After a few seconds, Crozalles turned away from the statue, and Jillian held her breath. This was the moment she waited for every time. Then, like sunshine, the sculptor beamed at the woman entering the picture as she joined him. They fell upon the marble and kissed—like the nymph and the angel.
And the artist becomes the art.
Jillian gave a sigh of envy. That Crozalles. He could still steal a woman’s breath away two hundred years later. But she bet he never could have imagined that his work would be admired by so many. Or that there would be one person who knew his true passion and the inspiration behind his most famous work.
Jillian had researched his life, and there was no mention of the woman he had loved, whom he’d encapsulated in marble for eternity. And without hard proof, Jillian’s hands were tied. His secret would remain just that.
Heavy footsteps wrenched her from her sadness, and she turned to find the museum’s night security guard approaching.
“Hello, Charlie,” she said. “I didn’t think you were still here.”
As he entered the circle of light around the statue, he smiled, and his ruddy Irish complexion reddened, making his white hair even whiter and his blue eyes bluer. “Evening, Miss Talbot. Working late again?”
“The pre-Columbian vase shipment came today. I wanted to make sure everything arrived intact.”
He shook his head. “Friday evening. You should be out enjoying yourself and breaking hearts.”
Any time the conversation turned to her personal life—or lack thereof—was a signal that the game had begun. It was a battle of wits she and Charlie had played many times. The man was a happily married hopeless romantic.
She said, “Hearts come along every day. Ancient vases don’t.”
“Yes, but vases are the past. Used and discarded. Hearts are the future.”
She countered. “Love is fleeting. Vases last forever.”
“But vases are also easily broken.”
She had him. “At least you can fix a vase. You can’t mend a broken heart.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Then that makes hearts far more valuable.”
She laughed. He’d won that one.
Charlie grinned in victory. “Would you like an escort out?”
“No, but thank you anyway. Give Marilee and the kids my best.”
“I’ll do that.” He tipped his hat. “Have a nice evening.”
“You, too, Charlie.” She hiked her bag over her shoulder and took the stairs to the first floor and the front entrance. She stepped outside, and the door closed and locked automatically behind her.
A warm August rain pelted West Harlem’s concrete as she exited the building and stood under the granite portico. Steam rose from the hot sidewalks, the vapor swirling softly. This small business district was quiet after hours, most shops gated for the night. Trees had recently been planted along both sides of the block, breaking the monotony of concrete and brick and making the neighborhood more welcoming amid all the neon lights and cityscape.
A yellow cab cruised by, squeezing around the construction cones blocking one lane across the street where a historic building was undergoing renovation, its facade covered by scaffolding used to reface the scarred brick. Right now, ugly plywood covered the front doors, but after years of neglect, the building would soon be beautiful once again and converted into apartments, small boutiques, and cafés. She smiled at the thought of bringing life back to something that was once forgotten.
The rain continued, and Jillian waited in the portico, hoping it would ease up, but as if on cue, it turned into a torrential downpour. Rats. Well, she wasn’t getting any closer to the subway by standing here.
Jillian cinched the belt of her lightweight trench coat and popped open her umbrella. She walked between the portico columns toward home. No work this weekend. She needed to catch up on her bills and laundry. Maybe she’d cook up some gazpacho for dinner. Review the recipes for tomorrow’s cooking class and—
Up ahead, she saw a shadow move and realized too late that she’d let her guard down. A tall, thin man with a long face and darkened features stepped between her and the street. He wore a black trench coat, open in the front, and for a split second she was hoping he was nothing more than a flasher. A freak show would be the least of her worries.
“Jillian Talbot,” the man said in a gravelly voice.
She blinked. What?
He took a step forward and gave her a lopsided smile that sent chills racing up her spine. A rush of adrenaline moved her back, but the man matched her step and grabbed her by the arm.
“You are Jillian Talbot, are you not?” he said, his grip firm as he studied her face.
“I’m not,” she managed to say over the sudden pounding of blood in her ears that muffled her hearing. How did he know her name?
He grinned. “Oh, I think you are.” He pulled a gun from inside his coat and pointed it at her. “My employer would very much like to speak to you.”
“I’m not interested,” she said, her voice shaking.
He leaned in closer, the smell of cigarettes and bad cologne clinging to him. “It wasn’t a question. This way. Quietly.”
Then he spun her around, and she felt the gun’s barrel jammed in her side. A shiver crawled over her as she descended the museum steps slowly on wobbly legs with him close behind. Her mind struggled to remain calm so she could figure out what was happening. Desperately, she hatched the street for help. Few people were braving the rain tonight.
“Stop here,” he whispered harshly.
“Who are you?” she asked.
“Unimportant.” His hand tightened around her arm as he watched the street. Her heart beat painfully in her chest as they waited. For what?
A young man wearing earbuds exited one of the apartment buildings down the block and walked right past them, oblivious to her danger. Jillian tried to get his attention, but he was head-down against the rain, lost in his music. Damn iPods.
A few more people and cars passed without giving her a second look. Her mind grappled with options as calmly as possible under the circumstances. She could fake fainting, but then what? Even if she could break free, the gun pressed to her ribs told her she wouldn’t get very far.
Halfway down the long street, a car shuddered and stalled in the single open lane, blocking a big black car behind it. The second car honked its horn and flashed its headlights three times as it waited. In her peripheral vision, Jillian noticed the man purse his lips.
Oh, God, she thought. That’s what we’re waiting for. She knew if she got in that car, she was in serious trouble.
Jillian closed her eyes. Not again. It was hell living in a family full of ex-thieves. Which one of them had gotten her into trouble this time? Her sister? Her father?
“Walk,” the man said to her.
“Where are we going?” she asked as she put one foot ahead of the other toward Eighth Avenue.
“A little trip south,” he said.
She noted the indifference in his voice. He was a killer. She didn’t even need her psychic abilities to figure that one out.
As they walked, she tried to think positively. Maybe they would just kidnap her and ransom her for a priceless painting like last time. Force her sister or her father to steal it, and she’d be free.
Maybe this time, no one would die.
So much for positive.
Up ahead, a big man in a leather jacket and jeans crossed the street and staggered up the sidewalk. Any hope she felt sank as she watched him stop to balance himself on a parked car. Even if she could draw his attention, he looked too loaded to help her. He veered toward them, and her abductor pulled her to one side.
“Hey.” The drunk cut them off, forcing them to stop. He waved a bottle of liquor at their faces and swayed. “How ’bout a couple bucks for a good cause?” he asked her kidnapper.
“Get lost.”
Jillian’s eyes were locked on the man in front of her. His wavy dark hair was wet, unkempt, and cur
led over his forehead. Beneath the scruffy stubble was a square jaw. His eyes were hooded, bloodshot, and red-rimmed like he hadn’t slept in a while. His gaze flickered past her—holding hers for a fraction of second before returning to her kidnapper. But in that brief connection, she saw intelligence. Hope.
The drunk grinned, and something lucid and dangerous flashed across his face. He raised his arms. “Just askin’ for a dime, dude. Chill.”
She winced as the kidnapper jabbed her in the ribs with the gun and pulled her around. “I don’t have one. Now get out of my way.”
The next thing Jillian knew, the drunk stumbled into them. A hand shoved her aside. She nearly lost her footing and grabbed a nearby lamppost for support. Behind her she heard a crack, then a grunt of pain, and she turned around just in time to see the kidnapper slump forward into the drunk.
The situation changed so fast, all she could do was stare as the drunk pushed the wheezing, incapacitated kidnapper to the sidewalk. Then he tucked the kidnapper’s gun in his jacket.
Who was he? How had he known—then she spotted a man exit the black car and race toward them.
“Move!” she yelled to her rescuer. She tossed her umbrella, turned, and ran for her life. She passed the museum. It was locked up tight, and by the time she found her keycard, she’d be dead. Her heels pounded across the wet pavement toward Seventh Avenue.
The wind picked up, and she leaned into the driving rain. She never heard the drunk come up behind her. He wrapped his arm around her waist and ran with her. Jillian cast him a quick glance and inhaled at the stark, harsh lines of his face. Gone was the clumsy drunk. His eyes were sharp now, taking everything in. Watching. She checked behind them but couldn’t see the men.
“Are they following?” she asked.
“Not yet,” he answered, his voice oddly calm. When they reached Seventh Avenue, he said, “This way.” They crossed the intersection and melted into the pedestrian traffic heading north, still keeping a fast pace.
“They tried to kidnap me,” she finally said. “We need to go to the police.”
Simon heard the fear in her voice. Great. Cops. Just what he needed—her to spend all night in a precinct when he was trying to kidnap her.
“I’m a cop.”
She blinked at him with the clearest blue eyes he’d ever seen. The photo Jackson had given him didn’t do her justice.
“You are?”
She sounded relieved, so he nodded and slowed them to a brisk walk. “Off-duty. Your lucky day.”
Her whole body seemed to relax, and he contemplated his next brilliant move. He needed to turn at the next block, to where he’d parked his Lexus, then get her into the car and out of the city without a fuss. One scream and he’d have a big mess on his hands.
He glanced back. No sign of the Men in Black or their car. They might have missed her this time, but they wouldn’t give up easily. Obviously, he wasn’t the only one with her photo. Not that he should be surprised.
It had been easy enough to find her. Her number was in the white pages, for chrissakes. But when her answering machine picked up at home, he’d taken a chance that she was still at work. He hadn’t expected them to be waiting for her, too, which meant that she was hot. And not in a good way.
Not only that, but also it was damn near impossible to hide the blond-haired, blue-eyed beauty, even in New York City. Tall, willowy, and dressed in designer clothes, she was hard to miss. He’d had no problem picking her out on the street.
“Let’s turn here,” he told her and guided her around the next corner. They were partway down the block when she started to slow down. “Can I ask where we’re going?”
He needed to keep her moving. His Lexus was just coming into sight now. “I have a car. I’ll drive you to my precinct. You can file a report there.”
He held his breath. Would she believe him?
“That would be very nice of you. I’m not sure I can walk any farther.” Then she gave him a quick smile. Perfect. She thought he was her savior. He figured that would last until about Yonkers.
“I’m Jillian,” she said.
“Simon.”
“Thank you for coming to my rescue.”
“No problem.”
They walked in silence for few more steps, and then she slowed to a stop. He turned and found her staring at him with a strange look on her face.
“How did you know I was in trouble?” she asked.
He shrugged. “Cops. We can tell these things.”
Suspicion clouded her face. “Did you know he had a gun on me?”
Simon paused. Careful. “It’s always a possibility.”
Her expression turned serious. “Attempted kidnapping. Guns. Shouldn’t you be calling for backup or something?”
Didn’t even make it to Yonkers. Time to turn on the charm. He gave her his most endearing smile. “Backup isn’t going to help if those guys catch up with us. Safety first.” He swept a hand gallantly toward his car.
Apparently unconvinced and wholly unmoved by his charm, she took a step back. “I see. Well. Thank you for your help. I think I can walk, after all.”
Christ. Nothing was going to be easy today. He cast a quick glance up and down the sidewalk. Everyone in the vicinity was minding their own damned business, just like they should. Simon opened his jacket to show her his gun. “Keep walking.”
When she saw the weapon, her mouth dropped open in outrage. Anger flashed in her eyes, turning them dark and narrow. “Are you kidding me? After what I’ve been through tonight, are you kidding me?”
“Do I look like a comedian?”
She put her hands on her hips. “You’re no cop, either.”
Then he saw a black Cadillac whiz by the intersection at the end of the block. Was that them? He wasn’t taking any chances. If they got his plate number, there’d be real trouble.
He grabbed her arm and yanked her toward his car.
“What are you doing?” she said, dragging her feet.
“They’re back,” he said and unlocked his Lexus from twenty feet away.
They reached the car. “Well, I didn’t see them.”
“Well, I did.” Simon opened the door. “Get in.”
She turned back to him, fury mixed with fear. Fury won. “No.”
He pinned her between him and the car. Her pupils dilated when he got close. Her breath hitched. Her heat and subtle perfume swept over his tired, aching body. It was a cheap thrill, but it was probably going to be the highlight of his day.
“Get in, lady,” he said with admirable self-control, all things considered. “Or I’ll put you back where I found you.”
Her gaze flickered toward Seventh Avenue as if she were trying to decide which was the lesser evil. Her eyes narrowed, studying him with laserlike focus. A thousand unspoken thoughts flashed across her face, but she didn’t say them, and for that, he was grateful. He just wasn’t up to it.
Seconds later, she climbed into the passenger side. “Fine.”
“Fine.” Simon slammed the door shut and cursed Jackson’s eternal soul.
CHAPTER
3
Simon—the kidnapper—drove them to the heart of the Bronx and parked in a scary back alley behind a small Italian restaurant called simply Giovanni’s. It looked like the perfect hangout for the mob, which of course figured. Because that was the way the night was going. In fact, Jillian wasn’t sure what was more dangerous—the abductor or his driving. Her fingernails were almost permanently embedded in the armrests.
She hadn’t dared engage in conversation en route for fear of distracting a man hell-bent on crossing four lanes of traffic in one move, hitting every side street, and taking the corners on two wheels. She was pretty sure he’d been a cabdriver at some point.
She studied him as he shut off the ignition. Despite everything, she wasn’t afraid of him. He didn’t have the cold, soulless eyes of a killer or the dark shadows that drifted around true evil. In fact, he seemed mostly sane aside from the Mario A
ndretti complex and the gun. And he had saved her from the other kidnapper. She shook her head at the lunacy of it all and unlatched her seat belt. “You always drive like that?”
“Only when I want to make sure I’m not being followed.”
She squinted at him. “Who are you? And what do you want with me?”
The question gave him pause. He appeared younger now in the glow of a single floodlight. Maybe thirty-eight, thirty-nine. But he looked at her with weary eyes like he’d seen it all and more.
He hitched his head to the back door of the restaurant. “I’ll tell you inside.”
Sudden fear swept through her. In the car she felt relatively safe. There was a link to the outside world through the windows, and when he was busy driving, nothing horribly bad could happen to her. Not true once she was inside a building. “I’m not hungry.”
“I am,” he replied firmly.
He got out on his side, and she got out on hers. For a moment she considered trying to escape, but her high-heeled boots weren’t made for running through back alleys. Besides, he didn’t appear too worried about it, which meant he knew he’d catch her. And if she screamed, the only thing she’d probably scare up would be a rat.
He escorted her to the back door and knocked. A few moments later, it opened to a short, compact fiftyish man wearing a white apron that strained from one too many meatballs. A big grin spread across his face when he saw them.
“Simon,” he said in a booming voice and clapped him on each shoulder.
“Hey, Giovanni,” he replied with an easy grin. “Is the kitchen still open?”
“For you, always,” the man said and turned his attention to her. Thank God. This was her chance.
Simon tugged on her arm and pulled her forward. “This is Jillian.”
Out of Time Page 2
