Love Unlocked

by Libby Waterford

  When they were alone again, she allowed herself to look at Hudson’s face. He was smiling, satisfied as if she’d given him the right answer to a question.

  “Well,” she said a little more briskly. “That was nice.”

  “Mmm. Very nice,” he agreed, his eyes crinkling.

  Eve was suddenly annoyed by how very handsome he was, by his calm. She stepped back. “Your espresso’s getting cold.”

  “So are you.”

  She lifted her chin and regarded him, her spine stiffening. “Now that you’ve gotten what you came for, maybe you should leave.”

  “All right,” he said easily.

  He was infuriating.

  He rose and went to door they’d entered from. “But I haven’t had nearly enough.”

  Huffing, she turned away, refusing to watch him leave. She poured the rest of his coffee down the drain with relish. She’d been knocked for a loop, as they say, by one kiss, and she didn’t like it one bit. Hudson had made her see stars, then smiled like he’d crossed some item off his to-do list.

  And she’d forgotten to ask him about his work. She was interested from a purely professional standpoint, of course, that one of the most successful painters of the day was not painting. And if he wasn’t, she wanted to know why he’d asked her to sit for him in the first place. It hadn’t felt like a line, but now that he’d managed to get his hands on her without any of that folderol, she couldn’t trust her instincts. She pushed the thought away, and went outside to watch concrete pouring into some holes.

  Chapter Six

  By midday Tuesday, the deck construction was going so well that Eve planned to be sitting on it, sipping her coffee and watching the morning clouds burn off over the Pacific, by the weekend. The symphony of hammers, saws, and the rapid Spanish-language deejay chatter emanating from the contractor’s truck stereo was a comfort and a welcome distraction. She couldn’t unpack the crate of paintings that had arrived at the end of the day yesterday with the workers in the back, so she’d given up trying to get anything else accomplished and sat at the kitchen bar doing last Sunday’s crossword puzzle. The doorbell rang in a lull of construction noise, startling her.

  Expecting the FedEx man bearing her new food processor, she flung the door open. A tall, lanky blond with faded blue eyes and an entirely too smug grin stood on her doorstep. He carried a leather weekender bag and nothing else. The only car in the drive was her three-day-old silver sedan.

  Eve swore, briefly and colorfully, as John Norton dropped his bag and lifted her up in his arms in a bear hug. She let out a squeak as he plopped her back on the front step, chortling at her astonishment.

  “I surprised you, didn’t I, Evie?” He preened a little, adjusting the collar of his designer polo shirt.

  “That’s an understatement.” She wasn’t ready to be gracious to her old partner quite yet. “Well, you better come in.” Resigned to the not entirely unwelcome intrusion, she followed him into the house.

  “Give me the five cent tour, Evie darling,” he said. “Which room is mine?”

  John hadn’t changed in the long weeks since she’d last seen him. He was still entitled, fussy, and vain, but in such an endearing way that she sighed and led him to the newly painted guest room. She accepted his compliments on her home with short patience.

  “What I want to know is how you found me. And don’t give me some line about IP addresses.”

  “Maurice,” John said simply.

  Eve swore for the second time that day.

  “But I didn’t tell him…oh, the paintings.”

  “The paintings,” John agreed.

  Eve had given everything up when she’d left Paris. Her flat, her job, even a safe deposit box full of odds and ends in Geneva that she hadn’t had time to go back for, but she couldn’t leave behind her paintings. They were how she’d invested her earnings, sometimes using laundered money to purchase perfectly legitimate items at auction or estate sales, sometimes taking less than pristine goods in trade for her merchandise. Those paintings were her savings and retirement plan all rolled into one, but they were also a reflection of her taste. She didn’t buy anything she didn’t like. Who knew when she would be able to sell some of the pieces, so she decided she’d better be able to live with them in the meantime.

  Maurice, an old contact and one she trusted, had promised her he could get them into the country—“get” being a euphemism for “smuggle”—and she’d paid him a small fortune to do so. She’d given him the address of an import house in San Francisco, and then had the goods forwarded to her from there. He could have tracked down the final destination if he’d needed to, but she didn’t really think he’d have to bother. John apparently had.

  “Congratulations, Sherlock, you tracked me down. Now, what’s it all about?”

  “As much as I missed your funny little face, Evie darling, this is not a purely social call.”

  The knots in her stomach tightened. “It’s him, isn’t it?”

  “Deacon? Yes.” John paused. “He wants something from you.”

  Her stomach clenched, and the knots turned into a lead weight. How could this be happening so soon?

  “Dammit.” Her voice shook a little. “I don’t owe that man anything. I know he thinks we queered the Chagall job for him, but the man is a lunatic. We didn’t know he was planning to go for it.” She stopped her rant. John had heard this all before, but venting helped the fear morph into anger. “Wait. How do you know he wants something from me? Was he specific, or does he just want my blood?”

  “Let’s talk about it over lunch. Your treat.”

  ***

  “How quaint,” John remarked as the blue-haired waitress at Maude’s Diner shuffled away with their orders. Eve had picked the greasiest spoon in Chelsea to needle her ex-partner, who had once brought an entire five-course dinner from The Ritz on a stakeout.

  “I met with him,” he said. “Well, he maneuvered me into a meeting. I thought for your sake I had better take it.”

  “You met him,” she repeated. “That could have been incredibly dangerous. It could have been a set up. He could have called the authorities. What were you thinking?”

  “Darling, I do believe you care,” he said sardonically.

  “John.” His name was a warning. She was losing patience.

  “Don’t worry so much. I had a backup plan.”

  “I know all about your backup plans,” she grumbled. “So what did he say?”

  “He claims that you owe him for the Chagall, as losing the commission on it cost him with some unsavory Turks. He also knows you’re in America. He proposes you do a job for him here, and you’re Even Steven.”

  “How does he know I’m in America?” She was calculating how quickly she could be on a plane to Indonesia, Peru, maybe Jamaica. Her California interlude had been much too brief. Perhaps her plan to start over had been naïve. On the other hand, the momentary peace she’d found in Chelsea might be worth fighting for.

  “That man knows everything. He’s very well connected. It’s not so hard to figure out. You are an American, after all.”

  “He doesn’t know exactly where I am, though, does he?” Eve looked around her as though Deacon could see her this very moment.

  “I don’t think so, but the job he wants you to do is in Montecito, so it’s possible that he knows you are somewhere on the west coast. Not that he’d hesitate to drag you from Maine in order to get what he wants. He’s desperate.”

  Eve focused on the details to keep the roiling in her stomach at bay. “Montecito?” She pulled up a map on her phone. The small, moneyed community was about one hundred and forty miles south, near Santa Barbara. Eve had never been there, but the proximity to her current location chilled her. Deacon was not someone you wanted keeping tabs on you. She had moved six thousand miles to ensure that wouldn’t happen.

  “I don’t like this, John.” She wasn’t ready to admit to him she was scared, so she held onto her outraged bravado a little l
onger. “I have no intention of doing a job, any job, for him or anyone else. I’m retired. He can go to hell.”

  John waited while she got it out of her system. He signaled to the waitress for the check, and calmly placed a few bills on the tray after she brought it. He continued to say nothing as Eve drained her iced tea in an uncharacteristically noisy fashion.

  His silence made the severity of the situation really sink in. She’d be a fool if she didn’t at least find out what Deacon wanted her to do. Her newfound sense of peace would never be recovered if she feared revenge from a ruthless criminal around every corner.

  When they were in the privacy of the car again, she sighed. “What’s the job?”

  ***

  Hudson parked his truck in a spot half a block down from the diner. He’d had a difficult morning; Mrs. Sinclair had had a small stroke and he’d spent the morning reading to her, even though she seemed to be asleep most of the time. He was starving and sad. He’d had Stephanie on the brain ever since. His sister had died in a hospital bed much like Mrs. Sinclair’s, their mother reading to her from her favorite book, or so he’d been told, since he’d been on the other side of the country when his little sister had passed away.

  The promise of a burger and a cherry cola was the only thing getting him through the hour.

  He spotted Eve right away, that luscious cape of raven black hair contrasting with a billowy white blouse that hid all her good parts. She’d stepped out of the diner with a look of concentration and irritation. She wasn’t alone. A tall blond man whose crisp polo and khakis screamed “tourist” was getting into the passenger seat of her new car. Hudson didn’t care for the tightening in his chest and the way his hands were suddenly clamped hard around his poor, defenseless steering wheel.

  Eve cultivated mystery about herself as easily as dandelions cropped up in the community garden’s vegetable patch. He knew next to nothing about her, but she wouldn’t have kissed him if she’d been involved with someone else. Even so, that slick guy didn’t look like her brother.

  He forced himself out of the truck and into the diner. Food would improve his outlook on the world. Another stolen kiss would, too. He’d had to consciously stop himself from driving over to Oak Grove Hill to get another taste of those honey-sweet lips every hour since he’d left her standing in that kitchen all mussed and frosty. She could put on the ice queen routine, but he knew firsthand that her mouth was hot and eager. After he ate and helped his sister-in-law set up the summer school bake sale, a friendly visit up to Eve’s to see how the deck was coming along was in order.

  ***

  Eve poured herself a glass of Chardonnay and contemplated the setting sun through the French doors that led to her half-finished deck. She imagined future evenings like this, settling into a deck chair, watching the Pacific turn into an ocean of gold, then pink, then inky black. Perhaps Hudson would be with her, holding her to him, pressing those wicked kisses to her jaw, distracting her from the beauty of the sunset by lighting a flame of desire inside her.

  She squeezed her thighs together. Apparently, she didn’t even need the man in the flesh to experience a stab of desire so fierce, she wanted to cry with frustration. She sipped the wine and turned back to where John was rummaging in her fridge for the makings of dinner.

  Though John had been the bearer of bad news, she was glad to have the company. Exiling oneself tended to be lonely.

  The doorbell rang, and he volunteered to answer it.

  “This time, it must be FedEx with my food processor.”

  Alone again, Hudson dogged her thoughts. She hadn’t seen him since he’d kissed her. She’d been wondering when she’d next see him, if he’d ask her to pose for him again. No, with the complication of Deacon’s demands, better if she kept her distance. She couldn’t help reliving the moment when he’d drawn her to him and put his lips on hers. She would never forget his spicy male scent or his arms like steel as they held her while she delighted in his embrace. She put a finger to her mouth, as if to prove to herself it had happened.

  She heard male voices. John was talking with someone, and then the voices grew louder. Hudson followed John into the kitchen. Damn him, he was even handsomer than she remembered. He wore an untucked flannel shirt over a plain white T-shirt and jeans. His healthy five o’clock shadow made him look a bit disreputable, but it framed the lips she’d just been thinking about. The knowledge of how they felt made her somehow vulnerable. He knew something about her that no one else on earth did, that they’d kissed. A blush warmed her cheeks.

  What was worse was that John took it all in with a glance—Hudson’s half smile, her blush—and was surely drawing his own conclusions.

  “Hello,” she said, once she realized no one was speaking.

  “Hello,” Hudson said.

  What was he doing here?

  John fluidly took over the role of host. “Won’t you have some wine?” he asked, pulling out a glass for a fresh pour.

  “That would be nice, thanks,” Hudson said.

  His focus hadn’t left Eve’s face. Why was that enough to make her forget herself? She forced herself to return to a neutral tone.

  “John, this is Hudson Cleary, he’s the brother of my security man.” She paused for a sip of wine. “Hudson, this is John Norton, an old friend of mine.”

  “We met at the door,” Hudson said.

  “Hudson Cleary, the painter?” John said.

  “That’s right,” Eve said.

  “Remarkable,” John murmured.

  “What brings you by?” She hoped to sound nonchalant, as if she hadn’t just been imagining him seducing her on her future deck.

  Hudson seemed to struggle with what to say. John glanced between the two of them, and stepped forward. “We were going to put together a quick dinner. Won’t you join us?”

  Eve felt oddly self-conscious over John’s use of “we” and “us.” It made them sound like a couple. She didn’t want Hudson to assume she was with John, even if it might have been safer for him to think she was off limits.

  John didn’t wait for Hudson’s reply; he began gathering the ingredients for pesto from the refrigerator.

  “All right,” Hudson said. “Thanks. I wanted to see the progress on the house.”

  John obviously had dinner well in hand. She was a decent cook, but he had a magic touch, and she’d seen the way he’d salivated over her marble-topped island and beautiful cookware. “I’ll show you the deck. It should be finished in a couple of days.”

  She opened the French door and stepped out into the dark. The motion sensor light flooded the workspace in a bright yellow glow. The bones of the deck, its reclaimed wood settled into a sturdy foundation, were complete. The far side had about six feet already laid. She balanced carefully on one of the supporting beams, though the drop to the gravel below was only a foot.

  “This is going to be spectacular,” Hudson said.

  He wasn’t looking anywhere but her. The realization that he hadn’t abandoned his pursuit of her made Eve lose her balance. He reached out, steadying her with a touch to her elbow. His hand was warm, strong.

  She shivered. Conflict roiled in her chest. How could he be the cause of her losing her footing at the same time he was by her side, there to steady her again? He consistently set off alarm bells in her brain. If they shared mere physical attraction, she could have persuaded herself that no harm would come from indulging herself. He’d understand the limits of their relationship, and she could feel free to have fun. But Hudson looked at her with a possessiveness that made a casual fling impossible. Without either of them saying the words, he would want more than she would be able to give. John’s coming here, bringing an unwelcome piece of her past with him, made everything that much more off-limits. She couldn’t afford to let herself have what she wanted. It wouldn’t be safe for Hudson, and that meant it wouldn’t be safe for her. She couldn’t have an innocent bystander ruin her concentration when the stakes were life and death. This was why
she’d barely dated in the last years. No, she had to be strong and keep him at arm’s length from now on.

  Hudson felt her pull away from him, and he wanted to bare his teeth out of the familiar pang of frustration. Why was she so determined to deny what was going on between them? He ordered himself to take a deep breath. He wasn’t one for hurrying things up, whether it was a woman or a painting. He let the energy flow, let creations unfold at their own pace. With Eve, he wanted to rush, to say “to Hell” with whatever she wanted and throw her over his shoulder, march her up those stairs to that feminine, frilly bedroom of hers, and sink himself into her, possessing her, owning her. He’d never felt such sheer animal desire for a woman before.

  That approach would likely land him even farther away from her than before, so he leaned back, giving her space to come in off the deck beam by herself. It seemed to work, because as long as he kept a fair amount of space between them, she relaxed, and continued to show him the improvements on the house. When they got to the hallway, she bit her lip and he tracked her gaze to a large packing crate. One side of the wooden box had been pried off. Its contents were hidden, but then he noticed a tender little portrait in the Rembrandt school leaning against the wall, its obviously old wooden frame resting on the floor. He bent forward to take a closer look. Even as a Rembrandt school original, the painting was in exceptional shape and of beautiful quality, but as he continued to study it, he knew, the way dowsers can find water by smell and a second sight, that he wasn’t looking at an imitation.

  An actual Rembrandt. His first thought was that he wanted to see it in better light, to look at the colors, to see how time had altered the pigments. The second was, it must have been worth a small fortune. How was a former assistant curator in possession of a Rembrandt original?

  The prickle on his skin no longer had to do with the nearness of the delectable Eve, but with the fact that there could easily be a dozen more paintings inside that crate, and something told him they were each going to be as astonishing, and as valuable, as that precious Rembrandt.

  She’d meant to take him up to the second floor to see the fresh paint in the guest room, but they had to walk by the crate to get there. She was ready to tell him they were the light fixtures she’d ordered for the deck, but never got the chance.