Abandoned

by Allison Brennan

  Ryan stared at her. “Not for you.”

  “I’m a big girl, Ryan.”

  He ran his fingers over her hand. A very subtle, but surprisingly intimate gesture. Then he withdrew, and she didn’t know if she should read anything into it.

  Or maybe she would. Maybe she needed a distraction from everything that she’d learned. A way to cleanse her mind, so to speak, so she could refocus her energy into learning the truth about Martha, Jimmy, and the paintings.

  Suddenly Ryan tensed. Max was about to ask him what he was thinking, when he said in a low voice, “You have stirred up something big, Ms. Revere. That man cannot keep his eyes off of you.”

  She didn’t know which man he referred to, and asked with a smile, “Jealous?”

  He seemed surprised, then leaned closer. “I’m not the jealous type, and you don’t seem to be a woman who two-times your lovers.”

  She was about to come back with an equally sexual comment, when Ryan continued. “Don’t look. Phillip Colter is having dinner in this restaurant, at the booth in the corner of the dining room. That was the last thing I expected to see when we walked in here.”

  “Your suspect? Does he know who you are?”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t interviewed him, or had reason to get in his face, but if I were a successful art thief, I would make it my business to know local FBI agents who might be investigating my activities. However, he appears more interested in you—and I don’t think it’s for the same reason I’m interested.”

  Though his words were playful, Ryan’s tone had taken on an edge, and he hadn’t finished his scotch. Max had been around enough cops to know that Ryan had gone from all-play to all-work in a heartbeat.

  “I would think Gabriel had something to do with alerting him but we only told him about Colter less than an hour ago.”

  “I’ve been asking a lot of questions about my mother since last week. I made calls before then. I’ve talked to a lot of people. Anyone could have tipped him off.” Max didn’t like being a pawn, or being under the eye of anyone, cop or criminal. “Let me rattle his cage.”

  “I don’t know—” Ryan began, but Max was already out of her seat.

  “Stay put.” She picked up her wineglass, crossed the bar, and walked over to where Colter was dining with another man. She recognized Colter from the photo Ryan showed her earlier, though he was older. He was still attractive, in the way that Paul Newman seemed to keep his good looks even as he aged. Colter was in his late fifties and dressed impeccably, even in what was clearly his “casual” attire of pressed slacks, crisp button-down sans tie, and pricey watch.

  Colter watched her all the way over, not giving away anything in his expression—whether he was expecting it or whether he was completely surprised.

  “Mr. Colter,” she said. “I’m Maxine Revere. May I join you?”

  “I would never say no to someone as lovely as you.”

  “Thank you.” She pulled a chair over from a vacant table and sat. Sipped her wine, placed the glass down. She smiled at Colter’s associate—taller, broader, younger than Colter. A bodyguard? Hired muscle?

  “How do you know me?” Colter said.

  “I believe you knew my mother. Martha Revere.”

  “I did, once upon a time.”

  Incredible. Colter knew exactly who she was from the beginning. He still showed no sign of surprise.

  “I never knew Martha had a child,” he continued.

  “Most people didn’t.”

  But he did know—maybe not at the time he associated with Martha, but he knew who Max was before he walked into the restaurant. That he lied to her was telling—he wanted information and felt that if he pretended he was in the dark that she would give it to him.

  “She kept in touch over the years,” Max continued. “Sent me postcards from all over the world. One from Paris nearly seventeen years ago from the time she spent at Le Meurice.”

  Now she had him. Colter couldn’t keep the flash of anger from darkening his pale blue eyes.

  “Did she now?”

  “You were quite taken by Caravaggio’s The Beheading of Saint John the Baptist, I believe it was. I’d have to dig through my archives to remember correctly.”

  “Your memory is just fine.” Colter’s jaw was tight, his eyes never leaving her.

  “I take it you and Martha didn’t part on the best of terms. Don’t feel bad about that; she tended to burn many bridges.”

  “I loved her once,” he said.

  Max hadn’t expected that confession. She drained her wine and changed the subject. “Are you on vacation?”

  “Business,” he said. “And you?”

  “Personal.” She considered pushing him even further, but right now he’d already given her two truths that would get her far, and she didn’t want to tip her hand.

  If she was right and Phillip Colter had killed her mother, or had her killed, he might react violently. Not here, not now, but Max wasn’t an idiot. Colter was power personified, and he hated her mother.

  “I’ll get you another wine and we can reminisce.”

  Max glanced over at Ryan. “I think my boyfriend would be jealous if I spent any more time in your company.”

  Colter looked over at Ryan but didn’t show any recognition or interest in who he was. Still, she couldn’t be sure he didn’t know Ryan was an FBI agent. If he didn’t know, he would certainly investigate him when they left.

  “How long are you staying?”

  “Uncertain. You?”

  He paused a beat. “As long as I need to finish my business.”

  “Perhaps we can have lunch this week. Maybe you can give me some insight into my mother.”

  “I don’t know that anyone, child or lover, could understand what made Martha Revere tick.”

  Max had to agree. She slid over her business card. “Call me if you want to talk.”

  He stared at the card. “I’ve seen your show.”

  “I suspected you had, the way you were looking at me in the bar.”

  “Your boyfriend is jealous. Possessive.”

  She was about to say “he’s not my boyfriend,” but she’d already used Ryan as a crutch. “If he is, he won’t last very long.”

  “Expect my call.” He slipped her card into his breast pocket.

  * * *

  Ryan was silent all the way back to Max’s cottage. She told him everything she had learned.

  “He knows she’s dead,” she said, waiting for Ryan to say something. “He didn’t even ask me about her. He said he loved her, and that may have been true for about five minutes.” Still nothing. “He confirmed that they were in Paris together, and he absolutely remembered the Caravaggio. I remember museums, but off the top of my head a painting I hadn’t seen in seventeen years? Nope.”

  They walked inside and immediately Ryan said, “I cannot believe you pushed him.”

  “I know how to push people’s buttons. I only caressed his.”

  “You’re impossible.” He walked upstairs.

  She followed, irritated. “He never asked how she was, where she was living, nothing. He knows she’s dead. I must have talked to the right people and they alerted him that I was asking questions. Was it the caretaker? Detective Lipsky? The sheriff? Or maybe—”

  “Exactly!” Ryan exclaimed. “He knows you’re here to find out what happened to Martha. But if we’re right and Martha and Jimmy stole those seven paintings from him, he would want them back, don’t you think?”

  “He doesn’t know you’re an FBI agent, though he’ll probably figure it out soon.”

  “Maybe you don’t read people as well as you think.”

  “What is your problem, Ryan?”

  “You put a bull’s-eye on your back.”

  “He has no reason to come after me. I don’t know where the last three paintings are, if they are anywhere.”

  “You really think that.”

  She was confused again. She hadn’t drunk that much, she sho
uld be able to figure out what Ryan actually meant. Unless he was being intentionally vague to annoy her.

  “Spill it, Maguire.”

  He waved his hand at the postcards on her table. “This. Your mother sent you clues. It’s the only explanation I can come up with as to why she sent you these specific postcards of these specific paintings. Once we figure out the pattern, I think we’ll find the missing paintings. And that Caravaggio—that may just be the proof that Colter was behind all these other thefts. My boss is already in contact with the authorities to track down the painting and have it authenticated. If it’s a fake, it could be there’s proof that Colter took it.”

  “Great. And if there are clues here, we should sit down and look at them from a different perspective. Postmarks, word choice—we’re two smart people, we’ll find answers.”

  “Don’t be obtuse.”

  She glared at him. “Don’t be insulting.”

  Slowly, Ryan said, “If Colter thinks you’ll find your mother’s body or dig deep enough to connect him to anything illegal, what do you think he’ll do to you?”

  “Do not talk to me like I’m a child,” she said, equally slowly.

  “Stop acting like one.”

  “You can go.”

  “No, I can’t.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “First you berate me, insult me, threaten me?”

  “Impossible.” He took a deep breath. “Your idea was brilliant but your execution was flawed.”

  “I got the exact information that I wanted to confirm.”

  “And you put yourself on Colter’s radar. You’re here in this cottage, the farthest from the hotel, where if he came for you, even if you called for help, no one would get here for at least five minutes. And that cute little Taser of yours isn’t going to trump a gun.”

  “He has no reason to come for me.”

  “Now he does! Because while you confirmed that he knew your mother, that he was in Paris with her, that he was infatuated with the Caravaggio, and that he knows she’s dead—though that’s a bit of an assumption—I have no cause for a warrant, no evidence to expand the investigation, and now I have to worry that he’s going to come for you.”

  “But he has no reason!” she repeated, frustrated.

  “You invited him to lunch!”

  “A public lunch—really, are you always this paranoid?”

  He stared at her. “What if he killed your mother? What if he thinks you know where the paintings are? He’s here because you have been asking questions. There’s no other reason for him to be back.”

  “I’ve been thinking since we talked to Gabriel—it’s just too big of a coincidence that my mother disappears here, Colter is from here, we suspect but can’t prove that she stole from him—what if she planned on meeting him here? What if she gave him the paintings to get back into his good graces, or at least not get herself killed.”

  “But she did get killed. And if he had the paintings, why would he be here now? He would know that the FBI recovered three of the seven, and that one is in Russia.”

  “He shows up today after I started investigating Boreal,” Max said. “Yesterday I called the attorney of record for information on the CEO and got nowhere, not even past her assistant. I talked to the caretaker yesterday as well. I think Colter is part of Boreal. It would make sense.”

  “The company you’re researching? It not on his tax returns. And no, before you ask, I can’t show them to you.”

  “But you can look at his income and maybe his income comes from a company affiliated with Boreal.”

  Ryan smiled, the tension suddenly leaving his body. “You know, you’re pretty smart for a reporter.”

  “Is that your way of apologizing?”

  “Apologizing for what? Pointing out how you put yourself in danger? Highlighting that you’re playing games with a suspected art thief and possible killer?”

  “I’m not playing games—I was blunt and honest with him, and will continue to be, without giving away your investigation. And second, this won’t be the first time I’m potentially in danger.” She blew out a long breath. “Though I guess I’m going to have to call in David.”

  “David? Boyfriend?”

  “Bodyguard.”

  “Bodyguard?” He looked perplexed.

  “Long story short—my producer hired David Kane nearly three years ago when there was a threat against me while I was covering a trial in Chicago. He stuck around. He’s smart for hired muscle. Became my assistant.”

  “So I repeat, boyfriend?”

  “No.”

  “Good.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I really, really want to kiss you.”

  Heat flared in her stomach from sudden anticipation. These were no tame butterflies.

  “Why haven’t you?”

  He took a step forward. “Because if I kiss you, I will take you to bed.”

  Max stepped forward, looked Ryan in the eyes, and kissed him.

  There was no denying their mutual physical attraction at that point, because if Ryan felt even half the lust she did after one hot kiss, they were both going to be very, very satisfied.

  His arms went around her waist and he pulled her close, returning the kiss with equal intensity. He didn’t rush; he kissed with the confidence of a man who knew exactly what he was doing and how to please both of them.

  Max enjoyed sex; more, she liked to be an active participant. She started backing Ryan up to the staircase that led to the bedroom. She wore low-heeled boots, which made her an inch taller than her five feet ten; Ryan had a good three, maybe four inches on her. She liked that. She liked a lot about him, not the least of which was how he kissed.

  He pulled his mouth from hers.

  “Don’t stop now,” she said.

  “I have no intention of stopping, sweetheart.”

  He grinned at her, but it wasn’t solely a playful smile. There was an urgency he was holding back, as if he wanted to devour her there, at the base of the staircase, and only because of his maturity was he able to restrain himself.

  She would love to see what he would do if she played it slow and easy. Maybe she would find out. She ran her fingers lightly behind his ears, kissed him on his neck. He smelled like sea air and sweat and earth. She breathed in and sighed.

  He picked her up, startling her out of all the erotic thoughts running through her head. “You think too much,” he said.

  “How did you know I was thinking?”

  “Damn, you’re an open book.”

  He was the second person this year who had told her that, after she was convinced that no one could read her mind.

  “Oh?”

  “You’re thinking about how to tease me. And someday, I would really love to play sex games with you. But now, we’re going to bed.” He started up the stairs. She was borderline panicked. No one had ever picked her up like she was nearly weightless. She wasn’t overweight, but she was tall and had muscles from running. She couldn’t be easy to carry.

  He laughed when he got to the top and pretended he was about to drop her. “The look on your face, Max. Have you never been carried before?”

  She shook her head because suddenly her mouth was dry and she couldn’t speak.

  He did drop her then, but onto the bed. Before she could adjust herself, he leaned over and kissed her while unbuttoning her shirt.

  She closed her eyes and happily gave up control of their lovemaking.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Gabriel didn’t want to leave Eve that night after the Hendersons’ party—she had been excited about meeting Maxine, but now was quiet and melancholy. “Do you want to talk about it?” he asked on the drive home.

  “Later,” she said.

  “I’m here whenever you want.” He paused. “Did you like her?”

  “Yes.”

  No more, no less. He had a hundred questions, but he, too, was preoccupied. He had been so angry when Maxine had brought that federal agent to the party, bu
t that all disappeared when he heard Phillip Colter’s name.

  Eve went right up to her room saying she wanted to get a good night’s sleep before her race. Gabriel waited for twenty minutes and didn’t hear her moving about, so jotted a note that he had to run to Brian’s house to talk about business and would be back in an hour. He posted it on the refrigerator in case she woke up and was looking for him.

  Gabriel pulled in to Brian’s driveway at ten that night. Brian lived in a house on the far edge of the resort property with his wife, Annie. It was a second marriage for both of them, and Gabriel had always considered them family—Brian was a distant cousin—but for the first time, he feared he’d been duped, that Brian had gotten involved in something that would jeopardize everything they had worked so hard for.

  He knocked on the door. Brian answered, martini in hand. “Gabriel, what’s wrong?”

  “We have to talk.” He glanced over Brian’s shoulder. Annie was sitting on the couch watching television.

  “Hi, Gabriel, come in,” she called.

  “In private,” Gabriel said quietly.

  Brian looked worried and confused as he took Gabriel to the back of the house where he had a small home office. Gabriel closed the door.

  “I need you to be completely honest with me, Brian. I can’t help you—I can’t help us—if you lie to me.”

  “You’re scaring me, Gabriel. Tell me what’s going on.”

  “Phillip Colter.”

  Brian stared at him blankly. “What about Colter?”

  “Were there strings to his money? When we took the funding from his company, were there strings?”

  “I don’t know what you are talking about,” Brian said. “He invested in the resort because he believed in it and he’s been making money every year on his investment.”

  “That’s not what I’m talking about!”

  Gabriel couldn’t imagine that Brian didn’t understand. He’d been so wrapped up in the resort. Every dime Brian had—every dime Gabriel had—had been put into Havenly. They had made something great here. They wouldn’t be rich, but neither of them cared about money. What they cared about was providing for their families, providing jobs to local men and women who had been hit hard by the economy. They worked closely with the nearby golf course, cosponsored events, and had just three years ago been listed as one of the top ten golf resorts on the East Coast because the golf club had exploded in popularity after it hosted a tournament that attracted some of the biggest names in the sport. Gabriel and Brian had benefited from that, had been able to expand the hotel, build eight duplex cottages on the edge of the property closest to the golf course, and could charge a premium because of the location.