Going by his barely contained smirk, Hutch relished this new line of questioning.
“Is that true, Dr. Gilmore? You spent your time at the hotel ... ” he paused for emphasis, “doing what engaged couples do?”
Her cheeks flamed with embarrassment. “Actually ... ” She stopped again, obviously stuck between loyalty to her ex-fiancé and telling the truth.
Hutch moved on, satisfied with the discomfort he’d caused. She was rattled now, staring into her lap and fidgeting with a shirt button.
“Dr. Gilmore ... ” Hutch paused, waiting until she looked up. “You know that the painting you authenticated is now back at McCallister’s being checked?”
She frowned briefly as she tried to recall. “Yes. John Allen told me.”
Hutch pushed his big frame forward and rested his elbows on the table. “Do you know what they found, Dr. Gilmore?”
“No, but I guess you’re about to tell me,” she answered, her chin rising defiantly. Mack smiled, despite the grimness of the situation. She wasn’t about to just give up—not by a long shot.
“The painting is a fake.”
Kyle opened his mouth to speak, but Gemma cut in. “But I would have known.”
“Exactly right, Dr. Gilmore.”
Her eyes widened at the realization of what she’d said. “But—”
“Is there a question here?” Kyle interrupted hastily.
Hutch grinned. “I’m told it’s a very good forgery. It might never have been discovered, considering the original is unlikely to turn up. Of course, Sorensen couldn’t have done it without your help.”
“He did do it without my help!” she shot out before Kyle could stop her.
“So you know Sorensen?”
She blinked and turned to Kyle with frantic eyes. “No, I—”
“Let’s move on, superintendent,” Kyle clipped. “If you have more questions, ask me as, apparently, I’m a suspect in all this.”
Hutch walked slowly to the table, sat down, and leaned back to casually straighten his tie over his paunch.
“The thing is, Mr. Lawrence, we don’t need your client’s confession. Sorensen’s statement is enough to arrest her.”
“I don’t think so,” Kyle said quietly. “There’ll be no arrest.”
“Oh really?” Hutch sounded casual enough, but Mack saw a flicker of uncertainty cross the wily old face. “And what makes you say that?”
“Because, superintendent, within an hour every major news outlet will have the story of how McCallister’s, the most prestigious auction house in the country, is up to its esteemed neck in an art fraud case. They’ll know how the young and dedicated Dr. Gemma Gilmore was made a scapegoat for their own incompetence. I know who the public will sympathize with.”
Mack straightened. Jesus, Lawrence was right. McCallister’s was terrified of this coming out. Every conversation he’d had with John Allen discussed the need to keep it quiet.
Gemma turned to Kyle, her expression total surprise. Obviously, this was a last resort tactic she hadn’t known about. Even her jackass ex looked unsettled by his own threat. As a high-profile defense lawyer, he’d know better than anyone the damaging effects of publicity.
“Are you sure you want to put your client through a media frenzy?”
Kyle’s gaze was steady on Hutch. “My client’s career is on hold, her reputation at stake. We have nothing to lose. I suggest you consult McCallister’s before doing anything rash.” He rose to his feet. “Now, if there’s nothing else you want to discuss, we’ll be on our way.”
Hutch stood as well, clearly caught off-guard. “Is this really how you want to do this, Dr. Gilmore? There’ll be no leniency without a confession.” When she didn’t answer, Hutch walked across to the door and held it open. “You’re free to go. For now.”
Gemma turned in her chair to look directly at the one-way mirror, and Mack wondered if she could somehow she see him. But then she frowned.
“Is Mack Buchanan here?”
Hutch followed her gaze. “I’m not sure.”
“I’d like to speak to him. Alone.”
“For God’s sake, that’s the last person you should have anything to do with,” Kyle barked. He started walking to the door. “We’re leaving, superintendent.”
Gemma sat completely still, her eyes locked on the mirror. “Please get Mr. Buchanan.”
Kyle did a fast U-turn and sat down again. “Gem, as your attorney, I’m ordering you not to do this.” He took her hand. “They’ve agreed to release you. We can go.”
She pulled her fingers free from Kyle’s grip.
“Now. And turn off the microphone.”
“I’ll check if he’s here,” Hutch said, banging the door on his way out.
Pacing the length of the office and back again, the old cop glared through the mirror. “Damn, damn, damn. I should’ve seen that one coming. We can’t risk charging her. I’ll need to talk to McCallister’s before we go any further. In the meantime, she’ll have to be released. You want to talk to her? Without Lawrence there, nothing will be admissible in court, but still, she might say something useful.”
Mack didn’t answer. Talking to her now wouldn’t be much use. She didn’t trust him an inch.
He watched Kyle frantically talking to Gemma on the other side of the glass. It wasn’t difficult to work out their conversation. The jackass would be giving her every reason in the book not to talk to him. By the way she was staring straight ahead, her eyes fixed on the mirror, he obviously wasn’t making any headway.
“Do you want to talk to her, Mack?” Hutch asked again.
“Last night, I told her I believed she was innocent,” he said, staring down at the floor as if it could throw some light on the whole mess. “So goddamned stupid.” More than stupid, he realized now. He’d abandoned every last shred of his common sense just to have her. For the first time in years, Mack felt at a loss. He’d always operated with military precision—identifying potential problems before the impact. Calculating risk, focusing on solutions. Doing what he had to do to get the job done.
But this? How the fuck had it all happened?
“Don’t beat yourself up about it, pal.” Hutch placed a hand on his shoulder. “So are you going to talk to her or not?”
Crap. He should walk away, just as he always did when he was finished with a woman. Except he wasn’t finished with Gemma. He wanted—no, he needed—to hear her explanation of why she’d done it. Maybe if she said the words, it would put a stop to what he felt. The wanting her. In a few days, he’d be back to active duty, but it couldn’t come soon enough. “Yeah, I’ll talk to her. But not here.”
“So what do I tell her?”
Mack was halfway through the exit before he answered.
“Tell her I’ve gone.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
“I go on a cruise, and I come back to this. I simply can’t believe it.”
With a sigh of resignation, Gemma set her fork down and soldered on her best “do we have to talk about it over lunch” face, which meant she was pouting. From her mother’s expression, it hadn’t worked. Hints—subtle or otherwise—were generally lost on Sally Gilmore.
Her mother’s call this morning, summoning Gemma to lunch at Antonio’s, was expected. She’d immediately texted her mother with the news following the police interview. Not that she’d wanted to tell her so soon, but there was little point in delaying the unavoidable fallout. Her mother was back in New York and would find out within hours. This way, Gemma could be prepared.
It was typical of her mother to choose a busy restaurant for their meeting. She preferred to have potentially difficult conversations with her daughter on neutral territory, with minimal fuss. As usual, she was impeccably turned out—her chestnut-colored hair swept into a chignon, her perfectly tailored forest-green suit selected to match her green eyes. She barely looked forty-five, ten years below her actual age. Right now, she looked cross, inconvenienced. Gemma didn’t think her mother had
actually grasped the implication of the fraud accusation.
“Believe it, Mom.”
“I dread to think what Lydia Cummings will say about this,” her mother continued with a pained expression. She turned to look around the restaurant as if checking for Lydia behind one of the decorative palms set along the walls. “She’s the biggest gossip in the bridge club. I’ll never be able to hold my head up after this.”
Gemma tried not to show her irritation. Nearly every sentence that ever came out of her mother’s mouth started with “I.”
“You’ll be able to handle Lydia and the club. You always do. Tell me about your cruise.”
“I won’t have you changing the subject, Gemma,” she chided. “Tell me how this mess happened.”
“As I said, McCallister’s has accused me of authenticating a forgery.”
“I know that. By the way, did you?” Her tone suggested she seriously considered it a possibility.
“Not you as well? The whole world already thinks I’m a criminal. Or at least they will, once this gets out. Kyle has managed to delay the whole thing, but that won’t last long. McCallister’s will have to press charges.”
“I just knew this would happen. Thank goodness you have Kyle. If only—”
Good Lord. Not this again.
“For heaven’s sake, Mom,” she interrupted sharply, “this has nothing to do with my not marrying Kyle.”
Her mother sniffed huffily and took several sparrow-sips of her dry martini before delicately dabbing at the corners of her mouth with a napkin. “I wasn’t going to say that. But now that you mention it”—she paused to fold the napkin, and Gemma inwardly groaned, anticipating the next words—“I know as well as you do, Gemma, this would never have happened if you’d married him.”
As always, the logic of her mother’s statement about Kyle and marriage was a mystery. She decided not to pursue it. That would be a marathon conversation best left for another time.
“The Wentworth went for a record price. It was on the news.”
Her mother shrugged away the information, undeterred. “I know your father would have wanted you to marry Kyle.”
It wasn’t true. Her gentle, kind, so beloved father wouldn’t have cared if she’d married a cash-strapped biker covered in tats, provided he was a good man and kind to his daughter. Her father had been her rock growing up—the buffer between her and her mother. Always there, encouraging her to do whatever particular hobby she’d latched onto at the time. He’d been thrilled at her decision to study fine art. She was nineteen when he died from cancer. Oh how she missed him, and never more than right now.
You are all your mother has, he’d reminded her just days before his death. Be patient with her.
Yes, she was patient with her mom, even though they didn’t see eye-to-eye on some things. Most things, actually. Gemma could never really understand how her parents had found each other—or stayed together, for that matter. Her father had been a highly respected college professor and her mother a high school teacher when they met. Within a week of her marriage, her mother had quit her job to devote herself to being a professor’s wife and securing herself on the right social ladder, which neither Gemma nor her father ever understood the point of. But still, she had created a comfortable home, and Gemma had wanted for nothing.
“Dad would want me to be happy, Mom,” she answered evenly. “Besides, Kyle is with Miranda now, and I’ve got more important things to think about.”
Sally took another sip of her cocktail while she studied her daughter. Her eyes narrowed as if just becoming aware of something. “You’re very pale. Tell me everything about the investigation. Who’s leading it?”
At least they were onto another topic, even if it was Gemma’s criminal career. “There’s an investigator—Mack Buchanan. I’m not exactly sure who he works for, but it must be for McCallister’s or Interpol or ... somebody like that,” she ended a little lamely.
Just saying his name hurt.
“I assume he thinks you’re guilty?”
Gemma closed her eyes against the sharp truth of her mother’s words. “Yes.”
“I suppose he would. After all, the painting was in your hands.”
“Gee, thanks, Mother,” she muttered down at her salad. “Actually,” she said, looking up defiantly, “just so you know, the painting ‘in my hands,’ as you put it, was genuine.”
“Then convince him.”
Good grief, if only it were that simple.
“Don’t you think I’ve tried? I’ve done nothing but try to convince him.” Among other things. She felt a sudden heat curling low in her belly. She crossed her legs. “He thinks I’m a liar. Besides—”
“Besides what?” her mother asked when she faltered.
“Besides, he used me to get what he wanted.” That sounded peevish enough for her mother’s eyes to widen in surprise.
“My goodness, Gemma. What is going on?” Her voice rose in interest. “What did he do?”
“Oh, not much—just lied to me, that’s all.” She hadn’t intended to sound so bitter. It had the effect of opening her mother’s mouth to a perfect O.
“I want to know everything, Gemma,” she half-whispered, leaning across the table as if Lydia might pop up from below with a microphone.
Gemma wondered if, for once, she should tell her everything. If nothing else, it would be interesting to see the reaction. Who knows—her mom might possibly be supportive.
“I met him at the auction when the Bonvalet was sold. Then a month later, when Maxim Stonebridge told me that the painting was a forgery, Mack Buchanan was there. Ever since ... well, he’s questioned me over and over. I thought he finally believed me, especially after we”—she stopped briefly as her mother’s eyebrows stretched high in surprise—“slept together.” She wondered why people used that term when sleeping was the last thing anyone did when they were having sex.
“I must say I’m surprised.”
“Are you really?” she asked innocently, playing light with the disapproving tone.
“I assume you liked this man enough to put aside your common sense?”
Gemma blew a very careful, slow breath before responding to the insult. “I guess I did like him.”
Did she? Yes, all through their arguments and the scorching sex, she had liked Mack and thought he liked her in turn. It was daft thinking on her part. It was just sex to him. Taking what he wanted, then walking away.
That’s what hurt the most. His refusal to talk to her at the station. It hadn’t been guilt or shame at his actions that made him leave. He’d gone because he was done with her, in every way. In the last forty-eight hours, she’d dialed him on her phone a dozen times to demand answers, only to terminate the call before it connected. She didn’t need him to say the hurtful words; she couldn’t bear it. When it came down to it, Mack had betrayed her and left her to her fate—that was all the explanation she needed. Knowing the “why” wouldn’t ease the wound in her heart.
“You more than like him, don’t you?”
The question caught her so off-guard, it took her a few moments to digest its perceptiveness. “No, Mom, I don’t ‘more than like him.’ In fact, I don’t want to see or speak to the man ever again.”
Her lie lacked conviction, but it went unnoticed.
“I’m glad. Kyle would be devastated.”
“Jesus Christ,” Gemma whispered.
She picked up the dessert menu, ordering herself to stay calm. Her mother was worse than ever over the whole Kyle thing. “Something chocolate-y would be good.” Right now, she needed comfort food, and lots of it.
“You know I don’t eat carbs,” came the scolding response.
Gemma’s phone rang, just as she’d decided on the chocolate sundae topped with hazelnuts. “Gemma Gilmore,” she said into the phone, peering around for a waiter among the diners.
“Gemma.”
Every cell in her body surged heat in response to the bourbon voice so close to her ear. �
�Yes,” she answered, putting on a “who is this?” tone.
“I need to talk to you.”
The nerve of the man.
“Oh, it’s you. What would you like to talk about?” She signaled to a waiter as he passed her table. “Chocolate sundae, please. Won’t you have a dessert, Mom?”
Her mother pursed her lips as if the question were a social gaffe. “Nothing for me, thank you,” she instructed the waiter crisply.
“Actually, this isn’t a good time. I have to go,” Gemma said into the phone, forcing a casual tone, despite the warmth pooling between her legs. That she could still react in this way, without resistance, was almost unbearable.
“No games, Gemma. I want to talk to you. I’ll pick you up later. What time?”
So the arrogance was still there. “You didn’t want to talk two days ago.”
“What time?”
“Who are you talking to?” her mother chipped in, watching keenly.
“Nobody important, Mom,” she answered loudly into the phone. “I don’t see what good meeting will do.” She’d lost the battle to stay cool. Now she was grumpy.
“Please.”
Her heart thudded at the unexpected plea. He’d never said please before. Ever. Curiosity might be rearing its head, but damned if she would make it easy for him.
She let the seconds stretch in a long, nerve-crunching silence. “Alright. Pick me up at four.”
“Four. Good.”
“What exactly do you want to talk about?” she asked on a rush, now realizing that should have been her first question.
But he’d gone.
She felt a little numb. Closing her eyes, she visualized him standing at her door. Tall, big-shouldered, and maybe with that heart-melting smile that always made her want to climb up his body to taste it. His sexy voice had liquefied her senses. Again.
Her mother’s voice interrupted her thoughts. “You aren’t actually going to eat that?”
Gemma blinked at the chocolate sundae in front of her. “Oh, thank you,” she said to the departing waiter. “Actually, I am. Are you sure you don’t want a dessert?”
Whirlwind Romance: 10 Short Love Stories Page 17
