by B. J Daniels
Waiters moved through the crowd with bubbling champagne flutes and fancy hors d’oeuvres. The lobby was a roar of voices. Beyond it, Laramie could hear music playing. He asked one of the waiters about the art that would be auctioned off tonight and was pointed to a door off the ballroom.
The three paintings were displayed under spotlights along one wall. A dozen people milled around the room. A bored-looking older man wearing a jacket that read SECURITY stood in the corner.
Laramie moved in closer to look at the three cowboy paintings. One by Taylor West, one by Rock Jackson and the last by H. F. Powell. As he caught bits of conversation, it appeared that everyone had heard the news tonight. The expectation was that both the West and Jackson paintings’ bids would go quite high.
But he realized the real prize in this room was the H. F. Powell painting—if the low murmurs he’d picked up were any indication. There was talk of the painting going for more than a couple hundred thousand, but that it could go even higher because it was one of the few works of the deceased artist anyone had seen in years.
“Excuse me.” Laramie addressed a woman who was studying the Powell painting. “I take it H. F. Powell paintings are rare?” he asked, remembering what Sid had told him.
The woman lifted one fine shaped brow. “He was one of the most prolific artists of his time, but he stopped painting a few years before he died.” She leaned in closer. “It was rumored that he had personal problems. It was such a tragedy. He was killed in a fire at his studio. A lot of his work was lost in the fire so any painting of his is even more valuable now. This is one I’ve never seen before.”
Interesting, Laramie thought as he studied the Powell painting. It was of a beautiful woman on a galloping horse, a rock-and-pine landscape behind her. The colors were warm as if the day had been, as well. The woman’s face was filled with joy. He got the feeling she was riding toward her lover.
He studied it, surprised that not only could he feel the warmth of the day, he could almost smell the dust being kicked up by the horse’s hooves. Surprising himself, he also realized he was going to have to bid on the painting. He wanted it like he had never wanted anything before because, given the resemblance, he would swear the woman on the horse was Sid’s mother.
He’d never cared that much about material things. But he had to have this painting—no matter what it cost. He just hoped that wasn’t what everyone else in the room was thinking, as well.
* * *
SID SPOTTED THE MAN dressed as Zorro standing in front of the H. F. Powell painting. She had cheated, waiting outside until she’d seen Laramie Cardwell’s SUV pull up. She hadn’t wanted to take any chances, but the truth was she would have recognized him no matter his disguise.
She’d spent her life studying forms as an artist. Laramie’s form was quite fine. As she slipped through the small crowd standing around the paintings, she realized she would love to paint him. The thought surprised her, since it had been so long since she’d gotten to paint what she really loved.
Sid could see that Laramie was taken with the H. F. Powell painting. The painting was one of her father’s best compositions, she thought, as she admired it under the soft lights highlighting it. Then out of the corner of her eye, she watched Laramie.
He couldn’t seem to take his eyes from the painting. She guessed he had seen the resemblance between her and her mother. Around her, she heard everyone talking about the painting, all of them wondering how high the bidding would go and ultimately, who would be taking it home.
It saddened her to think that most of her father’s career, this kind of art hadn’t been popular. With the influx of people like the ones in this room with money and a desire to rediscover the Old Wild West, paintings like this one were now coveted. Too bad he hadn’t lived long enough to see how badly people wanted an H. F. Powell painting.
But then again, her father had never painted for the money. And he certainly wouldn’t have been caught dead at an affair like this. She smiled to herself, remembering that she’d told Laramie the same thing about herself. She still hoped it was true.
As Laramie moved on to Rock Jackson’s painting, Sid stepped closer to the H. F. Powell painting. She stared at it with a mix of emotions. The painting caught her mother’s beauty as well as her wild spirit with brushstrokes that spoke of the love the artist had felt for this woman. Her mother had been caught with that excited look in her eyes, that unmasked joy in her face... Until that moment, Sid hadn’t felt the emotion captured in the painting. Her mother had been a woman in love.
“It is beautiful, isn’t it?” asked a woman on the other side of her. “It moves me to tears, as well.” The woman pressed a tissue into Sid’s hand as she moved away. Sid hadn’t realized she was smiling through her tears.
* * *
LARAMIE CAUGHT A WHIFF of perfume in a room full of warring fragrances. But he couldn’t be sure that light citrusy scent was what had made him aware of a woman standing in front of the H. F. Powell painting. Maybe he’d just sensed her.
When he looked over at the masked woman, he felt a start. She was dressed in all black, from the old-fashioned hooped-skirt dress to the large floppy hat that hid her hair. She turned her head. He caught only a glimpse of cool blue eyes framed by a dark mask—just as they had been the first time he’d ever laid eyes on her.
It couldn’t be Sid. She’d said she wouldn’t be caught dead here. And yet this woman was the right height and the right frame from what he could see of her. Her elaborate dress hid her figure and her face was obscured by the hat and mask along with the high neck of the dress.
But it was Obsidian “Sid” Forester. He moved closer, following the faint scent of her perfume. Why had she lied about coming here? Or had her plans changed since the time he’d ask her?
He was next to her now. All his senses told him it was her. But when she raised her lashes to meet his gaze, she gave no indication that she’d ever seen him before.
In the other room, someone announced that the ball was about to begin. Music soared and the crowd began to thin. As the woman in black began to move away, he grabbed her hand. Without looking at her, he whispered, “Dance with me.”
He felt her freeze. When his gaze met hers, he saw both surprise and wariness in those beautiful eyes. He tried to hide his own shocked expression. This woman wasn’t Sid, not the woman he’d kissed, not the woman he’d dreamed about every night since. But he was convinced that they’d met before. Last night, when she’d put the knot on his head.
He felt her hesitate and started to let go of her hand, when she nodded slowly and did an old-fashioned curtsy. As the crowd began to move toward the ballroom, she said, “If you will excuse me for just a moment...”
Before he could protest, she disappeared into the ladies’ room. He waited patiently. A few moments later, she returned. He saw the change instantly and yet he questioned if he was losing his mind as he led her out of the art room, onto the dance floor and into his arms.
Her eyes met his briefly, almost shyly, before she lowered her lashes. He felt his heart cartwheel in his chest. This wasn’t the same woman he’d asked to dance.
He glanced around for another woman in black, but didn’t see one. What game were they playing with him? Sid moved gracefully in his arms. His cat burglar had been light on her feet. No wonder she was such a graceful dancer. But what was she doing here? Shouldn’t she be burglarizing someone else’s house right now?
“Enjoying the dance?” he whispered near her ear. He felt her shiver.
“I am,” she replied in a whisper that had intrigued him the first time they’d met.
He breathed in the citrus scent of her, reveling in the feel of her in his arms. How badly he wanted to kiss her again, knowing that if he did, there would be no more hiding behind the mask. He would have to demand what she was doing here because all his instincts warn
ed him that she was up to trouble.
But as they danced, he was so happy to have her in his arms that he didn’t want it to end. Unfortunately, the song did end, though, and she stepped back. He reached for her, but she slipped from his grasp.
And with a slight shake of her head, she gave him another quick curtsy and disappeared into the crowd.
He thought about going after her, cornering her, unmasking her, but good sense kept him from it. He’d promised to stay out of her business. But what was she up to? He hated to think, as he glanced toward the art room. The door was closed, the older security guard standing in front of it.
When someone touched his shoulder, Laramie jumped.
“Is anything wrong?” his cousin Dana asked him.
Laramie shook his head, but he feared a lot of things were wrong.
“You’re the only cousin I haven’t danced with tonight,” she said.
Laramie was happy to dance with Dana. He understood how she had become the matriarch of the family even at her young age. She’d brought them all together as a family because of her loving nature. Everyone loved Dana.
“Are you having fun?” she asked as they danced.
Fun didn’t really describe it, but he nodded and smiled. “I’m glad I’m here,” he said truthfully, which made her smile.
“I saw you dancing with a woman dressed all in black,” Dana said.
“Did you recognize her?” he asked quickly.
“No.” She frowned, looking surprised. “You didn’t know who she was, either?” That seemed to amuse her. “That explains why you keep looking for her.”
“I’m sorry,” he apologized. He hadn’t even realized he’d been doing that.
Dana laughed. “I’m just glad to see you enjoying yourself.”
When the dance ended, she said, “There are some people I want you to meet.” She led him back to the lobby.
For the next half hour, he tried to remember the names of the ranchers, business owners and neighbors Dana introduced him to. More champagne was forced on him as he nodded and smiled and thought about the woman he’d danced with.
It wasn’t until someone announced it was almost time for the partygoers to reveal their identities that he escaped back into the ballroom. He had to find the woman.
He worked his way through the crowd, looking for her.
She’d left, he decided. And yet he’d been in the lobby. He hadn’t been so distracted that he wouldn’t have noticed if she’d passed him. Was there another way out of here? There would be emergency exits, but those would set off alarms.
Just when he thought he’d only imagined her—or she’d evaporated into thin air—he spotted her. She was coming out of the ladies’ room. He hadn’t thought that was where she might be. He hesitated, realizing also that she probably hadn’t attended the ball alone.
He waited for her to make a beeline for some handsome man. The countdown began. Ten. Nine. Eight. The huge room went quiet as everyone anticipated the unmasking. Except his woman in black. Seven. Six. Five. She seemed to be making a beeline not for some handsome escort, but for the door.
Laramie stepped in front of her. Four. Three. Her gaze flew up to his. He saw the alarm as she tried to step around him. Two. One!
Masks started coming off all around the huge ballroom.
“Please,” she said as she tried to get past him.
“It’s time to unmask,” he said and peeled off his own.
She met his eyes with a steely look. Her eyes had gone from cool blue to silver steel. With an arrogant lift of her head, she reached for her mask.
A blood-curdling scream filled the ballroom, followed by the sound of several people running. Laramie turned to see that the door to the art room was open. Even from where he was standing, he could see that the H. F. Powell painting was gone.
As he turned back, he saw that the painting wasn’t the only thing missing. His woman in black was also gone.
Chapter Seventeen
Laramie saw the marshal and his brothers Austin and Hayes heading for the art room and quickly followed. Hud barked out orders to the pavilion guards to have all the doors blocked. No one was to leave. Then he motioned them and the guard in and closed the door.
“This door was locked?” Hud asked the guard the moment they were all in the room.
“I locked it myself.”
“And there was no one in the room?”
“No.” The guard glanced around the space. “Where would they have hidden?”
It was a good question. The room had been bare except for the paintings. Not a stick of furniture was in the room. Laramie looked toward the windows as Hud walked over to them.
“The windows don’t open. Nor are there any footprints in the snow outside them,” the marshal said as he turned back to the room. “No other doors in or out.”
It must have dawned on them all at the same time, because they all looked up. Hud swore. A piece of the dropped ceiling had been left ajar.
“Seal the room,” he said as he reached for his cell phone and barked, “Make sure no one leaves.”
“Are you going to detain and question everyone outside this room?” Austin asked. They would be here all night and then some if that was the case.
Hud shook his head irritably. “But I need some men at the door to make sure no one walks out of here with that painting in case the burglar left that ceiling tile like that to misdirect us.” He looked from Austin to Hayes and then Laramie. “Mind helping until I can get deputies and a crime-scene team over here?”
Laramie joined his brothers at the pavilion’s main entrance. The Powell painting was large enough that it wouldn’t fit under most costumes, so screening people as they left went fairly fast.
The whole time, he found himself looking for the woman in black. She didn’t come through the lines. Which meant she’d left right after the missing painting was discovered? But Hud had asked that all the doors be covered. Maybe she slipped out before the guards could get to the doors. He thought of her hooped skirt and swore. The Powell painting could have fit under it.
Then he saw her. She had taken off her mask, but still wore the wide-brimmed hat that hid most of her face. Only when she glanced up did he catch the glint of her silvery-blue eyes. Eyes like a wolf, he thought.
She had started toward his line, then looked up and seen him. Hesitating, he saw her look to the other lines.
Something shone in those eyes for a moment. Defiance? Challenge? It must have been, because she stepped into his line. As he checked one after another ball goer through, she moved closer and closer. It wouldn’t be long before she was standing directly in front of him.
Laramie could hear people complaining. Some were threatening to call their lawyers.
He let two more people out and turned to find himself face-to-face with the woman of his nightly dreams and his growing obsession. Her head was down, the hat shadowing her face.
He hoped to hell she didn’t think he would let her get out of here with the painting. “I’m going to have one of the women check under your hoop skirt,” he said.
“That isn’t necessary,” she said and lifted the framework of the skirt. She wore black yoga pants beneath the skirt. No painting. When he glanced up at her, he saw the smile and the amusement in her eyes before he jerked back in surprise.
This woman looked like Obsidian “Sid” Forester. They would have been twins...
“Let’s keep the lines moving,” Hud ordered as the grumbling increased among the waiting guests.
“If that’s all...” the woman said. She even sounded like Sid, he thought as he watched the woman who’d coldcocked him last night walk away.
* * *
TAYLOR WEST NEEDED a drink like he’d never needed one before. He’d awakened with a kill
er headache and the worst taste in his mouth. When he’d sat up, it took him a few moments to realize where he was. In jail. For murder.
Stumbling to his feet, he lurched toward the bars. “Hey!” he yelled and listened for someone to come. No one did. “Hey!”
When a deputy finally did show his face, Taylor said, “I’ll pay you to get me a drink.”
The deputy shook his head and started to close the door.
“Wait! Do you know who I am? I’m Taylor West. I’ll give you any painting you want. Just between you and me.”
“You need to quiet down. Try to get some rest.” He closed the door and even when Taylor yelled obscenities at his departing form, the deputy didn’t return.
He banged on the bars of his cell and yelled, “I didn’t murder anyone!”
“Didn’t your lawyer tell you not to talk about your case?” asked a voice. Taylor couldn’t see the man because they were in separate cells divided by a wall instead of bars.
“What’s it to you?” he demanded.
“You should listen to your lawyer.”
Taylor scoffed at that. “You know what they say about lawyers? Once you need one, you’re already screwed.” He wandered over to his bunk and sat down, his head in his hands. He would kill for a drink.
“Who didn’t you murder?” the man asked.
“The two-bit artist Rock Jackson.”
“I know who Rock is,” the voice said. “Why didn’t you kill him?”
Taylor wasn’t about to get into it with a stranger. “He was running around with my wife.”
“That can get a man killed, all right.”
“I planned to kill him. I was waiting outside his house.”
“So what happened?”
Taylor thought of the crime shows he’d seen on television. The incarcerated killer always had a big mouth and talked too much to a jailhouse snitch. “What’s it to you?”
“I can’t sleep, either.”
“What are you in for?”
“Writing hot checks.”
