Die in Plain Sight

by Elizabeth Lowell

  “Good-bye,” she said huskily. “Please give Susa my regrets. Her encouragement of my own painting is something I’ll never forget.”

  He saw both the determination and the shadows in her eyes. “Lacey, whatever it is, let me help.”

  “I can’t.”

  “That means you won’t.”

  She closed her eyes. “If it was just me, I would. But it’s not.” She opened her eyes and gave him a crooked smile. “Don’t forget to take your movie poster.”

  That pissed him off. “Here’s your hat, what’s your hurry, and don’t come back again, is that it?”

  Her smile wavered. “It’s better that way.”

  “No, it’s better this way.”

  His hands tightened, his mouth lowered, and he kissed her, surprising both of them. Neither of them stayed surprised very long. Both of them had been wanting this since the teasing kiss over her easel in Cross Country Canyon.

  Lacey went up on tiptoe, pressing into the kiss. Into him. His hands shifted and drew her close, then closer. She tasted hot, exotic, ripe with possibilities. In a heartbeat the kiss went nuclear. Before he knew what he was doing, he wrapped his arms around her, turned, and flattened her between his body and the shop door.

  Even as he told himself to back up and back off, her arms tightened around his neck and she made a throaty sound that told him she was with him every bit of the way. He groaned and went in deeper, trying to get all of her sweet female heat he could. When his hands pushed under her sweatshirt, she hesitated, then shuddered with pleasure as his thumbs teased her nipples through her bra. She twisted her hips against him, moving against the erection he couldn’t have concealed if he’d tried.

  Heat exploded through him. Distantly he realized that one of them had better come up for air or he would strip off her jeans and take her right where they were, right now, picking her up and wrapping her legs around his waist and watching her and driving into her until—

  Lacey’s hand over his mouth cut off the hot vision he hadn’t even been aware of saying aloud.

  “Holy shit,” she said, leaning against him, trembling, struggling for breath while her heart went wild. “What’s happening?”

  Ian lowered his forehead against hers and grabbed at breath. “I was going to ask you the same thing.”

  She stuck out her lower lip and looked stubborn. “I asked first.”

  He laughed despite the sexual need hammering through his whole body. “You go to my head, darling, among other places.”

  She didn’t have to ask which other places. She could count his heartbeat in the erection pressing against her belly. Normally she would have raked any man up one side and down the other for getting so intimate in such a hurry. What worried her was that she wanted more of Ian, not less. She wanted what he’d described—him driving into her, watching.

  “And no, I’ve never tried to nail a woman the second time I kissed her,” he added. “Sorry about that. I’m wondering what happened myself.”

  “Ho boy,” she said, blowing a stray curl away from her eyes. “Don’t apologize. Must be something in the air today. You got me hotter, faster, than anyone ev—” She broke off, appalled at what she was saying. Groaning, she tried to hide her blush against his chest.

  Gently he lifted her chin until she met his eyes. “You’re not cooling me off here,” he said, but he was smiling the kind of smile that made people trust him with small children and large fortunes. He brushed his lips over her eyebrows, her nose, her cheeks, and inhaled her breath without kissing her. “Come painting with Susa, or let us stay here with you.”

  Thoughtfully Lacey ran her fingertips over the outline of his shoulder holster beneath his jacket. “You’re really her bodyguard?”

  “No, I really work on the security side of Rarities Unlimited. I protect art, not people. Sometimes my boss does favors for the Donovan family, and vice versa. This is one of them. Until I put Susa on the Donovan company plane back to Seattle, I’m on duty. Otherwise I’d be trying the old-fashioned dating thing with you, and would have been since I first heard you coming down the stairs talking about a beer kind of day.” He blew the springy curl away from her eyes and kissed her temple. “Don’t shut me out, Lacey. I don’t want to spend the rest of my life wondering if I let something special slip through my fingers because of work.”

  Lacey looked up at Ian’s dark brown eyes and even darker hair. He wasn’t smiling. He meant every word. “Oh, God, what a mess,” she said in a rush of air. “Why now, when I can’t?” She bit her lip and looked away, then looked back at him. “Rain check?”

  “Haven’t you heard? It never rains in southern California.”

  “Does that mean no rain check?”

  “I’m not that patient. Never is too long.”

  She closed her eyes and her generous mouth curved down.

  “You said it wasn’t just you,” Ian said when the silence stretched too long. “Who else is in trouble?”

  “It’s a family matter and no one is in trouble. It’s just…awkward.” Really awkward.

  He looked at the stubborn line of her lower lip and wondered what it would take for her to trust him. And then he wondered why the hell it should matter so much.

  “Well, if it’s just awkward, there’s no reason not to go painting, is there?” he asked reasonably. “We won’t ask any embarrassing questions.” Like why you needed a fake name, for instance.

  “Not enough time,” Lacey said, thinking of her grandfather’s paintings hanging out in public like dirty linen. “I have to do something else before the shop opens. It can’t wait. Maybe—maybe tomorrow?”

  Ian would have pushed if he hadn’t sensed that it wouldn’t do him any good and probably would hurt his attempt to get her to trust him. He didn’t have any real sisters, but he’d been raised next door to his first cousins, all four of them girls. He knew when a female was movable and when she wasn’t.

  Lacey wasn’t.

  “Okay,” he said. “Painting tomorrow, six A.M. I’ll pick you up for dinner at seven tonight.”

  She blinked. “Dinner?”

  “I know you eat.” He smiled. “I’ve seen you. I even put the food on your paint table where you couldn’t miss it.”

  “Um, yes, but—”

  “Good,” he interrupted. He wasn’t going to take no for an answer, not with the taste of her still on his lips and the heat of her body reaching out to him. “Seven o’clock for dinner. That will give you time after your shop closes to add up the till or whatever.”

  She started to say something and found herself kissing him instead. Though gentle, the kiss was even hotter than the first one. She could feel him straining at the leash he kept on himself, and she could feel herself pulling hard right along with him. When he lifted his head, she blew out a rush of warm air and wondered why this one man could get to her so fast and so deep.

  “Seven o’clock,” Ian said huskily, lifting her away from the door.

  She watched the door close behind him and asked herself what the hell she was doing, letting herself be seduced by Susa Donovan’s bodyguard.

  Susa, who could uncover Lacey’s grandfather for the fraud he was.

  Savoy Hotel

  Thursday morning

  22

  Lacey leaned against the expensive rare-wood counter of the hotel and waited for the manager to get around to her. She’d been waiting for more than twenty minutes, watching people hurrying through the lobby with armloads of stuff destined for one of the hotel’s seventy-nine rooms. Suites, actually. When accommodations started at four hundred dollars a night and went up fast, patrons expected enough room to spread out.

  Scents from the restaurant adjoining the hotel drifted through the lobby—or perhaps the delectable odors were pushed by fans through the building’s ventilation system to lure more patrons. The pricey eatery had unofficially opened two weeks ago, but the media opening wouldn’t be until this Saturday.

  “Ms. Marsh?” The concierge paused
and said more loudly, “Ms. Marsh?”

  Lacey jumped and reminded herself that she was Ms. Marsh. She turned toward the sleek Eurasian woman who was helping out behind the registration desk. “Sorry. I was daydreaming.”

  The woman smiled. “It is a beautiful place to dream, is it not?”

  Lacey sighed and wondered why some women got all the elegance and she got all the klutz. Her own blouse and worn fleece jacket were clean, if paint-stained, but only a connoisseur of garage-sale couture would approve of her jeans. The concierge’s accent and clothing were indelibly French, her looks riveting, and she carried herself like the unusual beauty she was.

  “Mr. Goodman is on his way,” the concierge said. “Perhaps you would like some tea or coffee while you wait?”

  “Mr. Goodman? Is he your manager?”

  “No, but he is the one responsible for the security of the art for the auction. Our manager would like to help you with your request, but cannot, as it is Mr. Goodman’s responsibility. He will be only a few moments. May I show you to the cafe? It would please the hotel to offer you a complimentary breakfast.”

  Lacey looked at her oversized wristwatch. The face of a vivid green Tyrannosaurus rex leered back at her. She thought the fluorescent orange teeth were a particularly nice touch, even if it made the dark hands of the clock look like roving tooth decay—and for fifty cents, who could resist? It kept hours and minutes just like the five-thousand-dollar models.

  “I’m really slammed for time,” Lacey said. “I had no idea there would be any problem picking up my paintings. Surely someone here has a key to the storage room?”

  “I am very sorry, Ms. Marsh.” The concierge smiled and made a graceful gesture with her hands. “I have not the authority, especially as you have not the identification.”

  “I have a receipt signed by Mr. Goodman.”

  “Yes, but without personal identification…” She spread her hands. “It is difficult, you understand?”

  Lacey smiled without warmth. The concierge was polite, but it was a definite gotcha. Lacey had plenty of ID, and none of it was in the name of Ms. January Marsh.

  “Coffee would be lovely,” Lacey said through her teeth.

  No sooner had she been seated in the luxurious seventies retro cafe, with blandly psychedelic tableware, than Mr. Goodman came hurrying forward, looking worried.

  “Ms. Marsh, this is most distressing,” he said, sitting down at her booth before she could stand up. “Is it something we’ve done? Are you unhappy with the way we’ve handled your paintings?”

  Lacey tried not to sigh. “Not at all. I’ve simply decided to withdraw them from the function.”

  “But why?”

  “Does it matter? The paintings are mine and I’ll be taking them with me when I leave.”

  “Oh, dear. La Susa will be terribly upset. She was so enthusiastic.”

  Lacey simply lifted her left eyebrow and said nothing.

  “Have you talked with La Susa about this?” Mr. Goodman asked.

  “No.”

  A server brought coffee and poured it into rainbow-hued oversized cups. Lacey ignored hers.

  “Perhaps if you would talk with her,” Goodman said, “she could reassure you that—”

  “No,” Lacey interrupted, forcing a smile. She’d learned in dealing with her mother that a polite, gentle stance simply didn’t get the job done. You have to know what you want and stick to it. “I understand that you’re the only one who can open the room where the paintings are.”

  “Ah, er…” He looked as uncomfortable as he sounded.

  Lacey’s smile thinned. “I see. Some people enjoy playing Button, Button, Who Has the Button, but I’m too old for that game. Do you have the key with you?”

  Quietly Goodman cursed the Forrests for putting him in this unhappy position. On the other hand, Ms. Marsh would come and go from his life like the wind. The Forrests were forever.

  “Mr. Savoy Forrest will be here soon,” Goodman said.

  “How nice. The key, Mr. Goodman.” Lacey wasn’t smiling any longer. She was getting angry—and frightened.

  Always pushing. Always have to do it your own way.

  I’m sorry, Dad, but it’s too late for me to change.

  Now she was trying to do the right thing and that wasn’t working, either. It should have been so easy, damn it. The paintings were hers.

  All your stubbornness won’t change the fact that my father was a forger. Now the whole world will know.

  “The key,” she repeated tightly to Mr. Goodman. “I’m running late as it is.”

  “It won’t be but a minute.”

  Anxiety streaked through Lacey. She didn’t want to believe that she was going to be the cause of her father’s career going in the toilet.

  But you’ve always wanted to be a judge.

  You don’t always get what you want.

  “Mr. Goodman,” she said distinctly, “are you telling me that until a third and wholly irrelevant party arrives, I can’t have access to my own paintings, which I left in your care?”

  Goodman smoothed the one long strand of hair that he had combed from his right ear to his left in a vain attempt to cover his balding head. “Mr. Forrest has expressed great interest in the paintings.”

  Lacey bit back on the rising turmoil of her emotions. That was another thing she had learned when arguing with her mother: the person who lost her temper first lost the argument as well. That was one of the two reasons she hadn’t gone over the table, put her face in Goodman’s, and started yelling about lawyers, police, and newspapers.

  The second reason was that she didn’t want the cat any further out of the bag than it already was.

  “I’m aware of Mr. Forrest’s interest in my paintings,” Lacey said evenly, “just as he is aware of my dis interest in selling the paintings to him. Am I to understand that somehow he is in a position to prevent me from reclaiming my paintings?”

  “Er, no, not at all. It’s just that—” Goodman broke off and pushed to his feet with a relieved smile. “Mr. Forrest, how nice of you to join us on such short notice.”

  “I’m always ready to rush around to accommodate the arts,” Savoy said. “Fortunately, my father had a set of spare hotel keys. I brought them immediately when you told me you were having a problem.”

  “Keys?” Goodman said blankly. “Oh, yes. The desk said there was a problem. They didn’t say what it was.”

  Savoy smiled and held out his hand to the casually dressed young woman whose eyes snapped with temper and intelligence. “Ms. Marsh, I presume? Savoy Forrest. Sorry to keep you waiting. Things are a little crazy when you’re running late on a grand opening.”

  Ingrained good manners had Lacey accepting the handshake even though she wanted nothing to do with Mr. Savoy Forrest.

  “How do you do,” she said formally, letting go of his hand almost in the same instant she touched it. “Mr. Goodman was trying to explain to me why I can’t take my paintings. He wasn’t very effective. Perhaps you can do better?”

  Savoy smiled even as he sized up Ms. Marsh. Like Bliss, she had a temper. Unlike Bliss, she could keep it on a tight rein. Also unlike Bliss, Ms. Marsh was either not interested in fashion or not able to afford it. Considering the fact that she was supposedly an artist and had the paint-stained jeans to prove it, he rather guessed that expensive clothing wasn’t high on her personal must-have list.

  “Mr. Goodman was doing me a favor,” Savoy said. “So I did him a favor and came here.”

  Lacey didn’t smile. “I figured that out all by myself. Now I would like someone to do me the courtesy of no longer wasting my time. I came here for my paintings. Whichever of you gentlemen has the key to the storeroom, please put it to use. I’m sure both of you have other places to be. I know that I do.”

  “The Savoy Museum is willing to offer you fifty thousand dollars for one of those paintings,” Savoy said, and watched the young woman’s mouth drop open.

  “Holy—er, fifty tho
usand for an unsigned painting by an unknown artist?” Lacey asked in disbelief.

  Savoy shrugged. “As you’re very well aware, the painting may or may not be by an unknown artist. If it’s a Lewis Marten, the museum will have made a wise investment. If it’s not, we will still have a fine example of California plein air painting to add to the museum’s collection. Either way, you will have fifty thousand dollars.”

  Sweet God, no wonder Grandpa Rainbow sold the occasional painting when cash got scarce. And if he didn’t sign them, who could prove fraud on his part?