Fairytale

by Maggie Shayne

  Most interesting of all was his m.o. Zaslow had got away with his crimes for so long, because his victims rarely knew they’d been robbed. He replaced each stolen painting with a duplicate so perfect even the owners had trouble telling the difference.

  But Zaslow was no forger. He’d been working with a partner. And that partner had never been caught.

  Adam recalled that paint-smeared rag he’d found on the marble pedestal stand the other day, and he felt sick all over again.

  “What could she be after, Adam? Come on, you have to snap out of it. You want to catch her, don’t you?”

  Adam lifted his head, but it seemed too heavy. Did he? He wasn’t sure.

  “The only painting I have thar’s worth anything is ‘Rush.’” He shook his head slowly. “I can’t believe she’d be involved in a plot to steal it. She knows...”

  “Knows what?”

  Adam didn’t answer aloud. Internally, though, he was kicking himself. Brigit knew how much that painting meant to him. How could she be plotting something like this? How?

  And why?

  He remembered the stains on her fingertips, and the faint aroma in the study...

  ...and the look in her eyes when he made love to her. And the feel of her skin under his hands, and the smell of her hair.

  God!

  “But ‘Rush’ isn’t valuable, is it? It wasn’t done by a master...”

  “It’s anonymous. Unsigned. Art dealers speculate all sorts of theories about it, but none nave been proven. It’s the mystery that makes it so valuable. But not priceless. It’s only priceless...to me.”

  How could she...after what they’d shared? He’d let himself believe in her, let himself begin to care.

  “What are you going to do, Adam?”

  Adam shook his head. “I don’t know.”

  “According to the FBI files, Zaslow is only a broker. A fence, if you want to call it that. He had a forger that was never named, and he had a talented burglar by the name of Melvin Kincaid who made the switches for him. He and Kincaid both did time. They went up for a heist they pulled in seventy-eight. And either of them could have reduced their sentence by naming the forger, but neither would do it.”

  Seventy-eight. God, Brigit couldn’t have been much more than a teenager back then. A teenage art forger? How much sense did that make?

  He looked up at Mac, who was still pacing. “So why do you think they didn’t turn her over, pal? Loyalty. Honor among thieves?”

  “Her?” Mac stopped walking and stared at him. “You think Brigit’s the forger?”

  Adam nodded.

  Mac swore. Then he walked to the window and swore some more. “With Mel, it might have been loyalty. From what I’ve dug up on him, he was goddamn likeable, if a little light-fingered. Adam...”

  Adam looked up, coming alert at Mac’s tone.

  “Adam I tried to check these two out. Mel Kincaid is dead.”

  Adam blinked. “How?”

  “He was tied to a chair and beaten to death with a baseball bat. They found him in an abandoned apartment building in Brooklyn. The day he was killed was the same day Ernie Zaslow hopped a commuter flight into Lansing.”

  Adam’s devastation was compounded now. By fear. “You think Zaslow murdered him?”

  Mac shrugged. “If he did, he’s one dangerous son of a bitch, Adam. Your Brigit Malone has herself mixed up in some bad company. She’s either in league with a killer, or in danger from him. Either way, you have to get the hell away from her. Throw her out, Adam, before she drags you down with her.”

  The thought that she might be in danger sent cold chills racing up his spine, and slapped a little more sense into Adam. He grimaced at his own idiocy. He’d known for days that Brigit was up to something, and suspected almost from the start that she was being forced, somehow, to do whatever it was she was doing.

  So nothing had changed, had it? Except that he now knew what it was she was being forced to do.

  He was angry. Yes, he was still very angry at the thought that this morning Brigit had kissed him goodbye, and then she’d gone into the study to work on her forgery. And he was furious that she hadn’t trusted him enough to tell him the truth. Didn’t she know that he’d have given her the damned painting if she’d asked?

  He closed his eyes tight.

  “Adam?”

  “I know,” he said softly, though he didn’t know. He didn’t know anything anymore.

  “So what are you going to do?”

  He only shook his head.

  Mac sighed, impatience making him grimace. “You’re not going to ask her to leave, are you?”

  Adam blinked. “No. Not yet.”

  “Adam, wake up! You go home, right now, and you toss her out the front door, bag and baggage. You tell her you’re onto her little con game, and if she ever darkens your door again, you’ll turn her in to the cops so fast she won’t know what hit her. You got it?”

  Adam looked up into his friend’s concerned eyes and simply said, “I can’t do that.”

  “Then what are you going to do?”

  Adam rose, surprised to find his legs unsteady. The pain was hardening, changing. “I don’t know. But I know she’s not a criminal.

  Maybe once, Mac, but not anymore.”

  “This isn’t enough to convince you? Jesus, Adam, I never thought you were gullible.”

  Adam almost laughed out loud. If Mac had a clue the kinds of things that had been dancing through Adam’s mind, he’d have thought the term gullible far too mild. He had to convince Brigit to trust him. Had to make her let him help her out of this mess. And then...and then he had to let her go. He knew that. Had known it from the start. He had to let her go.

  Even though it would tear his heart out.

  Mac sighed long and hard, but went to his desk and unlocked a drawer. He withdrew what looked like a marking pen, brought it over, and tucked it into Adam’s pocket. “The ink only shows up in a black light, pal. Take my advice and mark the back of your painting. At least take that precaution.”

  “All right.”

  “Adam...”

  Adam looked at Mac, and knew his friend was genuinely afraid for him. “I’ll be okay,” he said, but even to his own ears, it lacked conviction.

  “If you need me...”

  “Yeah.”

  She stopped painting earlier than usual, and put her things away. The juice just wasn’t flowing today.

  Adam’s manuscript had been sitting on the desk in the study, and something...some force she didn’t pretend to understand, had drawn her to it. It felt as if, from the second she’d stepped into the room, that book had been calling to her.

  And she’d never been one to ignore her instincts. So she went to the desk, and she looked at the leather-bound translation of some ancient Celtic text.

  And then she stood motionless, blinking in shock because the words on the pages had a magical cadence, a lilt of sincerity. They rang true, somehow, as they outlined the characteristics of fairy folk. Especially those of the feminine ilk. It told of their affinity with nature, and the way plants and animals thrive when a fairy is near. It told of how a fairy could read a man’s soul by looking into his eyes, and how she could capture the soul of a mortal man, and enslave him forever.

  Breathless with wonder, Brigit sank into the chair behind Adam’s desk, and continued to read. And when she came to the pages describing the crescent moon birthmark and what its color might signify, she was trembling all over. Head to toe. Goosebumps traveled up and down her arms and chills tumbled over her spine.

  What in the name of God was this?

  “Interesting reading, isn’t it?”

  Her head came up fast at the sound of Adam’s voice. She stared at him, not really seeing, heard him, but wasn’t really hearing.

  “Where did you get this?” she asked softly.

  Adam tilted his head, sniffed the air. “What’s that smell?” he asked, and his face was hard. No hint of a smile touched his eyes.
“Almost smells like paint. Ridiculous, isn’t it, Brigit?”

  She blinked, shook her head, wondered why he seemed so...so empty. So sad. Glancing down at the book on the desk, she jerked in surprise when he spoke again.

  “It’s a translation of a text uncovered in an archaeological dig in Ireland. They figure it’s around nine hundred years old.”

  He spoke as if that bit of information held some particular relevance, but she didn’t know what. “Adam...this is uncanny. The...the birthmark...”

  He lowered his head, no longer looking her in the eye. “Yeah. It blew me away when I saw it on you. But, dammit, Brigit, that isn’t important right now. What’s important is that you don’t trust me. After everything...everything I’ve told you...you still can’t be honest with me.”

  He was angry! He’d been angry before he’d ever spoken to her, and she would have realized it if she hadn’t been so shocked by what she’d read. “Adam, what’s the matter? What did I do?”

  He opened his mouth but snapped it closed again, apparently changing his mind. He lowered his chin, shook his head. “Nothing. Nothing at all.”

  She came from behind the desk, moving toward him. “Talk to me.”

  Shaking his head, he started to turn away.

  “Adam, please. This is scaring me.”

  She saw his back stiffen, his head come up, though he didn’t turn to face her. “You’re scared?”

  “Of course I’m scared! How can I not be?”

  He turned then, slowly, his eyes narrow and wary, and hurt.

  “Adam, how long have you known about this,” she asked, pointing at the book on the desk.

  “Almost a year.”

  “Then you knew...about these similarities. You already knew...”

  “Knew what, Brigit?”

  “The...the things that book says...they’re so similar to...”

  He averted his eyes, biting his lower lip, nodding. His every movement showing his cynical doubt of what she said.

  “Adam, there’s a way to explain it. There has to be. Maybe my birthmark is just...just a coincidence. Or maybe...”

  “Or maybe what? Come on, Brigit, tell me what you’re really thinking. Don’t keep lying to me.”

  It was her turn to narrow her eyes, search his face. “Why are you so angry with me, Adam?”

  He blinked twice, gave his head a shake, and turned away from her.

  She ran around him, stopping in front of him, blocking his exit. “Please . . .” It was a faint whisper, a hoarse plea. “Don’t walk away without telling me why.”

  “You know why.”

  She nodded slowly, understanding coming to her in waves that nearly knocked her breathless. He’d had enough of her lies. He was tired of waiting for her to trust him with the truth.

  “It’s almost over, Adam. I swear, it won’t be long now, and I’ll be able to tell you everything. Please, don’t give up on me. Not yet.”

  He started to walk past her, and anger surged through her more forcefully than it had ever done.

  “No!”

  She yelled it at the top of her voice, sending the force of her fury into the word. Adam stopped dead as if he’d slammed into a brick wall.

  He blinked in shock, his eyes widening.

  Brigit paid little attention to that. She was too busy searching for answers, fearing the worst. God, did he know then? Had he somehow found out that she was about to steal his painting?

  It didn’t matter. She had no choice but to go through with her plan. She couldn’t risk Raze’s life. But when it was over, maybe when she explained what she’d done, and why she’d done it, maybe he’d understand. Maybe he’d find some way to forgive her. Maybe...

  But she knew better, didn’t she? Maybe another man would be able to forgive this kind of betrayal. But not Adam. And it would be wrong of her to even ask him to.

  She tried to stifle her sobs as she turned away, and ran through the study and up the stairs to her room.

  Adam stood precisely where he was, not moving, not even breathing.

  Something had just happened here. Something that defied explanation—well, defied every explanation except one. When Brigit had shouted at him...she’d hit him. Hard. Only...she hadn’t moved.

  A solid blast of hot anger had slammed into Adam’s chest as palpable as a wrecking ball. He’d been heading for the door, and it had stopped him in his tracks. Wham!

  And it had vanished just as suddenly.

  He lowered his chin to his chest, shook his head. No more room for doubt. It had happened. And he was either completely insane, which he knew damned well he wasn’t, or Brigit Malone was a fairy.

  And she doesn’t know, he thought in stunned silence. Hell, she was probably more confused by all of this than he was.

  Brigit Malone. Fairy or thief? Or both. Somehow, in some twisted-up way, she must be both.

  He’d stick it out for a few more days. Watch her every move, and find out for himself.

  She tossed in the bed, twisting and writhing until the sheets had tangled around her legs like boa constrictors. God, what had come over Adam?

  He must have been checking up on her. It was the only answer. He must have been trying to verify the lies she’d told him. About her reasons for not being able to stay in her house. About her past. Could he have found the truth? No one knew why she was really here. No one but Zaslow. How could Adam have found out?

  He didn’t trust her anymore. Not the way he had. And it was killing her. It was tearing her apart not to have him here, to hold her the way he had before. It was too lonely, now, in this bed without him. She sat up, wrenching the covers from her body, dashing the tears from her eyes with the back of one hand.

  She’d go to him, right now, and tell him everything. Maybe he’d understand. Maybe he’d help her find another way out of this mess. Maybe...

  She whirled, uttering a little squeak of surprise when there was a tap on the French doors. And then her eyes widened and her pulse skittered wildly, just beneath the skin of her wrists.

  The doors were flung open, and Zaslow stepped through them, shaking his head slowly. “Sleeping alone, tonight, are you? What happened? Trouble in paradise, Brigit?”

  She shook her head rapidly, backing toward the door.

  “Is he onto you, Brigit?”

  “No.” Her back pressed to the cool wood, her hand rose behind her to grasp the knob.

  “You’re not going anywhere, darling. Not unless you want Raze’s heart delivered to you in a candy box.”

  Swallowing the sandy feeling in her throat, she lowered her hand. She was shaking all over, fear making her feel as cold as if she were standing naked in a snowstorm.

  “Why are you alone? Tell me, and tell me the truth, or I’ll hurt your old friend. And I’ll enjoy it.”

  She shook her head rapidly. “I don’t know! I swear, Zaslow. He...he came home in a bad mood. I...I don’t think it has anything to do with me.” It was a lie, but one she hoped he wouldn’t see through. Brigit knew damned well that Adam’s mood had everything to do with her.

  “Make up with him.”

  She blinked, not understanding, and Zaslow rolled his eyes, sighing loud and long. “Show me the painting, Brigit. I want to verify you haven’t stopped working on it.”

  “I haven’t.”

  “Show me,” he growled. And she felt her teeth chatter.

  Keeping her back to the wall, she sidled toward the closet, only edging nearer him when she had no choice but to go around the chestnut vanity beside her bed. She opened the closet door, reached inside to turn on the light. Inclining her head she said, “It’s in the back. Don’t smear it.”

  Zaslow’s eyes narrowed on her face. “You leave this room, Brigit, or call out or do anything other than stand there, and you can kiss your friend Malone goodbye. I didn’t leave him alone.”

  And then he ducked into the closet, and she stood there. Trembling. Impotent with fear for Raze. Enraged that she was so helpless.


  But you’re not helpless, you fool! came the all-too-familiar voice of her wild side. Something happened downstairs tonight. When you yelled at Adam, he stopped as if he’d walked into an invisible wall. You did that.

  No. That was impossible. It made no sense.

  So what in your life ever made sense?

  She frowned, refusing to believe, not wanting to believe. But her anger at Zaslow came bubbling up, and she had the feeling that the wild one inside was deliberately rousing it. Brigit looked into the closet where that self-assured bully stood examining the painting, and she recalled the sight of that coffin-shaped box, and the fear that had nearly paralyzed her. And she got angrier. With her eyes tightly closed, she wished with everything in her that she could hurt Zaslow. Make him pay for what he was putting Raze through. Pain, she thought. The man deserved severe pain.

  “Dammit!”

  A muffled thud accompanied his cry, and Brigit jerked rigid, her eyes flying open. Zaslow emerged from the closet, pressing three fingers to his forehead. Blood trickled from beneath the fingers, trailing down onto his nose, a single droplet dangling from the tip.

  Wide-eyed, Brigit backed away from him...from the undeniable evidence. “What—”

  “Nothing,” he snapped. “A box fell from a shelf.” With his free hand he jerked tissues from the dispenser on the vanity, and swiped the blood away, then pressed the wad to the cut on his head. Taking the wad away, he looked at it, then pressed it back again. “The painting looks nearly finished.”

  She couldn’t stop staring at the cut on his forehead. Couldn’t slow her racing heartbeat, or the new knowledge that was slowly making itself a home in her mind. “It is,” she whispered. “Almost done, that is.”

  “How much longer?”

  She shrugged, lowering her gaze to the floor, shaking her head in wonder.