Love Unlocked

by Libby Waterford

  Eve choked on her own stupidity as soon as she saw the Rembrandt propped against the wall where she’d left it. Why hadn’t she packed it away the moment she’d assured herself that the paintings had arrived in one piece? From the way Hudson was staring at it, then at her, she would not be able to sell him the “very good reproduction” line. He was a painter, and a genius one, to boot. He could tell fellow genius when he saw it. Damn.

  Her brain kicked into overdrive to think of a way to deflect the situation, to con Hudson into believing the portrait of a man in a feathered hat was indeed a copy, when she became aware of an unsettling truth.

  She didn’t want to.

  A part of her wanted to tell Hudson exactly why a Rembrandt lay in the middle of her hallway, and why a dangerous thief named Deacon expected her to steal a priceless painting in a scant week. She could own up to why she’d come to this middle of nowhere town. She could confess that her air of sophistication and respectability masked an undeniable criminal past.

  She craved telling him all of that, and more. How the way he looked at her made her feel treasured and his touch made her long for more. How she’d gladly bare her body for him to paint if only he’d use those clever hands on her once he was finished.

  Her intuition, normally her greatest asset when negotiating a tricky job, was telling her that if she did tell him the truth, maybe not all of it, but some, he would listen and perhaps understand.

  Eve was thus caught between hope and fear. How could she expect a creator of great art to understand someone who stole it?

  She held his gaze for a long moment, waited for questions, demands.

  Hudson reached out.

  She didn’t understand what he was doing until he was holding her hand as if it were as fragile as a Limoges figurine.

  “Are you in some kind of trouble?” he asked, his voice unexpectedly gentle.

  For some reason, her eyes grew wet and she took a gulp of air. His gesture threw her off balance even more than her attraction to him.

  “I—”

  A crash from the kitchen made them both turn their heads. John let out a long, mostly unintelligible curse, then called cheerily, “Everything’s okay!”

  She couldn’t help a small smile as she let out a long breath. Hudson relaxed his posture, but held onto her hand.

  “Hudson—”

  “You know what, Eve? I don’t want to be lied to. You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to, but please, don’t lie to me.”

  She nodded. Her silence was his answer.

  “Do I want to see what else is in that crate?”

  If she was going to hang some of its contents anyway, Hudson would see them. He’d be back. Hard to keep someone at a distance when you wanted them right by your side.

  “I suppose you’re more interested in these than in the color I painted the guest room.”

  “You can show me that later.”

  She knelt down next to the crate, pulling him down with her instead of releasing his hand.

  “I packed these a while ago,” she said, taking out the next carefully wrapped item. “I’m not sure exactly…oh, of course!”

  She uncovered an oil of a stark gray farmhouse sitting in the middle of a field. “This will look perfect in the library!” Her unease had been replaced with delight at meeting her old friends again.

  “Is that a Wyeth?” Hudson asked.

  “Yes. Andrew.”

  “Gorgeous,” he said. “His use of color matches the drama of the Maine landscape to perfection.”

  He helped her pull out a larger piece. Together, they unwrapped it to find a mostly white canvas, with gray lines running in geometric patterns.

  “Richard Tuttle?” he guessed.

  “Agnes Martin.”

  “You have exquisite, if eclectic, taste.”

  Hudson seemed as excited as she to see what treasure would next emerge from the shipping container. His comments stoked her own enthusiasm and she eagerly brought out another to show him. Each painting revealed another aspect of her soul, whether he realized it or not, and bound them together tighter than all of the secrets left unsaid.

  Hudson stared at the charming oil still life of flowers and fruit as Eve finished unwrapping it. “I can see why you wanted all that security.”

  She shoved a pile of bubble wrap and newspaper back in the crate and held the painting away from her. “Yes.”

  “That’s from his later work,” Hudson said, much more casually than he felt. The artist was Paul Cézanne, the painting worth millions.

  “It’s my favorite,” she said quietly.

  As she placed it carefully next to the others, he rose, surveying the fortune in artwork that was lined up against the wall, wondering about their owner. This house was beautiful, modern, but not flashy or in a particularly expensive location. She had to be loaded to own a collection like this. He’d never speculated about her arrival in Chelsea, her casual spending of thousands to furnish her home in record time, to outfit it with the best security money could buy. His brother had been smiling for weeks with the boost having her as a client had brought his small company. Will had been talking about moving further into the high-end market, servicing the reclusive wealthy who lived scattered around the coast.

  Maybe she was a dot com investor, or inherited a wad of dough from an elderly millionaire she’d married for the money. Maybe she was a bank robber. Did it matter?

  Her silence when he’d told her not to lie to him led him to believe she’d acquired these pieces in a less than up and up way. That her past was unknown to him both excited him and made him worried for her. Why should he be afraid for a woman he barely knew? She brought out a protective side in him that he’d thought reserved for his nieces and sister.

  Though there wasn’t anything else that was brotherly about the way he felt about her.

  John rang the proverbial dinner gong and ushered them to the table. Hudson was glad for the distraction both from Eve and the mesmerizing pull of those priceless paintings.

  Dinner was surprisingly delicious, with the two bottles of crisp Chardonnay accompanying the meal helping conversation flow easily between the three of them.

  Though he’d been initially reserved, and, if he was honest with himself, a little jealous, he warmed up to John. The man was witty and kept the tone of the evening light.

  Hudson was surprised when he asked questions bordering on the personal that Eve and John answered as if they had nothing to hide. Perhaps he was imagining things, and they were simply two old friends, one passing through town, the other starting over in a fresh place.

  “So, how did you two meet?” John asked, between bites of pesto linguine.

  Eve glanced at Hudson, an amused look in her eyes. “You’ll never believe this, but I locked myself out the very first day I got here. Hudson came to let me in.”

  “A man of many talents,” John said.

  “Rather.”

  Hudson cleared his throat as a blush swept over Eve’s cheeks, reminding him of every wicked thing he wanted to do to her. “My brother’s a locksmith, I was covering for him,” he said. “So how far back do you two go?”

  “Oh, donkey’s years,” John said.

  “I don’t want to think about how long, it will make me feel old,” Eve said.

  “School chums?” Hudson asked.

  “No. I met John though his father. He introduced us and we hit it off as friends, did some traveling together.”

  “Oh? Whereabouts?”

  “Mostly southern Europe. There was one trip to Moscow,” John said.

  “And Morocco.”

  “Oh, yes, Casablanca. Believe me, it’s not as romantic as it sounds.”

  “As I recall, you were dating that stuck up girl and she thought the perfectly nice hotel we were staying at was as bad as a backpacker’s hostel.”

  “She left after one night, accusing me of forcing her to rough it,” John said, rolling his eyes. “We were at a three star hote
l!”

  Hudson and Eve laughed. “Sounds like fun,” he said. “I’ve never been to North Africa. I spent about a year traveling around Europe with a buddy of mine after my first big show. The sophomore slump loomed large in my mind, so I decided to get away for a while.”

  John seemed eager to latch on to the topic of Hudson’s career. “Tell us more about yourself, Hudson. It’s not every day that one shares dinner with a world famous painter.”

  Outside of his family and a handful of suppers at Rue’s place down the hill, he wasn’t accustomed to sharing dinner with anyone. In the past couple of years, he’d taken the reclusive artist bit to heart. Easier to pretend he was an eccentric than admit to grief, guilt, and being a has-been. It felt good to be among friends—well, he could stretch and call them that—eating something more interesting than diner food.

  “I grew up in Chelsea, escaped as quickly as I could to San Francisco, spent some time in New York, and came back a couple of years ago when my sister passed away and my parents moved to Paso Robles.”

  “I’m sorry,” Eve said softly. “She must have been young.”

  Hudson hesitated. He’d surprised himself by mentioning Stephanie at all. Eve’s face showed sincere sympathy that made him wish he were alone with her. Maybe he could tell her the entire story. Maybe she’d understand. Or maybe she’d regret ever trying to get to know him better.

  “She was thirty. She had a fast moving type of cancer. I had always planned to move back to Chelsea, and my brother and his wife live here with their three kids. I like to play the doting uncle.”

  “You find you like the peace and quiet?” John asked, as if the concept left a bad taste in his mouth.

  Hudson laughed. “I do.”

  “You should try it sometime, John. It’s very refreshing,” Eve said.

  “I give it six months, tops. Our Evie’s a city girl at heart.”

  “I’m trying something new,” she said tightly. “And I like it. Really.”

  The men burst out laughing at her protestations.

  John hung back in the kitchen when Hudson made his move to go.

  “A pleasure, Hudson,” he said formally. “I’m sure we’ll meet again.” Then he winked at Eve, making her roll her eyes.

  Hudson laughed, and allowed Eve to lead him out of the room toward the front door. She stepped out with him onto the narrow front porch, shutting the door behind her. The night was black as pitch, but so clear they could see stars like so much confetti at Times Square on New Year’s. The salt-flavored air was chilly, and she rubbed her bare arms.

  He reached out, to warm her, perhaps to give in to the desire he’d had all night to hold her, but she stepped back.

  “I don’t think it’s a good idea for us to get closer,” she said.

  He had been looking at her face, smelling her, hearing her laugh all night, and he was at the end of his short leash of self-control. On some primitive level of his cognition, she was right. Touching her wasn’t a good idea at all. It would lead them both down a path they would rather not be on.

  The war raging in him caused his frustration, his impatience, his sheer lust to rise to the surface, and he almost growled as he disregarded her words and crushed her to him, covering her mouth with his, increasing his grip with blatant satisfaction when she instantly melted into him, opening her mouth readily to his, belying all her careful protestations.

  They fused together, time and place and words all falling away, blood and heat and unadulterated passion rising up. His hands were in that gorgeous mass of hair, his mouth wanted to be everywhere. She pressed herself to him as desperately, filling his male need to be wanted, to be needed.

  If there hadn’t been a curious Englishman inside the house, Hudson would have pulled her back in, dragged her up those stairs, and taken everything he wanted. They might not even make it up the stairs. He’d have her anywhere, take her everywhere. As he pictured her delicate body naked under his, she stepped away. He couldn’t fulfill this promise to himself until she wanted it as much as he.

  He released her slowly, holding them both steady as they caught their breaths. He could wait. “Thanks for dinner,” he said in a low voice, then let her go, disappearing into the inky black. She didn’t wait for him to drive away, but retreated back into the house. His heart raced so loudly he could hear his own pulse over the roar of his pickup as he backed it up and turned it toward town.

  Chapter Seven

  Eve was going to have to make do with the memory of two soul-altering kisses. She’d never had a use for passion. Passion made you sloppy and got you caught. She was always cerebral when it came to her life—so cerebral that men were only pawns to get what she needed. Those kisses had kept her awake half the night, her mind unable to stop replaying every searing detail. She assembled the ingredients for French toast, sugar being her regular antidote to the lethargy of a bad night’s sleep.

  She had never met a man who made her want to be a different person, a better person. For the first time, she felt ashamed of her past. How would Hudson react if she told him she’d broken laws in six countries, stolen millions of dollars worth of paintings from mostly innocent people? Would he be impressed that she could pick any lock in under thirty seconds, or run for the hills?

  He didn’t seem so sanctimonious that he might turn her in, but she didn’t think he would be happy, either. She wasn’t entirely happy with herself. There was passion between them, yes, but there was also a deeper link, and that connection couldn’t be made real and whole unless they were honest with one another. She couldn’t have a relationship with him if she was hiding a ten-year chapter of her life from him every minute of every day. If he’d been a man without demands, whom she could be merely comfortable with, perhaps she could leave her old life behind as she’d planned and feel okay about not revealing that side of herself. She could get a regular job, get married, have babies, and no one would have to know.

  But he was Hudson. He would have to know. She longed to have the freedom to open herself up to him all the way. She pictured his reaction if she told him the truth. He’d recoil, shocked, angry, or she didn’t know him very well. Eve laughed at the sentiment. She didn’t know him at all, and she was contemplating his reaction to her deepest secrets. The chance of them getting to that point was nil.

  He wasn’t coming any closer to her. She couldn’t let him.

  All that was left of the French toast when John entered the kitchen was a plate sticky with syrup. For the first time, Eve noticed how thin he was, how his eyes were ringed by purple smudges.

  “Are you all right?” she asked sympathetically as she poured him some strong coffee.

  “Jet lag,” he said, downing half a cup. His hands were a bit shaky when she topped him up.

  “How long are you staying?” she asked as she put together a simple chopped salad for lunch. The men working on the deck were on their own lunch break in the shade of the trees behind her house.

  “I have to leave tomorrow, but I’ll meet you in Montecito for the gig next week. If you decide to do it, that is.”

  She set the salad bowl down hard on the bar. “You know I have to do it, John, but it galls me.”

  “Let’s get it over with and then Deacon will leave us alone.”

  She wanted to believe that. She tried to get herself into the brisk, businesslike mindset that helped her quell her nerves before she plunged into a dangerous job. “Tell me the details. I was so annoyed yesterday I didn’t listen very closely.”

  “It’s a Mondrian. About a foot and a half square. Worth ten mil. Some rich businessman is giving it on permanent loan to the Santa Barbara Art Museum. It will be on display for one night only, that’s next Friday night, a week from tomorrow, at the bloke’s house in Montecito. There’s a fundraiser that night. Should be a couple of hundred people. We can get in, scope out the security, then come back later and lift the painting. Delivery is by Saturday at noon.”

  Eve imagined the chain of events. They�
�d handled worse situations on shorter notice. “It sounds straightforward enough. Can we find a hole in the security with that little prep time?”

  “We’ll have to. It has to be that night. Apparently, the painting is stored in a vault until then, and the next day, it will be transported to the museum. We don’t have time to pull off an in-transit switch or anything like that.”

  John helped himself to more coffee. He seemed better with the caffeine in his system, and he was like a magician when it came to finding weaknesses in even the tightest security system. With him by her side, they could do this.

  “Fine. I’ll think about how to gain access to the party. Once we’re there, we’ll have to get creative.”

  “I’ll get to Montecito a few days early and see how much intel I can gather. You meet me there Friday and we’ll do this thing.”

  “This is not exactly how I’d pictured spending my time when I quit the business, you know.”

  “But don’t you miss it, even a little? Did you know I haven’t worked since you left? No one has the same finesse as you, Evie darling.”

  Eve felt a little guilty for leaving her friend in the lurch, but she’d been content to settle into a life where she didn’t have to always look over her shoulder. “You’ll find someone even better than me. Or you could always find something else to do. Try going straight like me.”

  “Me? I’m a lifer, Evie. I thought you were, too. Honestly, what are you doing in this place?” John made a vague gesture with his hands, indicating the general vicinity. She sighed. He didn’t understand.

  “I’ll miss the excitement, maybe, for a little while. But Deacon coming after me, making Paris too hot, was a blessing in disguise. Now that I’m away, I feel like I can start my life over, do it better this time. Maybe do something to help people instead of only helping myself.” She smiled at his mock-horrified expression. “This is paradise, John. Fresh air, farmers markets, friendly people. I think I’m going to be happy here.”