“Where are you taking me?” she asked when her eyes popped open and she realized they weren’t heading toward her house.
“Well, you can’t go home, Ava dearest.”
He called her dearest. “Kellen, my friend, it’s been thoroughly enjoyable going on this outing with you. But Mr. Phelps will need me at the office tomorrow. He’s a good guy, but he needs support, especially in the wake of a federal investigation. I can only imagine the metric ton of antacids he’s gone through in the past forty-eight hours.”
“That’s fine. You can go to work. In fact, I have several appointments in the city, so I have to be a grown up and can’t play hooky from work myself tomorrow, either.” He now sported a bit of stubble on his chin. Even though Ava preferred him clean shaven, this scruffy look did suit him. His collar was wrinkled, and his hair had gone a bit askew. When he said the words “playing hooky” there had been a sparkle in his blazing blue eyes.
Ava liked hooky.
“You still didn’t answer where you’re taking me.”
“To my house.”
Ava’s breath caught in her throat. Six different arguments against this plan sprang to life in her mind.
“Look, Kellen. I think I just need to go home.”
“Not a chance.”
“It’s so wonderful of you to want to spend all this time with me.” She had to put this delicately. “But I’m not the type of girl who goes home with men.” Even when they take her on their private plane, and even when she spent quite a while kissing them in waterfall pools and on said plane. There were lines she didn’t intend to cross.
Kellen got that blaze in his eye. “That’s one of the many, many things I find so fetching about you, Ava Young.” He gripped the wheel and downshifted as they came up on a spot of traffic. “And I’m doing this to protect you, not violate you.”
“What makes you think I need to be protected?” Ava knew very well the Enzio threat still floated out there. But she stood her ground. “Zoe’s there. We’ll be fine. I need to spend time with her. I promised.”
Kellen’s lips pressed together. “If some guy you go to dinner with is going to drop you in the desert, and there’s the missing painting you’re mixed up with, and there’s a whiff of corruption in the FBI floating around, I just don’t like to think about trusting you to chance. The things I care about, I hold close.”
But he cared about Niagara, and he didn’t mind it was gone, which made Ava doubt all he said.
Ultimately, he relented, though, and after a thorough tongue lashing of the up close and personal kind, he finally let her walk up the flights of stairs to her apartment.
She held her key poised at her apartment door. Through the window on the landing, she saw him standing, watching after her. Kellen, thank you for watching over me. I think perhaps you’re right. I probably do need to be protected. She blew him a final kiss.
Ava didn’t relish the thought of facing Zoe yet. Of course, Zoe would want to know every detail about Kellen’s plane, the helicopter ride, the way Kellen saved the guy’s life, the bear, and about the kissing. And Ava wouldn’t mind going through all the girlfriend talk with her. In fact, it would be really fun to be on the dishing end of the conversation for the first time.
“Hello?” Ava went into her apartment, but didn’t see her friend. “Zoe?” No sign of her. She sent her a quick text and got a lightning fast reply.
Out with the press corps. Back in a few hours. Don’t wait up. We’ll talk over breakfast tomorrow. So much to tell! Hugs!
Ava’s shoulders relaxed. After a cool shower and the balm of the aloe vera, she put on her lightest cotton nightie and tried to put her feet up on the couch. But something buzzed around in Ava’s mind like a housefly, and she couldn’t swat it until she’d done a bit of thinking. She thought best while she occupied herself. But she didn’t want to clean anything. Or get dressed again to go out. Still, she had to try and nab that thought.
Her eye landed on her box of paints high on a bookshelf. Painting was the most mind-unlocking thing she’d ever done, and she needed an unlocked mind right now more than she ever had. So she opened the box, slid the furniture aside and stared at the blank wall’s one-fourth burnt umber and three-fourths blue sky while she mixed pigments of blue and green and terra cotta on the palette.
The fleeting thought. It had to do with opening night. My, was that just a few days ago? Felt like weeks. She’d been with Kellen, and they’d debuted at the party as a couple. A few reporters had snapped their photo together. He’d skipped the viewing of Niagara. Oddly.
That wasn’t it.
The horizon line—it wasn’t right. It had to be higher. Much higher. Maybe that’s what had been holding her back. She made broad strokes, covering the whole wall afresh, changing the burnt umber for terra cotta, replacing the whole previous effort with new paint, and let her mind float.
Nigel had been very sniffly and standoffish that night, a continuation of his recent behavior. Come to think of it, this probably had something to do with his being hooked in with the weird beard guy. Clearly Nigel was in on it. Along with Enzio. And the bearded man, Umberto Iglesias, who was a known art fence. Ava had deduced all this much earlier, and they were all things she’d have to tell Agent Ford immediately when she saw him. Assuming she should. That dry cleaning ticket continued to bother her.
So that wasn’t it.
With the horizon higher, she could see things taking shape. White, blue, green, long strokes came cascading down from the horizon. Wet on wet, that was the technique she used today on this plaster canvas. If the art was flowing, she didn’t want to wait for colors to dry. Bob Ross would be so proud.
Sigh. With threats only mild and vague, Enzio probably wasn’t a cold blooded killer. And even if he was, the loss of an irreplaceable piece of art might actually be worth more than Ava’s life, if she were honest about it. Sad, but true.
No, something else about that night’s memory flitted still out of reach. Her mind cycled through the guests she’d seen.
Happy little trees dotted the terra cotta walls of earth she’d made, a blue and green pool forming a third of the way up from the floor. Dark cracks in the red earth, white splashes from the water, the painting was coming to life.
Aha! That was it! Her mind stopped its roulette wheel and the marble landed on the face she’d seen that night. Riccardo’s swarthy, handsome face, excellently tailored suit, Caesar cut hairstyle, contemplating the art.
Ava’s brush made brisk vertical strokes, and she took a finger to the bristles and let white paint flick onto the bottom of the flow to make specks of water droplets and foam near the green and blue pool.
That night he’d made her heart pound. But she’d been on Kellen’s arm and couldn’t exactly flit over and make the acquaintance of such a dashing patron while she was the date of the main patron and assigned to be at his side.
With a sigh of self-reproach, she double-blinked, her mind returning to the painting at hand. In just under two hours, she’d created something immense—a passable rendition of Havasupai Falls. Fluffy white clouds dotted the blue sky far above, and the height of the red earth walls gave a sense of security and seclusion for the viewer to enjoy the majesty of the cascading water from the cliff above. It lacked the rainbow in the escaping mist that she’d seen, but Ava didn’t want to make it look like she was overdoing it, even though God’s hand had made it almost too beautiful to be believed in real life.
It was well done. She owned that.
And then she double-blinked again and realized Agent Ford, Riccardo, should not have been at the exhibition that night, wearing a fine Italian suit at the VIP opening. He wasn’t assigned to the case by the Glastonbury until after the painting had disappeared. He wasn’t a VIP. Or a donor. Or on her guest list. He had to have been someone’s “plus one.” But whose?
Ava’s mouth went dry.
There was a rattling at the front door, someone shaking the knob. She’d left it unlocked so Zo
e could get in.
“Zoe? That you?” She must have had less fun with the press corps than she expected for only two hours to elapse. “Sorry the whole place smells like oil paint and turpentine. Just like back in college.” Ava wiped her hands on her smock and began putting lids on paint tubes and pouring the solvent to clean the brushes. She had to be the worst hostess ever.
“Zoe?” She hadn’t come in yet. Ava abandoned the cleanup project, peeled off her smock to just her nightie, and went out into the living area.
“Ava Young.” Agent Ford stood at her kitchen counter. The contents of Ava’s purse were dumped out on the granite. “So you’re the little devil who stole my dry cleaning claim ticket.”
Chapter 16
“Agent Ford.” Ava swallowed hard, but the sand wouldn’t go down her throat. “Rick. How good of you to stop by. I’m so glad you did. The house is a mess, though, all the painting I’ve been doing. You should’ve called. I’d at least be wearing something a little more decent than my nightgown.”
Her babbling had shifted into high gear. When in doubt, talk a blue streak, seemed to be her M.O. right now. She didn’t know what to think of him. He was standing here, in her apartment, at night, just like she’d been subconsciously wishing all week since she met him, the man with the olive complexion and dark hair of her art expert dreams. It should feel like a dream come true.
But instead nervousness came off her in jabbering waves. He wasn’t all he purported to be.
“You’ve got to forgive me for picking that up off your desk the other morning. I guess I’m just silly as a schoolgirl.” When he didn’t respond but cocked his head to the side, she blared onward. “I was throwing myself at you, and I’m ashamed of it, but you weren’t picking up any of my hints, wouldn’t so much as ask me to dinner or a show, and I couldn’t get you out of my head. I wanted just a little piece of you. The ticket was on the end of your desk. I snatched it when I thought you weren’t looking. I meant to return it.”
She smiled at him prettily, she hoped, and batted her eyelashes a bit. Heavens, but she was an idiot doing that, but desperation drove her. He might be a bad boy. He’d been at that exhibit and not said anything about it to her. However, even if he was some kind of rogue agent doing side jobs for the mob, he did exude a manliness she found tough to resist in her apartment at night. And he’d called her a little devil. It stirred her.
She forged on. “What I mean is I planned to take it, redeem your shirts or suits or whatever, and bring them to you. Show you how much service I could someday be to you.” As your wife, she almost said. But luckily she bit that back. Truth didn’t always need to be the whole truth. And it probably wasn’t the truth so much at this moment anymore.
She’d slid closer to him and rested her hand on his forearm. It had nice definition. Suddenly, he looked her up and down, his eyes taking her in like she was a woman for the first time since he arrived. And suddenly, Ava wished she’d worn something besides her flimsiest nightgown to paint her mural on her wall. The summer night had gone chill in Riccardo’s glance. His dark eyes flashed, and a spear of fright shot through her.
“Miss Young.” His eyes now had the hungry wolf stare, not the angry wolf blaze.
“Ava.” She subjugated her fears and gave him a soft smile. If he was a bad boy, she suddenly thought maybe she wasn’t the bad boy type, after all. Her innards did a little flip of worry. “You never told me where the name Riccardo originates. You said it isn’t a Hispanic name. So, is it from Spain?” The small talk tactic was wearing thin as her nightgown now, her voice like a thread.
Riccardo came around the counter and backed her up against it, his body leaning in as she edged backward. The rim of the counter gouged into the small of her back.
“You look fresh without your makeup,” he said, leaning in and nuzzling her hair. “Innocent.” His hands went on either side of the counter and he pressed up against her. “I know you wanted me. From the second you first saw me in the interrogation room, I knew it.” His breath came hot against her neck. “I figured that would come in handy sometime. Maybe now is that time.” His lips brushed her neck, rough like sandpaper.
“Ooh, you need some Chap Stick. Look. There’s some in my purse, I think.” She was getting seriously worried now. And not a little scared. She never should have left that door unlocked.
He wasn’t distracted by this effort. “I’ve got everything from your purse I intend to get.” His hand fingered the yellow claim ticket, and he slid it into his shirt front pocket. He’d abandoned his day job suit coat and wore a white oxford. It had a sharp crease down the top of the sleeve. Maybe he did just get his clothes dry cleaned. No one could do that at home. He wasn’t who he’d seemed. She’d let herself be blinded by his reputation and the glint of his badge. Fool!
Rick started working his way across her neck, his lips losing the scrape as they went. A week ago, Ava would have expected in this moment to get more supple in his grasp, but now all she could think was how to get away—safely. His hands, too, were rough—and not the hands of a guy who sat at a desk all day. She would have to pull out her acting skills again—not let on how scared she was.
Act calm. Be the girl.
“Why do you want to use that dry cleaner clear across town, Rick? You live on this side of the city, surely.” She closed her eyes. In spite of the bits of terror that flickered through her, his kisses on her neck had started to cause a reaction in her she wished she could deny. Before she knew it, she might be giving in and kissing him back. And that might not be good.
“An FBI agent’s salary isn’t quite that of your billionaire friend’s, Ava Young. I go there because my uncle gives me a discount.”
“Your uncle!” She blurted this, but she shouldn’t have. His uncle owned the dry cleaner that was a popular money laundering place for The Outift? She had to cover for her outburst. “So you’re Italian.” She pushed back and forced a laugh. It sounded hollow, so she kept talking. “And after all this time you wouldn’t tell me that Riccardo was an Italian name. You cad, making me drag it out of you like this.” Her words didn’t ring quite true, but Rick didn’t seem to be paying as much attention to her words, as he’d moved on to her shoulders with his attention.
Rick Ford, Riccardo Ford, was the nephew of a mob affiliate. It made her shudder. Chances were, he was a bad boy.
She had to extract herself from his grasp, get away somehow.
What would How to Snare a Modern Man suggest?
“So, Rick, now that you’re here, what should we do next?” She gave him a coy look when he glanced up. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but I don’t think you simply came here to find your dry cleaning ticket.” She raised a flirtatious eyebrow. “I’m sure your steel trap mind had other ideas.” The Snare a Man author would be proud. Ava hoped the tension in her voice didn’t bleed through to the surface.
It worked. Riccardo backed off. He took her by the arm and led her to the sofa, where he pulled her down beside him and began mussing her hair.
Sometimes things have to get worse before they get better, she told herself as she let him start kissing her face. His five o’clock shadow was giving her beard burn, which hurt doubly bad atop her sunburn from earlier. But she had to endure and try not to wince.
“I should crack a window, Rick. It’s stifling in here. I’ve been painting.” She pulled back, but it didn’t work. He pinned her in place.
“It’s hotter outside. But I don’t mind the heat.”
“Italy’s hot, isn’t it?”
“I’ve only been there in the winters to see my grandmother.” He advanced to a higher gear of kissing her, and her heart raced, more in panic than anything else. “Oh, Ava Young. I am so glad you stole that ticket. It gave me the perfect excuse to come and steal you away from him.”
“What?”
“From that,” he inserted an epithet, “Kellen McMullen.” Rick went for her ear where he whispered. “I took Natalie away from him back in the day, and it’d
be two-and-oh if I could snag you too.”
This stung more than the sunburn or the fright. She pushed him back and said, “You’re after me just to spite Kellen McMullen?”
He took her words like cold water in the face. Thank goodness. She was able to extract herself from him at last, and while all she could do to not raise alarm was put a throw pillow between herself and the oppressor, she did create some distance. Any distance was good. If the opportunity presented itself, she’d make a run for it and hide behind a locked door, but she didn’t know if she could outrun him and didn’t want to spook him just yet.
“Uh, no. I mean, of course not. You’re exquisite, Ava. I wanted you in spite of the fact you were Kellen’s escort to the exhibit’s opening night.”
“You came to the opening night. How—?”
“A coworker of yours got me a ticket.”
So he had been there. Bingo. She had seen him. And what’s more, he’d seen her.
“Explain yourself better, Agent Ford.” When she said his name this way, it put even more cold water on the flame, and a hiss of chilling steam went up.
“Let’s don’t talk about him. We’re here together, baby.”
Ugh. The pet name grated on her when he said it. She hugged the throw pillow, all semblance of the old crush going up in the flames of fear for her safety and anger at his falsehood. “I’m not going to be a pawn in the big chess game the two of you are playing, whatever it is.” She got up from the sofa and went into the kitchen and poured herself a glass of water. Anything to get away from him. Maybe there was some way she could get to her phone, dial for help…
Rick was right on her heels. He wasn’t taking no for an answer now and he pinned her shoulders against the refrigerator. “It’s not a game.” He pressed his mouth against hers. “And neither is this.” His rough lips were suddenly extremely rough. Ava’s throat rumbled with a scream. The guy was strong. But he wouldn’t hurt her, would he?
The Lost Art: A Romantic Comedy Page 20
