The Lost Art: A Romantic Comedy

by Jennifer Griffith

  Huh? So much in this conversation made Ava ask “huh.”

  “Look, Kellen, I’m not having my best night. Could you do me that little, bitty favor? Have him track my phone?”

  Kellen paused. The quiet went on for a while, and Ava’s heart pounded, worried she’d lost the cell connection for good and might not get it back—or worse, that she’d offended Kellen McMullen so deeply by asking him to turn to another man to help her that he’d hung up and left her in the desert to be eaten by coyotes. The coyotes would start with her bad ankle, work their way up her leg, feast on her internal organs—

  “Fine. My assistant is on it. But I swear, there are no Golden Arches out in that part of the world. Believe me, I know. I’d go just about anywhere for McNuggets.”

  Why did that not surprise her?

  “Thanks, Kellen. I’m forever in your debt.” Even if she had no idea what he was talking about a lot of the time. At least tonight.

  * * *

  Eighty-five minutes later, well past nine, a cloud of dust formed behind a speeding car heading toward her. She’d sat on a rock to rest her ankle, but now she crouched behind the boulder. That car could be Enzio, who’d found out her fake phone. Her mouth desiccated when she recalled the shiny gun in his jacket.

  Ava cowered behind the rock as the car blazed closer. Moonlight showed a sports car, one of foreign make. And it flew over the dirt, just like Enzio’s. It had to be the handsome Italian. Never trust the handsome Italian when he says he won’t do you any bodily harm—especially when you lie to him.

  Her heart pounded, and the shrimp and scampi from lunch threatened to work their way back to the surface.

  Go away, go away, go away. Don’t see me. Don’t see me.

  The car drew nearer, and then raced past her. The taillights looked different from Enzio’s (as the last thing she’d seen resembling civilization.) They weren’t his—they were … the Aston Martin.

  “Kellen!” Ava screamed, popping up from behind the rock. “Kellen!” Forgetting her ankle, she pounded after him on the road, but he was going too fast. She ran another dozen yards and then slowed to a walk. He’d been so close, and now she was choking on only his dust.

  Oh, Kellen.

  But then the car wheeled around, and in a minute he’d stopped beside her and swept her into his arms, planting a hundred kisses on her collarbone.

  “It was too weird to think of you in a polyester uniform like that. Come on. Let’s get you home.”

  In his car, after Ava’s spine had relaxed and she’d massaged her ankle, examining to see if it was broken—it wasn’t; just bruised—she interrupted Kellen’s auto-rant about girls walking alone at night on strange roads.

  “What was it you were saying about the fry machine?”

  “I’m sorry. I might have led him to believe that.” A deep, rumbling voice sounded from the back seat, and Ava wrenched around to see Agent Ford and his dark, brooding eyes. Mmm. “The text you sent me. At first glance the abbreviations only went to ‘full time’ and ‘McDonalds’ in my mind. It wasn’t until Mr. McMullen followed your instructions to GPS track your phone that we understood Fort McDowell. What on earth were you doing out here? At night. Alone in the desert?”

  Ava’s insides melted like butter on a hot stove when he spoke. She felt worlds safer with him near her. He’d protect her from Enzio, from everyone.

  “I, uh—”

  They peppered her with questions about how she got there and who she’d been with. She avoided using Enzio’s name. His threat about Umberto may have also included his own identity, and she didn’t want to risk the gun.

  “The lady doesn’t have to answer if she doesn’t want to. Ladies need their secrets sometimes. But yeah, that was quite the cryptic text.” Kellen rolled his eyes at her. They were passing the casino now. Her stomach growled. “Sounds like you could use a few McNuggets after all. Let me take you to dinner? You might have left me for some other bloke tonight, but I have a big reservoir of forgiveness all for you. What do you like? Italian? I bet you like Italian.”

  Anything but Italian.

  “Uh, before that happens, McMullen, I have a few things I need to speak with Miss Young about.” So authoritative, that pronouncement. Shivers went up her spine. Anyone would do anything he said in that voice. They’d be powerless to resist.

  “Fine. But I’ve got her comfort and needs in mind. You’re just looking to crack your case.” Kellen stepped on the gas hard as they entered the freeway. Ava gripped the seat again, wishing these men and their fast cars would chill out. As soon as they hit freeway speeds, though, Kellen toned it down. “You can question her here and now, if you want, Ford. I’ll tune you out.” He said la-la-la loudly to drown out her and Riccardo’s voices. The juvenility of it had a certain charm, and Ava smiled in spite of herself.

  Kellen could do that to her.

  “Not necessary,” Riccardo said once, then louder again to interrupt the la-la-las.

  The awkward tension level in the car shot up a notch. Ava changed the subject to a gauge on the dashboard in front of the passenger seat.

  “Oh. What does this one measure?”

  “It’s the altimeter,” Kellen said without missing a beat. Riccardo snorted from the back seat.

  * * *

  In truth, Ava was anxious to eat dinner, but not half as anxious as to get a chance to talk with Riccardo about what she’d learned from Enzio—that somehow that icky bearded man from the hookah place, Umberto whoever, was indeed mixed up in the theft.

  But when Kellen dropped her at the FBI building promising to circle the block until she came out again post haste after her interview with Ford, Ava remembered Enzio’s narrowed eyes and his ferocity-laced threat.

  You’ll tell no FBI agents about this, or I won’t be so nice next time.

  He had no business threatening her. Ava seethed. But she also didn’t have a choice. She couldn’t tell Riccardo now. Maybe later, after she’d had some time to think about how to give him the information. Right now she couldn’t think much of anything, not until after she’d gotten her blood sugar levels back up. Her hand dug around in her purse for a stray KitKat mini—but she pulled it back like it’d been stung by a scorpion.

  Not going there. She could wait for dinner with Kellen.

  “What’s wrong?” Riccardo said, concern on his face.

  “Um, just remembered a time when a scorpion stung me when I reached inside my purse.”

  “I know what you mean. I dump out my empty shoes every morning just in case.”

  “Me too.” Oh, they had so much in common. This was bonding, wasn’t it? She’d been waiting for a moment like this with him. He was so suave and swarthy at the same time. How many times did the guy have to shave a day, she wondered. Maybe three. She’d put her money on three.

  “Look, I have had a break in the case. You mentioned someone acting suspicious at work. Nigel Winterthorn, was it? Is there anyone else you’ve noticed strange behavior in? We’re looking at possibilities of an inside job.”

  “Oh, that’s what Zoe was talking about.”

  “Your reporter friend? The press already has a whiff of this?” He frowned and paced back and forth behind his desk. Ava wished she could look through stacks of photographs again with Riccardo sitting too close beside her, sniffing her hair. “Cases like this need to be handled more delicately, especially when the stolen item can be held hostage so easily by mere threat of damage if demands aren’t complied with.”

  “There have been demands? A culprit has come out of the woodwork, then?” This was news. It shot a ray of hope back into her life. With Agent Ford on the job it was only a matter of minutes before this thing blew wide open.

  Riccardo’s lips pressed tightly together. It made them too small to kiss. This was a serious moment in which she should not be thinking about kissing. Especially when she’d been kissing another man just last night. Ava didn’t know herself well yet, not this Dating Ava version of herself, but she doub
ted she was the type of girl who would kiss more than one man at the same time.

  Unless Riccardo kissed her and she never kissed another man as long as she lived. Her conscience could live with that arrangement.

  “Ahem.” Riccardo had his arms folded across his chest, and Ava’s head snapped back up from where it had rested dreamily on her hand. She brought her elbow back off his desk and folded her hands in her lap.

  “You were saying?” She tried to pull it together. These work crushes—they’d sink her whole career and credibility if she wasn’t careful. She was getting too tired to think, even about something as dire as the stolen painting.

  “I asked you a question about the museum staff.” A measure of impatience laced his tone, making Ava frown and get serious. “And why you paused so long on the photograph of Umberto Iglesias when you were at my office.”

  “I, uh—” Telling him about seeing Umberto with Nigel at the hookah place wasn’t the same as saying she’d seen him anywhere near the museum, was it? Not precisely. But Enzio’s threat echoed in her mind.

  “Look, Riccardo. You’re going to think I’m a goose because the real reason I paused so long on that picture is the beard. It fascinated me. Fascinated and repulsed. I’m shallow.” She shrugged and gave a half-smile. This play acting tired her. Times like this, she wished she could drop the whole ruse and just be her no-nonsense self again and let him see her for who she really was.

  Then again, it did aid in her self-preservation. She could play the shallow blonde and save her skin, and if that was what it took, she’d have to endure.

  “I guess I should just state that no one calls me Riccardo. Not even my mother when she’s angry.”

  Oh, goody. Back to the bonding moments. Ava liked them so much better than the serious, danger-talk moments. Those made her pull away from him and popped her Mrs. Agent Ford fantasy bubble fast.

  “What do they call you? Your friends, I mean?” And she tiptoed her fingertips across his desk a bit. “Is it something I can call you?”

  “Rick. My friends call me Rick.” His voice came out low on this, like he didn’t want some nearby microphone to pick it up.

  Rick. Images of various guys named Rick hopped into her mind. Rick Springfield, whose mullet she’d seen on a rerun of General Hospital while she was sick. But there was also Rick Haderlie from high school. Oh. That guy was too sexy for his cat. Rick Pingree, the Nobel Laureate in physics—not exactly a hunk-a-burning-love, that one.

  Well, Rick Ford could change her impression of that name in a single stroke. Dashing and courageous. Her eyes flitted around at the commendations and photos with dignitaries on the walls.

  Rick didn’t say whether Ava should use the name, but he wouldn’t have told her if he didn’t mean her to use it. “Please. It’s important.”

  She debated. She imagined the whole conversation between them in her mind.

  “I saw someone with an Umberto Iglesias beard last night.”

  “What?” Agent Ford shot to his feet. “Where?” His eyes double-blinked in a why didn’t you tell me before accusation.

  “I could be wrong, so I wasn’t sure I should tell you. Besides, you might think low thoughts of me.” She wished he’d whisper, Never, and sweep her into his arms. He didn’t. “I saw him in Scottsdale on Coyote Road.”

  “Walking down the street? Riding in a car?” Ford’s sudden energy made Ava nervous. She almost regretted bringing it up. But then he leaned toward her, his warm eyes gazed into hers, and she spilled it.

  “Like I said, I could totally be wrong about this, but someone who looked like that was at a hookah bar.”

  “Hookah?” His face puzzled. “Smoking?”

  Even though there was more, Ava still didn’t feel like saying she’d seen Nigel at the hookah bar too. Some kind of instinct stopped her.

  “You smoke?” His eyes had fallen on her teeth.

  “Oh, Agent Ford, surely from the time you’ve spent so near me,” with his nose almost in her curtain of hair, “your senses tell you I don’t.”

  He gulped, guiltily.

  “Actually I was at the belly dancing place next door.” She dropped this little bomb with casual grace. It had its effect: surprise then intrigue. It took him a moment to collect himself.

  “Oh. We’ll probably never track his movements. They’re so erratic. And as long as it wasn’t connected to the museum, it’s probably irrelevant.” He frowned, and guilt about withholding the information connecting Iglesias to Nigel burned in her. She debated. She should tell him. But the words stopped in her throat like a metal plate blocked them from coming up. To hide the turmoil in her, she dredged up her acting skills and reached over and traced the back of his hand, then rested her palm over it.

  Her imagination played it all out in a matter of seconds. She opened her mouth to let the admission tumble out, but she stopped.

  No. Life mattered to Ava. Enzio had a gun and a specific demand. Ava was an only child to her parents. If something happened to her, they’d be bereft. Inconsolable and she could picture them withering out there in their modest house in the Laveen farmland in the desert. No. She loved them fiercely and wouldn’t force on them that sorrow. Not even if it meant not being completely transparent with this amazing man. For now. After he caught Enzio, she’d tell Rick everything. About Nigel. About Umberto. All of it.

  “When a guy has a beard like that, it’s pretty hard to notice any other single thing on the landscape, you know? It’s like if there was a bleeding baby or a nude model. You don’t look away and notice any other details of the scene.”

  Frustration marred Riccardo’s gorgeous eyes, but he nodded and stopped tapping his pen.

  “Thanks, Miss Young.”

  “My friends call me Ava.” But someday they’d call her Mrs. Riccardo Ford, if things went according to her fantasy. They’d sit together at night, sipping tea, watching documentaries on art authentication, making small talk about world leaders Riccardo had met that day. Oh, she’d be so good at ironing his dress shirts, putting a perfect crease down the top of each sleeve. He wouldn’t spend so much on his dry cleaning bill, one of which sat on the edge of his desk even now.

  An impulse made her snatch up the ticket, just to have a little thing of his. It was for a place clear across town. She could return it later, either before or on the date that he’d need to pick up his order. It’d give her an excuse to call him.

  He took her downstairs, where Kellen McMullen sat in his car looking like he’d swallowed a porcupine.

  Agent Ford told her goodnight and handed her into the passenger seat. Kellen wasted no time in planting a passion-laden kiss on Ava’s mouth. He’d grabbed her by the chin and steered her face to his. It shocked her, and she pulled back, then glanced up at Rick, who stared gape-mouthed. Kellen jammed the Aston Martin into gear and peeled away.

  “That’ll show that wannabe who’s in charge of this investigation.”

  “He’s hardly a wannabe, Kellen. You should see the pictures on the walls of his office.” Ava knew it wasn’t part of How to Snare a Modern Man protocol to defend one lover against another. It could totally backfire, but she didn’t think she could listen to Kellen malign him and just let it slide. “What do you have against Rick?” Using the name felt a little naughty.

  “Oh, it’s Rick now, is it? What pictures are you referring to? Any pictures of his wedding, perhaps?”

  Uh-oh. These two had more of a history than originally expressed, it would appear. “All I know about his wedding is that I work with a woman who was his wife’s maid of honor.”

  “Pah!” Kellen burst into laughter. “That’s the best thing I’ve heard all night.” The car’s steering wobbled until he got himself under control. “Harmony Billows? She weaseled her way into the wedding party, did she?”

  “Has she always been after Agent Ford, then?” Ava backed off the Rick usage. Gossiping about him didn’t feel a rightful application for it. Ugh. Gossip. Why was it so tantalizing?
/>   “Since she was old enough to buy her own perfume.”

  And now Harmony must be lying in wait for him to come around and let her into his life. It came clear. In a sad way. Because in Ava’s estimation, she’d have a long wait.

  “You’ve known all these people a long time.” Ava let the hint hang in the air.

  “Ford—Rick—and I go back. School days.”

  Must have been before Kellen came into his money. “And you didn’t like him then, either?” She could see this rivalry starting on the elementary school playground, brewing through middle school, culminating on the football or soccer field in high school, ending with a bitter showdown and sworn vendettas. At last they chose different colleges and forgot about each other.

  Until now.

  “No, we were best friends, actually.”

  Poof. There went the imaginary rivalry.

  “What caused the sourness between you?”

  “Is it obvious?”

  “As a bear on a bicycle.”

  “Do you want dinner? I heard your stomach growl. I can make some for you—on my plane. There’s a little kitchen in it.”

  Ava looked up and noticed he’d taken her to the airport and pulled into the private air service area. “But Agent Ford said—”

  “He said we can’t leave the state during the investigation. I don’t want to leave the state.” She let him help her out of the car.

  “Wanting to leave and actually leaving… Is this a game of semantics you’re playing?” They crossed the lot and walked toward a plane. There was no way she was getting on it. The art world was counting on her. She had to help Agent Ford find the painting. There were clues to dig up, leads to follow up on, Nigel Winterthorn to corner and cross examine. Not that it was necessarily her purview, but if that painting didn’t get found, they were all sunk.

  “No. I told you. Since the painting of Niagara Falls went missing, I’ve been brought low. To the ground, Ava. It’s decimated me.” He didn’t look particularly low, but he did look earnest. “I’ve got to see a waterfall.”

  “No. I can’t go. I promised.”