by Lauren Smith
Wes reached the door first and pressed a finger on the small white doorbell incased in a gold frame. A few seconds later, a man appeared, dressed all in black. The butler, Mr. Clancy, nodded in greeting.
“Mr. Thorne, Mr. Devereaux, this way please.” He led them to one of the sitting rooms off the main hall.
The Mortons, Jill and her husband Daniel, were seated on a sateen loveseat speaking quietly, their faces strained. They were in their sixties, but both still trim and almost ageless in looks. They were a favorite family among the island’s elite, and they deserved the attention. The Mortons, while rich, were not ostentatious, and as patrons of the arts, they put much of their wealth back into the artistic community. More than once, Wes had flown with them to New York to see an opera or ballet. They also offered up the pieces of their private collection to the Met for temporary exhibits. Wes admired them, and he admired few people in this world. He only wished his parents had taken lessons from the Mortons, rather than lose themselves in their obsessions with social power and elitism.
“Wes, my dear boy,” Jill stood and greeted him, taking his hands in hers, shaking them gently. Her light blue eyes, though somewhat dimmed with worry, still managed a small twinkle. Dear boy. He was a grown man, but she’d known him since he was a child. The endearment would have angered him coming from anyone else, but from her it made him smile.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Morton. Royce called me with the news about the Goya.”
Daniel stepped forward and shook his and Royce’s hands.
“We’ve had a devil of a time coping with it,” Daniel admitted, his faint British accent coming through. He’d moved to America as a young man and had made his fortune here, married Jill, and became a U.S. citizen, but the Brit was just underneath his skin.
“One minute the Goya was there; the next it was gone. We were hosting a party and in the span of two hours, it was removed right under our noses.”
Wes thought this over carefully. “Do you have a guest list I can see?”
“Yes,” Jill said. “The FBI took a copy and is interviewing all of the guests, but you know how these parties can be…”
Wes knew only too well how easily things could go wrong at parties on the North Shore of Long Island. Twenty-five years ago, eight-year-old twins had been kidnapped out of their own kitchen in the midst of a summer party their parents were hosting. The kidnappers had seemed to have no trouble vanishing into the night without being seen or discovered. Not much had changed in the way of security.
“How did you know it was gone? Royce said there was a forgery left in its place?”
“Oh.” Jill blushed. “It was the frame. That was the only way I could have known. The wood had a hairline fracture, from when Daniel dropped it a few weeks ago. You could feel it, but not see the crack.”
Jill retrieved a wood frame from the coffee table by the loveseat.
“The FBI returned this to us after they swept it for prints. It was clean. But it’s not our frame.” Daniel ran an index finger over the edge of one of the corners. “There was a crack, just here. I only noticed it was wrong because the painting was slightly crooked and I touched it to readjust it. It was then I saw the lack of the break.”
He ran a hand through his gray-streaked hair and sighed.
Royce examined the frame and passed it to Wes. The frame was eight-by-ten in size, incredibly small by most art standards. Rather like the Mona Lisa. Many famous paintings were tiny in comparison to the general public’s expectations, but this particular Goya was even smaller.
The Goya was a small painting of a woman overlooking a cliff from a terrace. It was not in the form of his dark period, which was his most famous style, but more along the lines of the years he painted portraits of high-society members. The image of the woman was strangely personal, as though Goya had seemed to know the woman intimately, the way the wind teased her hair and her skirts fluttered about her legs, showing her fine figure. Wes knew the woman in the painting had a story to tell, and when it came up for auction, he contacted the Mortons immediately. They’d wanted to buy it and he’d helped arrange it.
He continued to study the frame.
“What do you think, Wes?” Jill took the frame back from him and set it down on the table.
Wes pursed his lips, thinking. He wasn’t an agent, or a police officer, and had no real skills in investigation, but he knew art. And more important, he knew the seedier side of the art world.
“Whoever took this will have to hire someone to fence it, and then it will be put up on the black market, unless they already have a buyer arranged. I will put my feelers out, but I also want a copy of your guest list and copies of the video footage of the collection gallery.”
Daniel nodded. “Of course, we can get that for you. We’re waiting on the FBI to finish with the tapes and then we’ll send them to you.”
“Good.” Wes thanked the couple and then he and Royce headed for the door.
Wes stared at the car. He’d been too lost in thought earlier when Royce had picked him up to notice the state of the Spyder. It was dirty and covered in splashes of mud.
“What the hell have you been up to while I was gone?”
Royce threw back his head and laughed. “You have no idea, and I’m definitely not telling.”
“Right.” Wes chuckled and got into the passenger seat. His phone buzzed and when he pulled it out he saw there was a text from Lilly Hargrave, a woman who owned an expensive clothing and lingerie shop in town.
“Back to your place?” Royce raked a hand through his hair before he buckled his seat belt.
“Actually, take me into town. Lilly has something for me.” Wes buckled himself in and couldn’t resist the smile. The day had started out grim, but things were looking up.
“Lilly? What do you want with her? I thought you and she were over ages ago?” Royce, the paleontologist, said, digging up Wes’s fossilized romantic history trying to find answers.
“We are done,” he assured his friend. “But Lilly is still a friend. She’s ordered something for me from Paris, and I want to pick it up immediately.”
“Well, aren’t you Mr. Mysterious today.” Royce spun the wheel and the Spyder shot out of the Morton’s gravel drive and onto the road toward town.
Wes ignored his friend’s subtle taunt. “What do you make of this painting situation?”
“Me?” Royce was quiet for a moment. “Depending on the level of access of the guests, we might be looking at one of our own on the North Shore as a potential thief. Of course, a stranger may have gotten into the house during the party, but I’ll hold off on guessing until I see the footage and the guest list. What about you?”
Wes drummed his fingers on the windowsill of the passenger side. He didn’t want to think about one of their own being responsible, but the sad truth was it could be very possible.
“I think we may have a fox in our hen house, Royce.” It was time for hunting.
* * *
Callie stared at the Gulfstream G150 on the tarmac, her knuckles white on the little duffel bag containing her clothes.
Jim let out a low whistle.
“That boy sure knows how to travel in style. Good thing, too, because you deserve the best, sweetheart.” Her father hugged her with one arm and kissed her cheek.
“Thanks, Dad,” she whispered. It was weird to think she was leaving Colorado for the first time in her life and she’d have to say good-bye to her father, at least for a month.
“You’ll be fine,” Jim said softly. “He’ll take good care of you. If he doesn’t, I’ll put some buckshot into that boy’s behind.”
She hugged her father back, torn between fighting off tears and laughing.
Jim grinned at her and then waved to the distant figure who appeared at the top of the plane’s steps.
Wes Thorne, in a black suit, looking every inch as intimidating as ever, waved back at Jim. Callie glanced away, her entire body heating up with embarrassment. She knew her face had
to be beet red. The last time she’d seen him, he’d been ruthlessly kissing her in the tack room of the barn. It was not an experience she could ever forget. In fact, it was branded in her mind, like a flaming beacon, both alluring and frightening. She hadn’t been able to make it one day without thinking about that kiss and how it had changed her. It had changed her; she couldn’t argue that. She hadn’t been able to get him out of her mind. The way his lips felt against hers, the heat of his body, and the secret longing to know more of what could be between them. And at the same time, she hated herself for that curiosity and desire.
“Come on, Callie.” Her father’s rumbling baritone made her jolt as she realized he was already disappearing into the plane, no doubt to get a good look at what was inside.
Wes strode down the steps, meeting her at the bottom. She nearly stumbled back because he towered over her, making her feel instantly vulnerable.
“Hello, Callie.” Her name was exotic and beautiful when he said it, and he made it sound like saying her name tasted good on his tongue. When she thought of his name it escaped her lips in a breathless sigh so easily.
With a little shake she forced herself to regain control. “Mr. Thorne, nice to see you again. You really didn’t need to fly me to New York like this. I could have flown commercial just fine.”
Wes’s cobalt eyes narrowed. “Callie, everything I do has a distinct purpose.” His tone was almost cold, and she swore she could feel its icy burn. For some reason that infuriated her.
“Everything you do has a distinct purpose? Is that what you call kissing me in the barn? What purpose did that serve? Was it all part of your plan to seduce me?” She dropped her bag at her feet and jabbed him in the chest with one finger. Rather than retreat from her, he leaned in even more.
“It did indeed have a purpose, and when you’re ready, I shall tell you,” he explained in a silky tone that seemed more dangerous than sensual.
“You can’t use me, Mr. Thorne. I’m not that kind of girl,” she warned him, not really sure how she’d be able to prevent him from doing anything to her. If he dared to touch her again, she might lose her senses.
“Someday you will beg me to use you, Callie, and when that day comes, I will concede to your wishes and satisfy us both.” He brushed the back of his knuckles over her cheek and she shivered, not backing down. He wouldn’t dare do anything like kiss her again, not while her father was close by.
“That will never happen,” she reminded him.
A flash of something dark and wild shadowed his eyes for the briefest instant before he masked his reaction with cool indifference.
“We’ll see. I do have thirty days to change your mind, after all.”
She bit her bottom lip and bent to grab her bag.
“Don’t be silly,” Wes murmured and beat her to it. He wrapped his long elegant fingers around the straps of her duffel and hoisted it up. Then he turned his back on her and marched up the plane stairs, where he handed the bag to one of the attendants. Wes turned and held out a hand to her as she ascended the steps.
She reacted without thinking and placed her hand in his. As his fingers closed around hers, she couldn’t help but wonder if she’d accepted a devil’s bargain. The gleam of approval in his eyes warmed her to the tips of her toes.
“Pick any seat you like.”
She had to squeeze past him to get into the cabin. He always did that, got into her space and made her aware of his physical dominance and strength, and how small and delicate she felt in comparison to him.
Her father was at the back of the plane stroking one of the leather seats and shaking his head with a smile.
“This is quite a plane, Wes,” Jim announced with obvious approval.
“Thank you, Mr. Taylor. I agree. Make yourself comfortable, Callie. We have drinks and food at your request. Just ask Lindsay, the attendant.” He nodded at the middle-aged blonde-haired woman who was seeing to their luggage.
“Do you mind if I have a word with you, Wes?” Jim moved to stand in the doorway of the plane and with a subtle jerk of his head indicated Wes to come outside with him. Wes glanced at Callie before following her father down the steps and out of view.
Uh-oh, I hope Dad doesn’t threaten to shoot him. Callie smirked. Maybe putting some buckshot in Wes’s ass was what the man needed.
* * *
Wes followed Jim down the steps of the small ladder leading to the tarmac. When they both were standing away from the open plane door Jim shoved his hands into his pockets and studied Wes.
“My baby girl is hurting,” Jim noted.
“Yes,” Wes agreed. The image of her standing in her bedroom, her face contorted with pain, her body trembling as she unraveled before him…It was a punch to his gut. The anger at thinking of her loving Fenn, a man who didn’t want her, had vanished in an instant and the need to hold her, comfort her, had overridden his other thoughts. She brought out the strangest urges in him, and it was damn uncomfortable, but if he had to put up with feeling unbalanced just to have Callie in his arms, in his bed, he’d take it.
“I like you, Wes.” Jim’s compliment sounded more like a warning. He took a step closer to Wes.
“The feeling is mutual,” he replied, uncertain how to respond. The old rancher had won him over, which was not an easy thing to do.
“Good. Now, since we like each other so much, it would be a good idea not to do anything to jeopardize our budding friendship, right?” The rancher’s eyes were twinkling with mischief.
The question sounded rhetorical and Wes didn’t answer.
“I know you want her, boy. And I’ll say this. She’s a grown woman, free to live her life, and I want her to do that.” Jim rolled back on his heels, in a casual manner, hands still tucked into his pockets.
“That’s why I’m taking her to Paris. It’s the best place for her to live, to try a life of adventure and discover who she really is.” He hadn’t meant to let that last part slip out, but it did. Maybe Jim wouldn’t think him a romantic, because he certainly wasn’t, but he knew this was what Callie needed more than anything else.
Jim’s eyes narrowed but only slightly. “Paris is the city of love.”
“And art. Callie is talented. Gifted. I want her to see what she could become if she applies herself and gets the best instruction.” He had the strange need to justify why he wanted to take Callie to France. It wasn’t all about seduction. He wasn’t a villain intent on ravishing an innocent maiden. Well, he did want to ravish her, but he wanted her to see where her talent could lead if she was willing to explore her passion for it.
“Fine. Sounds like a trip she’d enjoy. My baby girl’s never left the state of Colorado before now and she needs to see the world.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small leather box and handed it to Wes.
“What’s this?” Wes asked. He opened the box to find a small seashell bracelet and a folded piece of paper.
“I meant to give it to Callie on her twenty-first birthday but now’s a better time than any. I knew she’d be upset about Fenn. This bracelet was her mother’s. I made it for her from shells we picked up on Venice Beach, where we went for our honeymoon. It was the only trip we could afford when we got married. It’s Callie’s. Give it to her when you feel the time is right.”
“Thank you.” Wes tucked the leather box into his pocket.
Jim suddenly smiled. “Oh, just one more thing.” He leaned in, a menacing feral gleam in his eyes. “It doesn’t matter where you are, if my baby gets hurt and it’s your fault, a Winchester rifle works just as well in France as it does in Colorado and I have an up-to-date passport.”
Wes grinned, returning the warning in his own expression. “Understood.”
Jim nodded and waved a hand at the plane. “Now, go on, you don’t want to miss your flight out of New York. And remember, take care of my baby girl.”
“She’ll want for nothing,” he promised. It was a promise he intended to keep.
Wes tugged at his neck
tie, a bittersweet smile on his lips as he nodded and turned back to the plane and climbed the steps.
* * *
Callie briefly considered sitting down against one of the window seats and using her purse and backpack to put distance between her and Wes, then decided not to. She was a big girl and could handle him. Besides, there wasn’t much he could do to seduce a woman on a plane.
There was a large TV at the front of the cabin next to the space that led to the cockpit and the stewardess area. Callie set her purse and backpack next to the row of leather chairs and sat down. The leather gave against her weight, and she had to stifle the satisfied sigh at the feeling of sitting in such a luscious seat. She studied the TV for a minute before she saw a small shiny wooden cabinet beneath it that looked more like a part of the wall. Callie leaned forward and pressed against one corner of the door and the pressure latch clicked and the door opened. Inside, a wall of movies was revealed, along with a Blu-ray player and a couple of remotes.
Movies. She loved movies. Her father had called her a movie buff when teasing her, but it was true. There was something magical about the way a story was presented on the screen. She supposed film appealed to her because she was so visual, and it was like moving paintings, or dancing art, to her way of thinking.
Tilting her head to the right to better read the titles on the spines of the cases, she paused when she came to one. Laura. A 1940s film noir classic about a street-smart detective who falls for a beautiful woman whose murder he is investigating. It was one of her favorites. She started to pull the case out, then stopped and slid it back into place. This wasn’t her plane and she should ask Wes before using the player.
