“Kellen, what are you doing here?” She dropped her phone onto her desk, and he lifted her from her chair and pulled her into his arms.
“I told you I was kersplatted. It means devastated. I needed a hug.” He pressed her close to him. “That Niagara was my favorite. I have to see it for a longer view somehow.” His hand roamed over her back. Yes, she knew he was a museum patron, but how could she deny him comfort in his grief. Especially at the exorbitant price he’d given for the exhibit—and when his personal favorite had gone missing?
“I trust the FBI to make it right.” She thought of Agent Ford. If she was going to be Mrs. Riccardo Ford sometime soon, she might need to lay off the public displays of affection with billionaire playboys at work. “Have you been interviewed yet?” That was probably why he was really down here in the middle of the day. She didn’t flatter herself that he came down solely to see her. He had a billion dollars that needed close management during the day.
“I don’t want to think about that. Let’s pretend for now all is good in the world. Now, come on. No need to pack. My plane is waiting, and you can buy anything you need once we get there.”
Ava pulled out of his embrace at once. “Plane?”
“Everyone should have a plane. It’s so convenient.”
Who could argue with that logic? “There’s kind of a lot going on here today, Kell. I doubt I could leave.”
“But I told you I need to see Niagara, just have to. You’re not going to deny me that, are you? After everything that’s happened?”
“Wait. You know where Niagara is?”
“Of course I do, sweetie sweet.” He popped a kiss on the end of her nose and started pulling her toward the hallway. “Of if I don’t, my pilot does. It’s on the Canadian border. But we can stay on the U.S. side if you don’t have your passport in your purse.” He may have taken a clandestine whiff of her hair as he leaned in close and whispered in her ear. “But I’ll just bet you’re the type of girl who doesn’t leave home without her passport. Ready to jump for adventure at any second.”
She did, in fact, have her passport in her purse. Not that she’d ever been a “ready to jump for adventure” girl, but sometimes she liked to wish she were.
Clearly, Kellen could see that fact in her face. “See? I knew it. We can check out things in O Canada while we’re up there. The bacon, the maple leaves. It’s going to be fantastic, just the two of us. And I won’t have to rig up some lame mister system. We can get the cool spray of the mighty Niagara in our faces as we float on the ferry boat below the crashing, powerful falls, just the two of us. I’ve chartered a ferry. I can hear the roar now. Get your purse. Let’s go.” He tugged at her hand, and part of her longed to experience the roar and the mist and the power with him.
Luckily, reason took hold of her.
“Oh, Kell, you know I want to.”
“If you want to, baby, then let’s just go. All this will keep.” He waved his hand around the museum. “But I won’t.”
“That’s just it, Kell. All this won’t keep. We’ve already lost the Church painting. I’m, you know, kind of responsible for the whole thing.”
“Responsibility. Pah.” He kissed her nose again. She sort of wished he had better aim today. Something about the broad shoulders and the nearness of him made her lips tingle up. “If we go to the falls and you end up totally dissing this place and blowing off your whole job, I got you. You won’t ever have to look back at this dingy place again.”
The museum wasn’t dingy. It was steel and glass and anything but dingy. Maybe it should get her dander up to hear him say so, but who hasn’t dreamed of leaving even their dream job behind from time to time. And he made it sound so liberating. But she’d worked too hard, made too many sacrifices. She marshaled all of her feminine grace to say, “Aw, sweet Kellen. I love that you’d say such things. But can we make it another time. Just now the FBI made it clear we’ve all got to stay in town. And I don’t like to cross law enforcement.”
Kellen’s shoulders fell. “Fine. Fine. But stay away from that piece of cowpuckey Riccardo Ford.”
Ava drew a swift breath and tried not to notice the word “cowpuckey.” “Um, did Agent Ford take your statement today?”
“Nope. Not a chance. I swore I’d never sit in the same room with that,” he used a choice word, “again.”
Hmm. What kind of history could Kellen have with Agent Ford? Riccardo did mention Kellen had a history with the FBI. She shouldn’t ask. It might be some kind of top secret business crime she’d rather not know about Kellen McMullen. After all, she’d kissed him. And she might have to kiss him again in a few seconds, if she knew the guy. She wouldn’t like to have to submit herself to a known criminal. An unknown criminal, fine.
“Let’s not talk about the guy.” Kellen squeezed her hand as he changed the subject. “What we should talk about is where we’re going for dinner, and what kind of dancing you like to do. I bet you’re into salsa.”
Salsa dancing? Um, yikes. Naturally, Ava could cut a rug at home, with the drapes drawn, when she was sure no one in the downstairs apartment was home to suspect her lack of grace. Naturally, she’d spent her time watching those ballroom competitions on TV, and she may have attempted a move or two, but never in public. Ever.
“Chips and salsa, yes.”
He threw his arms around her and swung her in a circle. Her skirts swirled around her legs and she felt light as a feather. “Chips and salsa it is! I have a favorite spot. I’ll pick you up at seven-thirty.” He planted a strong kiss on her lips, and then a swift one on her neck before stalking off with a loud, “Hoopty-hoo!”
Ava had worked through lunch. And now she was going to have to work through dinner. Although, technically, a dinner meeting with a patron didn’t usually entail the patron scooping her up in his arms and swinging her around so she doubted it could be called work.
She pressed a hand to her neck. The pressure of his lips still burned there. Hoopty-hoo indeed.
Chapter 9
The afternoon passed in a blur of taking compliments from teachers and fielding odd little-kid questions from students who’d come to see the exhibit. They ranged from Is that dirty water the cows are drinking? about a Kensett painting, to I went to Yosemite with my dad and stepmom last summer, and the mountain is totally not that big, about the exaggerated proportions in the Bierstadt. The kid was right, and it gave Ava a chance to explain to the class about the reasons the painter chose to create an idealized version of the lands in the West, and how they played into the westward expansionist movement.
She came away feeling like for once her education had served her very well, as if she’d been preparing for that moment for a decade.
Ava headed home with a much lighter step, and the pinky toe blister had worn quickly into a numb spot, to her great relief.
Part of her didn’t believe Kellen McMullen would even show up to take her for chips and salsa tonight. He had seemed pretty focused on his plane ride to upstate New York for the day. And there was no way he could be back from that already.
He wouldn’t show. It was already almost 7:30 anyway. She could relax.
Ava peeled off her work dress and fumbled through some of Zoe’s less formal clothing gifts. Among them she found an incredible pair of jeans. The label was one she recognized from her blur of nights watching Clinton and Stacy. They’d insisted every woman needs at least one pair of jeans that make her feel like a million bucks, then they proceeded to foist a pair on their victim that cost nearly that much—this same brand.
Ava slid them over her hips. She stood in front of the mirror and looked over her shoulder. Oh. My. Levi Strauss. These made her look and feel like a million bucks! How could they even perform such magic? She stared at them for a minute. They made her legs look longer, leaner. They made her waist nip in just at the right place, her stomach look flatter, her backside look like it belonged on J-Lo.
Where had they been all her life?
Time to try an
d unwind. She slid on a tank top and a tissue-thin aqua sweater, and then in a box she found a great pair of heeled sandals that had straps that didn’t touch her pinky toe. Grabbing a recipe book, she settled onto the sofa. Its soft suede smelled of leather, and she felt the tension flowing out of her shoulders and neck as she thumbed through the photos of the baked goods.
Blackberry mini-turnovers. She dog-eared that page. Snickerdoodles with cinnamon frosting—that one too. Cheesecake tarts. Orange cranberry bread. As long as she didn’t eat too much of anything while she baked, it’d be fine. After all, she’d cut chocolate from her diet, and that had consisted of at least thirty percent of her calorie intake. And the 1950s book had proven right—the occasional baked item shared at work had done wonders for opening social doors for Ava. Chewy homemade ginger snaps. Those looked especially nice.
Meanwhile, her mind danced through the conundrum of the stolen Niagara. While it could potentially be practically anyone, Ava got the sense it had to be an inside job. For one, there was no sign of break-in. No other paintings were touched. The Church was the most famous and valuable of all the works in the exhibit, and the thief would have to have an extensive knowledge of art to realize exactly which item to take.
And so, where did that leave her?
Nigel, with his nervous tic and surly demeanor.
Mr. Phelps, simply because he was apprised of every detail regarding the exhibit, but not for any other reason, so probably not.
Enzio Valente. He’d gone missing from the scene about the same time as the painting. But he was new, a little awkward in the whole finance department from day one, and possibly too good looking to need to be out fencing stolen art. Of course, there was the maxim to never trust the handsome Italian.
Jerk Friend. But he was too self-absorbed and oversexed to have time to figure out how to steal a Frederic Edwin Church masterpiece. Probably not his wheelhouse.
Dwight Huggins of the Glastonbury. She didn’t know him well enough to guess what motive he’d have, other than money. But he was in charge of that whole museum, and it seemed self-defeating. Plus, he was in New England—not really close enough to orchestrate the job—and he seemed wholly ignorant of anything to do with Phoenix. Like a lot of easterners who’d never been west of the Mississippi, he probably thought he could drive through four different states in six hours. Haw. It couldn’t be Dwight.
Or there was Kellen with his bipolar attitude toward the painting—saying it was his favorite, and then failing to even take a five minute gaze at it when it was right in front of him, and after that his weird reaction when it was taken. He proposed jetting off to see the real Niagara Falls instead of being truly concerned about either the loss of the painting or the loss of his investment for bringing the exhibit to Phoenix. That was undeniably strange behavior. He shot to the top of her suspicious persons list.
The doorbell rang, startling Ava and making her recipe book fall off the couch with a thud.
No. Kellen couldn’t have remembered. She bonked her shin on the coffee table going to the door.
“Yeah, baby!” Kellen grinned from ear to ear and reached out, pulling her into his arms. “I knew I could find your place. Second try. Did you know there’s an Ava Young living only about a mile from here? Of course, she’s sixty-eight years old and has eleven cats and four parakeets and a parrot named Voldemort.” He was running his fingers through her hair. “You’re wondering how I know that. Well, she told me.” He was nuzzling her neck. “And if you’d been kind enough to simply give me your address in the first place and not make me go traipsing all over Phoenix to sleuth you out, neither of us would be forced to know that fun fact right now, so really it’s all your fault, gorgeous.” His hand put pressure on the small of her back. “Nice place,” he said, setting his chin on her shoulder. “It smells like citrus in here. Did I ever tell you why I bought an orange grove? It’s so I can go there in the spring and breathe the blossoms for a few hours. I’d stay for the whole bloom season if I had time. Best smell in the world.”
Ava couldn’t disagree with that. Or with that logic. She’d breathe citrus blossoms for a full two weeks given the chance.
“You ready for dinner? I’m glad you’re all casual and stuff. I like casual, especially on you, doll-face.”
It should have bothered Ava to get these pet names applied to her. Baby. Doll-face. Sweets. Gorgeous. Gorgeous? Really? Kellen thought she was gorgeous?
“Come on. Chips and salsa. Kellen style.” He pulled her out the door, only giving her a millisecond to remember to grab her purse and lock her apartment door.
“Oh, hi, Mrs. Chowder,” Ava called over her shoulder to the elderly neighbor who’d peeked her head out the door, her hair in a scraggly gray bun. “Tomorrow is going to be lemon bars. You’re not allergic to eggs, are you? Lemon bars have egg yolks in them.”
Mrs. Chowder shook her head and stared gape-mouthed at Ava and Kellen until they rounded the corner of the staircase. Ava would leave her a full plate of them in the morning. The lady always left Ava’s empty dish just outside the door on the hall floor.
“It’s not a plane, but sometimes it feels like it can fly. It goes that fast.” Kellen opened the door to his British sports car. Ava did always admire the Aston Martin company, but she never expected to ride in one. They were handmade. It felt like it, too. The bucket seat hugged her form as cozily as her sofa. It amazed her that the air conditioning could be so powerful and yet so noiseless. Kellen jammed the shifter through the gears, and they sailed onto the 202 faster than Ava had ever ridden in her life.
“I can afford the insurance if I get a speeding ticket.” He switched lanes to avoid a pool care truck. “Not that I want a ticket. And I always keep it below criminal speeding. Crimes aren’t my thing.”
Noted.
“I hope you’re starving.” In almost no time they’d sailed off the freeway exit and pulled into a nearby strip mall parking lot beneath a sign reading something in Lebanese: Halla. “This isn’t exactly traditional Arizona chips and salsa.” The restaurant was huge, with draped pink and red curtains in the window and spices wafting through the warm night air. The place was packed. Next door was a hookah bar, and on the other side was a shop selling popcorn to raise money for a Christian church. Quite the confluence. “I don’t ever want to break any of the promises I make you, gorgeous. So even though it might not be exactly what I promised, the pitas here have the best hummus in the world, and that’s the Middle Eastern equivalent of chips and salsa, right?”
He was exactly right, and within minutes, Ava was letting the sesame, tahini, chickpea coulee fascinate all her taste buds. “This is incredible.”
“No, you are incredible, Ava Young. I can’t stop staring at you.”
“Kellen, all this flattery just isn’t necessary.” Beneath the table she gave his knee a pat. “So tell me about this life of crime you lead. Criminal speeding tickets, and so on.” She tried to keep her tone as playful as possible. Much as she’d told herself earlier that she didn’t want to know about his history with the FBI, now that he’d brought up the subject of crime, she couldn’t let that door slide shut without at least taking a quick gander inside.
“Oh, my sordid past. You want to know all about me. The tabloids do a pretty good job of digging up false histories about me. You’ve read those, I assume.”
She hadn’t. Not much, anyway. Most of anything she’d seen about Kellen McMullen had been related to a time he tackled a paparazzi at the Phoenix Open who had been harassing Tiger Woods.
“Mostly the articles I’ve seen have been dating history, Kell.” Headline after headline proclaimed which starlet he had on his arm at the time.
“Let’s just pretend none of those ever happened. Not a one of them matters even a pinch of an iota now.” He reached over and placed his hand, warm and dry, over hers. His face was all earnestness. “Now that you’re in my life.”
Was she? In his life, that is? Hard to say. She hardly knew him well enough to
know if any of this sweet talk had a pinch of an iota of sincerity. Because of that, she let it all bounce off her, every compliment, every kiss. Well, maybe not the kisses as much. She was too new at those to ignore them callously.
The bruschetta course came. And then salad. And then kebabs. And then some kind of lamb and rice dish. All of it incredible. She couldn’t figure out how to steer the conversation away from whether the Bermuda Triangle really had paranormal powers and whether Elvis had been cryogenically frozen and whether parrots should rightfully be named Voldemort, or if no living creature should, back to his suspected shady past. Instead she was going to have to take another tack.
“I’m horrified about the missing painting.” She did her best damsel in distress face here. Maybe she could pad his ego by probing his manly knowledge here. “What do you think happened to it?”
Kellen frowned, but when he opened his mouth to answer, the bells of a tambourine sounded just a few inches from their table and drowned him out. Up beside them undulated a partially clad woman with a veil over her nose and mouth, her eyes just peeking out. The tambourine shook right between them over their plates, and her hand slid down Kellen’s shoulder and lifted him from his seat to take him to a raised stage at the south of the room. He tripped along after her mesmerizing form.
Belly dancer. This restaurant featured a belly dancer.
Ava sat back and watched, amused, as Kellen was placed in a chair on the stage and the woman with the jewel in her navel did a hippy-hippy shake in circles around him. Musicians had appeared in a cluster at the back of the stage. The whole crowd of the restaurant clapped and cheered for the entertainment.
Plates of baklava were set in front of Ava, and she shoved a bite of the honey and walnut dessert into her mouth. She shouldn’t be jealous of that dancer. Not a pinch of an iota. But the emotion was undeniable. Jealousy made every chew of her jaw move with purpose. Kellen sat paralyzed on the chair, his eyes glued on that flashing ruby in her bellybutton. This is how it would be if Ava ever made the fatal mistake of taking anything Kellen McMullen said with any belief. He’d flaunt his fascination for other women in front of her nonstop.
The Lost Art: A Romantic Comedy Page 11
