All right. It was still in place, wedged into the lower left corner beside a tuft of weeds in the painted field, exactly where she’d put it almost two weeks ago, except it had gotten worked deeper into the gap. That’s why she hadn’t spotted it immediately. That’s why no one else evidently had, either. Less than a millimeter of the paper was showing, and it was camouflaged by the streaks in the old wood frame. Unless you knew where to look, it would be easy to miss.
The woman shouted for help, then dug her nails into Amelia’s sleeve and dragged her upright. “Please, control yourself!” she exclaimed. “You mustn’t be sick in here!”
Amelia heard the men approaching from the showroom and knew she had only a matter of seconds. She stumbled sideways, flailing her free arm as if trying to regain her balance. Her knuckles rapped the frame. She spread her fingers and brushed the edge of the fold with the tip of her index finger, but her nails were too short and the ticket was wedged in too far for her to grip. Evangeline’s persistent tugging wasn’t helping, either. Her elbow struck the roll of bubble wrap, which unfurled as it fell, burying the painting in yards of pockmarked plastic.
“Miss, please!”
Amelia groaned as she tried to claw aside the bubble wrap. Before she could get past it, a pair of strong arms went around her and she was scooped off her feet.
No! No!
“Darling!” Hank said. “Are you all right?”
No, she wasn’t all right. Her face was mashed against his chest, the bruise on her shoulder was throbbing like crazy and her ticket was so close, it hurt, too. Like an empty ache deep inside. She’d seen it, she’d touched it. All she’d needed was another few seconds....
“Honey?”
She wanted to scream with frustration. Why did Hank have to be so strong? Most men couldn’t have picked her up like this. She clenched her jaw to keep the scream inside, tipped back her head and looked at his face.
The concern in his gaze seemed genuine. “What happened?”
“I’m sorry. I got dizzy. I think I might have momentarily blacked out.”
He bent over to kiss her forehead. “I should have realized this was too much for you.”
The kiss was tender, as if he really meant it. Same with his embrace. Though his arms were flexed hard, he cradled her gently. The sensation wasn’t unpleasant. In fact, it went along with the pounding of her heart...
She blinked. Focus! This was not the time to notice Hank’s muscles.
Whitcombe moved behind Hank to scowl at her. “This area is private. I must ask you to leave immediately.”
“It’s my fault,” Hank said. “I thought she only got morning sickness in the morning.” After another forehead-kiss, he turned and started for the door. “Let’s get you some fresh air.”
This time her stomach really did roll. She flung her arm backward. “No!” She gasped. “Wait!”
“Your shoes,” Hank said. “Oh, you poor, brave girl. Were your ankles hurting again?” He glanced at Whitcombe. “Her obstetrician counseled her to wear flats, but you know how women are.”
Evangeline picked up the shoes, her expression icy. She held them out, along with Amelia’s purse, which had somehow become hooked on her wrist during their brief struggle.
Hank shifted the arm that supported her back, adjusting his hold with as little effort as she did when she lugged Timmy around. He snagged her shoes and purse with one hand, then angled sideways to carry her through the door. He continued to the front of the gallery, all the while babbling solicitous nonsense about her fictitious pregnancy and its accompanying health concerns.
It was an excellent improvisation. Judging by their pinched expressions, it was hard to tell whether Whitcombe and his sidekick were skeptical or merely disgusted at her gauche behavior. Whatever they believed, they unbent enough to invite them to return when she felt better.
Hank set her on her feet once they reached the sidewalk. “Okay, what was all that about?”
This was the second time his quick thinking had averted a potential disaster. But that was Hank, wasn’t it? He was a good guy. Who smelled like Irish Spring soap and the boy she used to love. Whose arms had been strong and warm and felt like home.
But she had no home. Her only hope of regaining one was wedged into item number fifteen of the Whitcombe Gallery’s auction catalog.
And on that thought, the tears finally came.
“Hey, don’t cry.”
She sniffed as she took her shoes from his grasp and put them on. “I almost had it.”
“Amelia...”
“Another minute, even another thirty seconds, and I would have held it in my hand.”
“What?”
“Didn’t you see the painting?”
“No. Was it in the storeroom?”
“Yes! It was right in front of me. Morticia knocked the bubble wrap over it. That must be why you couldn’t see it. I don’t know how she found me so fast.” She wiped her eyes with the back of her wrist, then took her purse from him and dug inside to search for a tissue.
Hank beat her to it. He took a white handkerchief from his sport coat and gently dabbed beneath her eyes. “Morticia?”
“Suits her better than Evangeline,” she muttered.
His lips twitched. “Amelia, you heard what Whitcombe said. He wasn’t going to sell you that painting, and going hunting for it on your own sure wouldn’t have made him change his mind. We’ll come back for the auction.”
She hitched her purse on her shoulder. Out of habit, she’d put it on her right shoulder, which was the bruised one. She switched it to the other side. “We wouldn’t need to come back if I’d had another thirty seconds.”
He regarded her closely as he returned his handkerchief to his pocket, then put his hand at the small of her back and guided her away from the gallery. He didn’t speak again until they reached the next block. “What did you mean? You couldn’t honestly have thought you’d steal it.”
“It’s mine. It wouldn’t be stealing.”
“I’m serious, Amelia.”
“So am I.”
His steps slowed as they passed a small coffee shop where tables had been set up on the sidewalk in the shade of the building. He caught her hand and reversed direction. “Let’s get something to eat before we head back, okay?”
She was glad to see that the coffee shop was cafeteria style, so she didn’t feel uncomfortable about being waited on. Hank filled a tray with egg salad sandwiches and cherry Danishes and carried it to one of the outside tables while she followed with glasses of iced coffee. He took his time chewing, spending more time watching her than talking. She recognized the look—he was mulling something over.
He waited until she finished her pastry, then stacked their dishes back on the tray, crossed his forearms on the table and leaned toward her. “I’d like to ask you a question, Amelia, but I don’t want you to get mad.”
“That’s quite a preamble.”
“Or offended,” he went on. “I’m only asking because I’m concerned and I—” He hesitated. “I care about you.”
“Hank...”
“As a friend. We were friends, once. Good friends.”
“Now you’re worrying me. What’s your question?”
“Have you seen a doctor?”
She gave a self-conscious laugh and rolled her right shoulder. “I should have realized you’d notice. It’s just a bruise from the seat belt. It’s already getting better.”
“I’m glad to hear that, but I didn’t mean seeing a doctor since the accident Sunday. Did you go to anyone last year, after your husband’s arrest? After you lost your company and all your money?”
“Why would I do that? It was a financial problem, not a medical one.”
“I’m not explaining this right.”
“Then what are you getting at? Maybe you better just spit it out.”
“Fine. Amelia, have you seen a psychiatrist?”
“What?”
“A therapist. A shrink. Have
you talked to anyone about the things you’ve lost?”
“I talked to plenty of cops and lawyers. My problems didn’t happen because I was crazy, they happened because I was stupid. As far as I know, stupidity isn’t a mental disorder.”
“No, you’re the smartest person I know. That’s why I’m worried. I’m not saying you’re crazy, but you’ve gone through a lot in this past year. I know it’s bothering you because you keep bringing up your troubles, but you only talk about them in fast quips. Like punch lines.”
“Thanks to the media, my life is a punch line. It got laid bare for everyone to see. There’s not much to add.”
“That’s not true. What about your feelings?”
“I don’t like to dwell.”
“Sure, that’s how you’ve always been. You race right past the stuff that you don’t like.”
“We already established that I’m short on patience. What’s your point?”
“I think it would be healthy to take some time to work things through. It would help you heal. You’ve been under a lot of stress. It might do you good to talk to a professional.”
“Why? A shrink won’t get my money back.”
“No, but neither will a painting.”
The light dawned. She had a sudden urge to laugh. The concern on Hank’s face quashed it. “You’re bringing this up because of what I did at the gallery, aren’t you?”
He nodded. “Trying to steal that painting wasn’t rational behavior, Amelia. The Whitcombe Gallery isn’t some isolated house out in the country. You had to have realized that you couldn’t possibly have gotten away with it. For one thing, the painting’s too large to carry out without someone noticing. Even if you had thought you were alone, there are security cameras throughout the interior. For another—”
“I appreciate your concern, Hank, I really do, but I’m not nuts.”
He reached across the table and took her hand in his. “I understand that you’ve focused on that painting as the first step in regaining your life. You told me yourself that losing it was the last straw, it was where you drew the line.”
“I know that’s what I said, but you’re reading too much into it.”
“I don’t think so. I believed finding your painting would help you, but the closer we’ve gotten to it, the more...oddly you’ve been acting.” He squeezed her hand. “And that’s why, as your friend, I think you need help.”
For the second time within an hour, her eyes filled with tears. She blinked hard, annoyed that her emotions were so close to the surface. She’d managed to shove them aside for more than a year. He’d been bang on about that. But that’s the way she’d always been—he was right about that, too. “You really are a good man.”
“I only want you to be happy, Amelia. And the truth is, taking this case wasn’t only a gift to you, it was a gift to me.”
“Hank...”
“I’m enjoying the time we’re spending together. I want to get to know you again. And maybe once you’re feeling better and you have a chance to get back on your feet—”
“Hank, stop. Please.”
He closed his eyes as he inhaled deeply, then shook his head and gave her a lopsided smile. “Sorry. For once I was the one rushing things.”
She couldn’t do this anymore. Not one more day, not one more minute, regardless of the consequences. She glanced around the adjacent tables to make sure no one was within earshot, then leaned forward and pitched her voice as low as she could. “Hank, I didn’t want to take the painting from the gallery.”
“Okay. That’s progress.”
“I only wanted to take the ticket.”
“Ticket?”
“I won Lotto 6/49. I had left the ticket in the frame of that painting.”
“Sure.”
“I’m not joking, Hank. I really did win the lottery.”
His smile dimmed. “What?”
“Jenny didn’t know I’d put the ticket in the painting. She sold it before I found out I had won. That’s why I have to get it back, and that’s why I came to you.”
“How...” His voice rasped. “How much did you win?”
“Fifty-two million.”
He released her hand and fell back in his chair. “Fifty-two...million?”
“Shh. Dollars. Rounded off. It’s actually a bit more.”
“I don’t believe this,” he muttered.
“I always play the same numbers. They’re our family birthdays. I was at work when I saw the results of the draw in the Sunday paper.”
Though he didn’t move, every muscle in his body seemed to tense. He was drawing into himself before her eyes. There was no longer any trace of a smile in his gaze. His expression was rigid. Guarded. He was mulling again.
Amelia hurried to fill the silence. “I know it’s a lot for you to take in all at once, and I’m sorry to spring it on you like this. I appreciate your concern about my mental health, but as you can see now, I do have a completely rational, logical reason to want that painting back.”
He nodded once, a tight dip of his chin.
“And getting that painting really is the first step in reclaiming my life. I didn’t lie about that. I can build a great future with the money from that ticket.”
A motorcycle roared past on the street. Dishes clattered somewhere inside the coffee shop. A group of women took seats at a nearby table amid the sounds of laughter and scraping chair legs. Hank’s gaze didn’t waver from hers. It was as impenetrable as flint.
“Hank, I’m sorry. I understand that you’re mad, and you have every right, but please, talk to me. I didn’t set out to hurt your feelings. I’ve been wanting to tell you about the ticket for days.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“At first, I didn’t think it was necessary.”
“Not necessary? You didn’t think I needed to know exactly what I was tracking down?”
“I realize it wasn’t fair to let you work for me without telling you the whole truth, but—”
“That won’t be a problem now.”
“Oh, thank you! I—”
“Let me finish, Amelia.”
No, she didn’t want him to finish. She could tell by his tone that she wouldn’t like what he was about to say. “Hank...”
“It won’t be a problem because I’m no longer working for you.”
“Hank, please!”
“You’re on your own, Amelia.” He rose to his feet. “I quit.”
CHAPTER NINE
HANK ROUNDED THE corner and headed for the parking garage, jerking his tie from his neck as he walked. He rolled it into a ball and lobbed it at a nearby trash can. Amelia’s high heels clicked along the sidewalk as she struggled to catch up to him, but he didn’t shorten his strides. He didn’t attempt to rein in his temper, either. Some detective he’d turned out to be. So much for being thorough and methodical. This was what happened when he listened to his heart instead of his head. There had been plenty of clues, only he hadn’t put them together. Until now.
At their very first meeting in his office, he had suspected Amelia wasn’t telling him the whole story. He’d swallowed her lies and ignored his misgivings because he’d wanted to make her happy.
It was obvious to him now that the neighbor, Ruth Talmidge, had seen the Goodfellow family celebrating the lottery win. Amelia’s explanation about Jenny netting five hundred dollars had seemed thin, but when he’d questioned it she’d become touchy about the topic of money. He’d backed off because he hadn’t wanted to hurt her feelings.
Amelia had dragged her feet about letting him interview her sister-in-law. That should have raised a red flag, but rather than pursue the issue, he’d convinced himself he was mistaken. After all, he and Amelia wanted the same thing, right?
Then there was the way she had talked him into letting her tag along while he worked on her case. Part of him had been flattered that she’d wanted to keep him company. He’d even secretly hoped she had been drawn to him as much as he’d been drawn to her
. It had never entered his head that she was sticking with him because she had been worried he might stumble on the truth.
Yeah, right. Fat chance of that. Not while he’d been blinded by the old infatuation. He’d found an excuse for everything. He’d blamed the inconsistencies in her behavior on her emotional fragility. How she’d managed not to laugh in his face, he’d never know. On the other hand, she’d become pretty good at acting, hadn’t she?
To top it off, he’d already heard about the unclaimed ticket. The DJs on the local radio station had been joking about it this morning while he’d been on his way to pick up Amelia. According to the lottery office, the winning ticket had been purchased in Northumberland County, which included Port Hope. At the time, Hank hadn’t paid any attention. He’d felt the story had nothing to do with him. He didn’t play the lottery because he didn’t like to gamble.
But Amelia did. She loved taking chances.
Idiot. Imbecile. Glutton for punishment. He’d known she could hurt him again, but he’d walked right into it anyway. How pathetic was that? Even now, he found himself searching for more excuses. She was still healing from Spencer’s betrayal and was too raw to trust anyone. She truly was emotionally fragile. She hadn’t set out to hurt him....
If anyone needed a shrink, he did.
“Hank, I’m sorry!”
He walked into the garage. He still had too much steam to work off so he bypassed the elevator and pulled open the door to the stairs.
Amelia caught the door before it could swing shut. “Hank!”
He started to climb without looking back.
She ran up the stairs behind him. “Please, wait up.”
He pulled his wallet from his pocket and withdrew three twenties. He paused when he reached the landing for the second level and held the bills out to her.
She didn’t touch them. “What’s that for?”
“The eastbound Greyhound leaves around six. The Yonge subway line should take you close to the bus terminal. But you would know that. You used to live in Toronto.”
She put her fists on her hips. “So you just plan to maroon me here?”
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