He spent a few seconds rummaging through boxes and flipping through her cramped wardrobe, careful to leave things as he'd found them. His hands stilled when he found the long coat in the back, half sticking out as if it had been hurriedly rehung. He quickly sifted through the pockets, but came up with only an old movie ticket stub and an opened roll of breath mints. The floppy hat was stuffed in the far corner but, again, yielded no hair or other physical evidence, so he stuffed it back.
And for a few seconds, he considered the impossible. If he disposed of the clothing, the evidence wouldn't be as overpowering. He shook his head to clear it—he was already treading on a thin professional line.
He then performed a perfunctory search of the living room, bathroom, and kitchen, again coming up empty-handed. James sighed, dreading the phone call to Lady Mercer, then wondered if Guy Trent had already contacted her.
Disgusted, James banged his hand on the white countertop. He was a weapons expert, a surveillance specialist, and a spy with a dozen aliases. In his twenty-year career with the British government, he'd protected statesmen, eluded assassins, extracted military secrets from various enemies, and freed heavily guarded hostages. And now after six months of retirement, he'd let a damn love letter slip through his fingers.
And an American woman slip under his skin.
He snorted in dismay, then retrieved the prized humidor and quietly took his leave.
*****
"There, now, Katherine, what's all this nonsense about?"
At the sound of Valmer Getty's voice, Kat pushed the metal folding chair away from a wobbly wooden table and rushed into his arms. "Val! Thank God you're here."
The rotund trial lawyer hugged her hard, then held her at arm's length and gave her a wry smile. "My dear, when I said to call me sometime, I didn't mean from jail."
She tried to return the smile, but seeing her father's old friend brought back vivid memories of the last time she'd seen him—her father's funeral. Suddenly the full weight of the situation fell onto her shoulders. "I'm in trouble, Val."
He looked behind him to make sure the door to the small room was closed, then patted her hand. "Start from the beginning," he said, then placed his briefcase on the table and removed his sport coat.
Kat wet her lips. "This started before Daddy died, Val."
The man frowned, pulling his lower lip into his mouth, then pulled a rickety chair next to hers. "I'm a good listener."
*****
"Ah, Agent Donovan." Detective Tenner, now in his shirtsleeves, acknowledged James's return to the gallery, escorted by Ronald Beaman. Apparently Tenner had passed some of the time delving into James's credentials. The inspector smirked. "And did Ms. McKray make it 'in one piece'?"
James nodded pleasantly, realizing it was in Kat's best interests to get along with the man. Looking haggard, Guy Trent was seated in the aisle of a small cubicle nursing a cup of coffee. A digital clock on one of the desks read five thirty-five a.m. Tenner pulled two extra chairs to form a loose group around Guy and gestured for James to sit.
"Want some coffee?"
He had also assumed the role of gallant host, James noted. "No, thank you." Turning toward Guy Trent, James asked, "Have you contacted Lady Mercer?"
Guy shook his head. "Thought I'd wait until we had a few more details." His anger was clear with each perfectly enunciated word.
Tenner cleared his voice. "Plus Mr. Trent and Mr. Wharton discovered a few more pieces are missing."
"Where is Mr. Wharton?" James asked, looking around. He wanted to talk to him too.
Guy waved vaguely toward the door. "Making arrangements to close the museum today, calling our ticket takers and guides. Plus it looks as if we'll have to cancel the showing of the King's letter." Guy threw up his hands and glanced heavenward. "How could she do this to me?"
"What else is missing?" James asked, turning the chair around to straddle it.
Guy waved a sheet of ruled paper, then read, "A beaded Inca bracelet, two miniature Victorian oils, a ruby ring, and a gold compass." His entire head reddened, his eyes bulging. "They were probably taken because they're small pieces in larger collections spread out in the gallery—they wouldn't be easily missed."
James angled his head. "The tape didn't show the thief traipsing around the gallery picking up odds and ends."
Guy nodded, his lip curling. "I know. Katherine probably took them sometime during the last few weeks. She could have smuggled them out in a pocket, a purse, anything."
"As could have anyone else," James pointed out.
"They're all pieces from Katherine's exhibits," Guy said nastily. "It's her job to inventory the collections on a regular basis."
"Mr. Trent," James said carefully. "It's quite obvious to me that you and Ms. McKray have running disagreements. Are you sure you're not a little too anxious to pin these burglaries on her?"
Guy's mouth flattened. "Mr. Donovan, if I'm guilty of anything where Katherine is concerned, it's leniency. Several pieces have been stolen from the gallery this year, all of them small, all of them in Katherine's care."
James's heart twisted in alarm.
Tenner was writing furiously on a small pad. "Did you report the crimes, Mr. Trent?"
The little round man shifted in his seat. "No."
Tenner's pen stopped. "Why not?"
Guy scrubbed his hand over his face and sighed wearily. "You have to understand our business, Detective. Many galleries and art museums don't report stolen items because it's bad for their reputation. Many of our collections are on loan. If word got out that our security was compromised, we'd be blacklisted."
"Why then," James asked, "if you suspected Ms. McKray of stealing, did you not simply let her go?"
"Because at the time we thought it was a security guard, a man by the name of Jack Tomlin. I caught him once wearing a valuable piece of gallery jewelry. He said he was just trying it on, but I let him go." Guy shook his head. "Now I think I blamed the wrong person."
"What other items did Ms. McKray steal?" Tenner asked. James frowned at him and Tenner added, "Allegedly."
"Mostly small jewelry, and I distinctly remember a valuable stamp disappeared. That sticks out in my mind because Katherine's father, Frank, was the one who found the stamp, at a junk dealer here in town. He bought it for fifteen dollars, and it was worth around fifteen thousand. Then a few weeks after Frank died, it vanished."
Tenner made a clicking sound with his tongue. "Frank McKray...I remember that case—ruled a suicide, wasn't it?"
James jerked his head up. Suicide?
Guy nodded, his face grim. "It was a car accident, but everyone knew the truth." He stopped and exhaled noisy. "Frank worked for Jellico's for fifteen years—it was his life. He always thought he'd be general manager one day, but when Mr. Jellico retired three years ago, he hired me."
"That would be Mr. Jellico, your brother-in-law?" James clarified.
Guy had the decency to blush. "Yes. Anyway, a year and a half ago, we were audited by the IRS, and funds turned up missing from the gallery—tens of thousands of dollars. When the trail started leading back to Frank, he lost control. He was depressed, started drinking. He died before the investigation was complete."
"And had he embezzled funds?" James asked, thinking of the humidor filled with expensive, illegal cigars tucked away in his hotel room safe.
Guy nodded. "It appeared so. Katherine couldn't accept it, so she begged Mr. Jellico to let her pay back the money that was missing in exchange for keeping a lid on her father's activities."
"Did she pay it back?" Tenner asked, scribbling.
"Almost all of it, I believe, in regular payments and small lump sums. Only now that I think back, I'm wondering if she was stealing from the gallery to repay the debt." Guy Trent rose a bit unsteadily and excused himself to make a few phone calls.
Tenner had found another pack of gum somewhere and was intent on chewing it all at once. "Looks like this will be an open-and-shut case. Seems like su
ch a waste—the woman's quite a looker, don't you think?"
James ignored him. As much as he hated to believe it, James had to admit the evidence against Kat was growing. His gut instinct told him she was innocent, but had his judgment grown rusty? Or had it been compromised by a set of kissable lips?
Chapter Five
"DO YOU NEED a ride home?" Valmer held open the courtroom door and smiled in a way that reminded Kat of her father.
"I'll escort the lady home," a smooth British voice said behind them.
Kat wheeled to see James leaning against an enormous marble pillar in the lobby of the government building. The late-afternoon sun slanted in, illuminating him from behind as he walked toward them. Her heart lifted involuntarily, but she noticed a slight frown on his brow. She felt ugly and plump in the clothes she'd been wearing for many hours, and her misery was only temporarily buoyed by being released on bond. She knew exhaustion lined her face.
James, on the other hand, looked as if he'd just descended from a movie poster. Kat introduced the two men, amused that Valmer placed himself in front of her in a protective way.
"I'm not so sure Katherine should leave with you," Val said, puffing up his chest.
"It's okay, Val, he's a friend," she said, apprehensive about James's expression. Had he been unable to get the humidor? "I'll call you tomorrow morning," she promised, then gave the older man a squeeze. "How can I ever thank you?"
Val hugged her back "By being very careful. Something fishy is going on, and I don't like it a bit."
She nodded and watched her father's friend walk away, then turned to James with a small smile. "How did you know where to find me?"
"I made a few phone calls. My accent seems to break down barriers rather easily."
"Well...thanks."
He pursed his mouth and swept a hand toward the lobby door. "Save your thanks until after we talk."
Kat descended the sweeping stone steps in silence, nervously wondering what her boss had told him. "Were you able to get the cigars?" she asked as they reached the sidewalk.
"They're safe," he said in a clipped tone, taking long strides toward his car parked a few yards away. James's face was stony as he opened the passenger door.
"You're angry with me," she said, facing him. "I'm sorry I asked you to help me, but I needed someone I could..." She trailed off, stopping short of using the word "trust." Was it trust, or was she so eager to buy into the glamour of a gorgeous, sexy, foreign agent coming to her rescue that she’d thrown caution to the wind?
He leaned forward with agonizing slowness, until his eyes were level with hers. "Did you do it?" His dark eyes bore into hers, commanding the truth.
Hurt that he suspected her sparked, then flamed in her breast. "No."
His eyebrows rose and relief eased his features, then he angled his head. "Do I have your word, Pussy-Kat?"
His velvety voice rolled over her eardrums like a symphony, echoing deep inside her. Like her, he seemed to be struggling with a desire to trust. "Yes," she whispered. "I'm in a lot of trouble, aren't I?"
"Indeed," he acknowledged with a small nod. The lines of his face had softened. He reached forward and grazed her cheek with the back of his hand. "But it's your own fault."
The touch of his hand sent her pulse racing. "My fault?"
His mouth curved into a warm smile that made her heart catch. "If you had simply allowed me to spend the night, you would've had an airtight alibi—not to mention an unforgettable experience."
Absurdly heartened by the return of his good cheer, Kat smiled and swung into the seat. "Right now I'd settle for the alibi."
He adopted a hurt expression. "Once again you wound me, Ms. McKray." Then he winked and stepped back to close her door.
Unfamiliar feelings raged in her chest as Kat watched him walk around the car. His body moved with offhand athleticism in gray wool slacks, black turtleneck, and black cashmere jacket. He looked sleek and dangerous as he slid behind the wheel. After he pulled away from the curb, he glanced at her pointedly. "Were you treated well?"
She nodded. "I suppose, although I have no other experiences to compare with this one."
"Don't think I haven't been concerned, but I spent most of the day at the gallery, trying to glean as much information as possible about the break-in."
Weariness pulled her head back on the leather seat. "This situation is so unbelievable, I don't know how to sort it all out."
"You could begin by telling me about the circumstances surrounding your father's death."
She was grateful for his careful tone, for treading softly on her loss. "He didn't kill himself, no matter what anyone says."
"And what about the embezzling?"
"Never," she whispered fiercely. "Dad could never have stolen from the gallery. He loved Jellico's—it was his life."
"Could he have reacted to being overlooked for the general manager position?"
Kat bit her bottom lip. "He was hurt—devastated even—when Mr. Jellico brought in Guy, but they acknowledged Dad's value to the gallery and gave him a hefty raise. He was content, if not entirely happy." She blinked back hot tears.
"So if you believe him innocent, why are you paying back the money?"
Embarrassment shot through her and she averted her eyes. "I see Guy has been spilling his guts."
"He thinks you're guilty."
"He's a moron."
"Detective Tenner believes him."
"Then he's a moron too."
James laughed, a low, pleasing sound. "So why?"
Kat lifted her chin. "Keeping my dad's name clear was the last thing I could do for him."
He pressed his lips together. "Mr. Trent said you've nearly paid back the amount that was missing."
Satisfaction warmed her. "In another couple of months it'll be paid in full, with interest. Forty-four thousand, six hundred fifty-two dollars." It was probably a paltry amount to James, but it was a considerable sum to her.
"I suspect San Francisco is an expensive place to live. How did you manage?"
"A ridiculous amount is deducted from my paycheck, and I make extra payments when I can." She choked out a bitter laugh. "I was planning to resign the day I made the last payment."
"They made you stay at Jellico's as part of the deal?"
Her lips formed a straight, hard line. "That's right."
"That borders on extortion."
She shrugged. "I suppose. But Jellico's is a prestigious gallery, so I'm getting good experience. Make that past tense—I'm sure I'm fired."
"Your boss implied that you'd gotten the money for extra payments by selling items stolen from the gallery."
Kat scoffed and pushed her hands toward him, palm up. "I earned the money for extra payments by refinishing antiques for people who are too rich to get their own hands dirty. See—my hands are permanently stained mahogany number twenty-seven."
He captured her left hand in his right one, snatching her breath as well. His thumb massaged her palm. The interior of the car hummed with tension. "Then if your father didn't take the money, and you didn't steal the pieces, who is menacing the gallery?"
She stared down at their hands on the console between them. Her nipples hardened with every stroke of his thumb. "I-I honestly don't know who took the money, but I think my father had his theories."
"He never told you?"
She shook her head, overwhelmed with regret. "I knew something was bothering him, but I didn't know anything about the embezzlement allegations until after he'd died. Mr. Jellico and Guy called me in, and we struck the deal."
"Who was working for the gallery at the time the money showed up missing?"
"All of us, plus Mr. Jellico's wife when we had special events. She's deceased now. There are two part-time accountants who were with us then, but they were cleared. Gloria Handelman worked in administration for a couple of months—she's the daughter of a rich collector in town." A thought struck her and she gasped. "This may be off subject, but the Han
delmans were going to bid on the King's letter."
His head swung in her direction. "Would she know the gallery well enough to pull off a heist?"
"With my security badge, sure."
James pursed his lips and nodded. "Sounds like a good lead. What about the things missing from the gallery over the past year?"
"That may not be as much of a conspiracy as Guy thinks it is," she said, lifting her shoulders. "On some days we have hundreds of visitors—"
"They discovered four more items missing this morning."
Kat frowned. "What things?"
"Jewelry, a gold compass, two miniature oils—"
She winced. "The Victorian oils?"
"I believe so."
"Oh, those were part of my favorite exhibit."
"Mr. Trent mentioned it was your exhibit, as was every other exhibit with items missing."
She sighed. "Every exhibit in the gallery is my exhibit. That's my job."
"So were the paintings there when you left last night?"
Closing her eyes, she tried to concentrate. She remembered making rounds after James and Mr. Muldoon had left, around four-thirty. But a group of patrons had been gathered around the collection of twelve miniatures. She'd stopped to chat a minute, and one of the volunteers had asked a question about the pigments used in the paints of that period.
"They were still on display around four forty-five, but I can't swear to it after that." She looked at James and shrugged slightly. "James, you're probably accustomed to high-profile, intricate cases, but the embezzling, the missing items, and the theft of the letter could be unrelated."
"True," he acknowledged with an air that made her feel as though she was missing something that was quite obvious to him.
He withdrew his hand to parallel park near her apartment door. She missed his warmth, and it disturbed her. "Oh, I was going to ask you to drop me by the gallery to get my van."
"The police had it impounded."
Kat stared at him. "You're kidding."
"Evidence," he said, turning off the engine. "And prepare yourself—I'm sure they've searched your apartment by now."
Mad About You Page 5
