersonating a naked scarecrow. The art police could damn well wait until he got dressed.
“Hold on a goddamned minute!”
He cleaned up, pulled on a pair of sweats and a flannel shirt, and staggered through the dim living room. When he yanked on the door, it jammed an inch past the threshold.
“Great,” he muttered. He didn’t know whether it was the cabin’s age, poor maintenance over ti
me, or the effects of the weather, but sometimes the doors seemed to have minds of their own.
He huffed out a breath, braced one foot against the wall, and heaved, ready to brazen it out with his unwanted visitors with his piss-poor I-don’t-remember defense. But when he finally wrestled the door open, Luke was alone on the porch, a grocery bag in one arm and a determined set to his mouth.
Stefan’s stomach lurched, and he squinted in the fading light, scanning the clearing and searching for the trick, the trap. But Luke’s rental car was the only vehicle in sight and no posse stood at his back.
He mustered up some bravado. “Here to beat a confession out of me?”
“Damn it, Stefan.” Luke shifted the paper bag on his hip. “How’d you manage to lose another ten pounds in less than twenty-four hours?”
“If that’s your best pickup line, it needs work.”
“I get that a lot.” Luke grinned, flashing his dimples.
So unfair. Accusatory assholes shouldn’t be allowed dimples. Stefan nodded at the bag. “Did you bring along your collection of interrogation tools?”
“Actually, it’s trout.”
Stefan swallowed against another hit of stupid desolation. Trout. His favorite. A reminder of their best times. Luke couldn’t have picked a better torture device if he’d thought about it for a month with both hands. Stefan would have preferred the classic rubber hose or a little friendly water-boarding.
He rubbed his gritty eyes. “Why bother to feed me? I’m sure they have food in prison.”
“Stef. Look at me.” Luke’s voice dropped to his deepest register, the one full of heat and gravel, the one Stefan could never resist.
He lifted his gaze as ordered. Although the promise in Luke’s voice didn’t reach his eyes, at least they weren’t hard and narrow with anger anymore.
“I’m sorry. Can we start there?”
Stefan lifted his chin. “Groveling would be better.”
“How’s this?” Luke dropped to his knees, wincing, and offered up the grocery bag. “Forgive me for being a dick and allow me to make dinner for you, because you look like a goddamn skeleton.”
“You were doing okay until that last bit.”
“Please?”
Stefan wrapped his arms tighter across his chest. I’m sorry didn’t equal I was wrong. “Still think I’m a forger?”
“Let’s say I’m willing to entertain other . . .” Luke waggled one hand back and forth. “Possibilities.” A grin. Goddamn it.
“Oh, get up.” Stefan took the bag and peeked inside. String beans. A thread of warmth sneaked up his spine, and he couldn’t help the tiny flutter of hope in his belly. In spite of last night’s insults and accusations, Luke wanted to make dinner for him and had gone to the trouble of finding the out-of-season vegetables because he’d remembered that Stefan loved them.
Luke rocked side to side on his knees. “Shit. Damn fucked-up hip. Give me a hand?”
Stefan ditched the groceries inside the door, grasped Luke’s hand, and pulled him to his feet. Luke overbalanced and grabbed Stefan’s shoulder. For a moment they were eye-to-eye, hands still clasped, chests almost brushing.
This close, he couldn’t miss Luke’s pupils widening, his lips parting. Stefan had a horrible feeling his were doing the same, because his cock started to perk up.
Oh, hell no. Bad idea. Terrible idea. Colossally, suicidally stupid idea.
Stefan freed his hand, stepped back, and pointed at the counter. “Stove’s propane. Matches are in the drawer. I’ve got to shower.”
He made it a cold one.
Afterward, shivering but in control of his libido, he donned a fresh set of clothes and followed the aroma of browned butter and sautéed onions into the main room. Luke had lit a half dozen oil lamps and the soft golden light suited him, catching the copper threads in his chestnut hair and warming his hazel eyes when he glanced up from the stove and caught Stefan staring.
Stefan shuffled into the kitchen, fidgeting with the buttons on his shirt. “Smells good.”
“It’ll taste better.” The grin Luke flashed undid the work of the cold shower.
Shit. Going commando could be damned inconvenient. Stefan opened the refrigerator to hide his misbehaving groin. If he didn’t end up in jail, first thing he’d buy after he sold a painting? Underwear. Tight underwear. Because you never knew who might drop by. “You want a beer?”
“Got anything stronger? The hip could use some anesthetic.”
“Only Scotch. Will that do?”
“Depends. Show me what you’ve got.” When Stefan flourished the bottle, Luke whistled. “Fifteen-year-old single malt. Not bad, Stef.”
“Don’t thank me. Thomas stocks the place. I just run up the tab.” Maybe someday he’d be able to pay it. He splashed a couple of inches in a highball glass and set it on the counter next to the stove.
“Thanks.” Luke picked up the glass and saluted Stefan, his eyebrows lifting when Stefan poured a glass of water. “Not indulging?”
Stefan shuddered. “Hell no.” He was so done with Glenlivet.
He sat on the rickety wooden stool at the counter and leaned his chin on his fist. After yesterday’s fiasco of a reunion, he’d never expected to see Luke again, and yet here he was, puttering around the shabby kitchen. It was like an open invitation to ogle. Why the hell not? After all, he might never have another opportunity. So Stefan surrendered unconditionally to temptation.
The muscles of Luke’s back bunched and flexed under his blue Oxford shirt as he tossed the onions in the sauté pan. His hips swiveled as he moved from stove to sink and from cutting board to pan, an unconsciously sensual dance.
Stefan could watch him forever. Except . . . Stefan sighed. “Luke, what are you doing here?”
Luke cast a grin over his shoulder and took another swig of Scotch. “Cooking dinner.”
“No, I mean what are you doing in Oregon? You never said.”
“Yeah. Guess not.” He busied himself with the trout, dredging them in flour.
“Do you have a show somewhere? On the coast? Portland?”
Luke’s hands stilled for an instant. He took a gulp of Scotch and grimaced. “I’m not an artist.” He splashed another inch of Scotch in his glass, his thumb leaving a floury print on the green bottle.
“You’re not? But—” Stefan frowned. Luke had had more passion about painting than anyone else in his class, his intensity often overwhelming. The other students had been terrified of him.
Luke wiped his hands on the kitchen towel tucked in his belt loop and took another hit from his drink. “Nope. Haven’t lifted a brush since I left the conservatory.”
“I thought . . . But isn’t that why you went to Europe? To study at a school there?”
“I studied. But not painting. I’m certified in cultural property protection, preservation, conservation, and security.” He dropped the trout into a deep cast-iron skillet in a sizzle and spit of hot oil.
Stefan’s empty stomach clenched. “Security? Christ. You’re not just an informer. You’re the art police.” He struggled to stand, his feet tangling in the legs of the stool. “Are you here to arrest me?”
Luke took a giant stride across the kitchen and grasped Stefan’s wrist. “I’m not a cop. I’m only an investigator.”
“But that’s why you’re here, isn’t it?” Stefan’s teeth began to chatter in spite of the heat from the woodstove. “Because you think—”
“Calm down.” Luke stroked the underside of Stefan’s wrist with his thumb. “Yeah, I’m here on an investigation, but I had no idea I’d run into you. Tonight, I’m here to make dinner.” Luke ducked his head and peered up into Stefan’s eyes. “No judgments. Okay?”
Stefan jerked a nod, uncertain whether he wanted to increase the distance between them or eliminate it completely. “Yeah.”
“Good.” Luke released him and turned to the stove. “Because I haven’t made this recipe in a long time and I need to pay attention.”
Ye
ah, pay attention, Stefan. He didn’t show up yesterday because he was looking for you. “It’s a good recipe.” Stefan grabbed his water and took a huge gulp. “Why didn’t you make it for anyone in Europe?”
Luke studied the trout as he made further inroads on his Scotch. “Jean-Pierre hates seafood. I got out of practice.”
“Jean-Pierre.” The water turned into a lump of ice in his belly. Of course there was someone else. A Jean-Pierre, no less. A much classier name than Stefan Cobbe, silent e or no silent e. “French?”
“Belgian.”
“What’s he like? Other than anti-fin?”
“Blond. Blue-eyed. A competitive downhill skier.”
“Ah.” Christ. A thrill-seeker. Stefan couldn’t even face walking into his own freaking studio. The icy lump grew spines. “Intrepid.”
Luke tossed a spoonful of minced garlic in with the onions. “Maybe. Or maybe just foolhardy. He certainly had no patience with caution. Or fear.”
“‘Had’? What happened to him?”
“Same thing that happened to my hip and my femur.”
Guilt washed through Stefan for indulging in petty jealousy when Luke must be grieving. “Oh, God. I’m sorry, Luke. Was he—”
Luke held up a hand. “No. He’s still swanning around Vienna as far as I know. He left me after the accident. Hospitals and rehab? He didn’t sign on for that.” He drained his glass and set it down on the counter with a thump.
“I’m still sorry.”
“Thanks.” Luke stared at the floor, scuffing his loafer against a worn spot in the linoleum. “I’m sorry, too. About Marius.”
That made two of them, but not for the reason Luke probably imagined. “It’s okay.”
“No. It’s not. I should have been there. Stood by you at the funeral.”
“I doubt you’d have gotten any closer to the funeral than I did.”
Luke’s brows drew together over his Roman nose. “What?”
Stefan drew circles in the condensation on his glass. Zeroes. His total worth to Marius’s family. “The Prescotts wouldn’t let me past their fancy wrought-iron gates.”
The Artist's Touch Page 5
