Seraphina bit her lip and decided to let Oliver off the hook. She promised to look after Brendan on her end, even as Oliver declared that Cappy Don hadn’t totally given up hope. They were looking into other avenues and exploring the details of the search to decide if anything warranted further investigation or prompted a new line of query. She hung up feeling useless and flat, like a balloon slowly deflating.
When Kay rang a few moments later, Seraphina wasn’t at all surprised. “Hello, my dear,” she greeted her friend. “I bet you think your best friend and handsome lover are both in low spirits and wish to do something to alleviate our gloom?”
Kay’s lively snicker made Seraphina smile despite her glumness. “Man, I need to brush up on my mysteriousness or Oliver is going to lose interest.”
“Hm. I doubt that. I think your wide-open personality is what he loves most about you.”
“That and how I like to force feed people good food when they’re in the doldrums,” she drawled. “So, yes, please come over for dinner tonight. Not just because I always have the best takeout and stale cookies. Oliver may not have said as much, but he’s had his head bent over the photographs they took of Brendan’s apartment since before the sun came up this morning. He’s a frazzled mess. I figured you’re as invested as he is, and it couldn’t hurt for a pair of fresh eyes to join him.” She paused and her voice lowered. “He’s not himself right now. And I don’t know how to help him.”
Seraphina nodded even though Kay couldn’t see her. “I might only get in his way. But I wouldn’t mind a look myself.” She gave the credit to curiosity, but she had another agenda, as well. Until she was ready to face Grant, she’d take any excuse she could get to avoid him. “I’ll see you tonight.”
Chapter 17
Seraphina went home and changed at the end of the day. She kept her pale gray slacks, but traded into her peep-toe heels for black canvas tennis shoes, and her white-trimmed blazer for a jean jacket with fat metal buttons. She arrived at Kay’s only a few moments after the food. Kay opened the front door, and Seraphina followed her into the kitchen where she began unloading brown paper bags full of white food containers.
Seraphina cocked her head like a dog straining to hear a whistle. “Doesn’t smell like Chinese.”
Kay gave her a smug smile. “That’s because this Southern girl needs stick-to-your-ribs food every once in a while. When’s the last time you indulged in some home style fare, my friend? Potato salad, deviled eggs, mac and cheese, barbeque ribs, pulled pork and chicken, baked beans, flaky biscuits…” Her voice grew muffled as she leaned up onto her tip-toes and over to stick her face into one of the bags for a better view. Poor girl was five feet nothing if she was an inch. She cast Seraphina an apologetic glance as she settled back onto the balls of her feet. “Sorry. Not a green vegetable in sight.”
Sera usually ate pretty light, but eating with Grant had infected her with a yearning for good food, the homier the better. “I’ll live,” she promised Kay.
Kay hitched her chin toward the exit. “Oliver’s in the parlor.”
Sera loaded her plate with potato salad, pulled pork, and two deviled eggs and found her way to the parlor room, where the photographs from Brendan’s apartment were spread out across the surface of a low rectangular coffee table. Oliver sat on the sofa with his head pinioned between his palms, the very picture of dejection.
He glanced up as she entered. “Oh. Hey.”
Seraphina frowned at him. “Don’t be so glum. There’s something. There has to be.”
In a move most unlike the Oliver she knew, he stood up in a rush, an agitated groan escaping. “No, there isn’t.” He didn’t shout, but close enough to freeze Seraphina mid-step. He ran his hands through his hair. It stuck up at ends. He didn’t meet her gaze as he shook his head and stalked past her.
Several bewildered seconds passed before Seraphina could gather herself and look behind her. Oliver was long gone, but Kay stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame. Her arms crossed, and her lips were drawn in an unhappy grimace. “He’s been like that since this afternoon. He wasn’t able to join in the search. Despite everything, he still has to keep his distance from Brendan. I think he expected to catch something the officers missed.”
“I’ve never seen him so…”
“Angry?” Kay suggested, her brow quirking. “He tries to stay upbeat, but this has been hard for him. He’s used to being in the thick of the action, not hiding away like a scared possum. It’d be like sitting on our thumbs while someone else executes our designs.”
Seraphina took the warm spot on the couch Oliver had vacated. It was still indented with his shape. “He must’ve been sitting here for hours.”
“Ever since a courier from the department brought the photos by,” Kay concurred. “I’m gonna make him a plate and put away leftovers. Feel free.” She swept her hand through the air, indicating the piles of pictures.
For a while, Seraphina pecked at her food and glanced through the spread. They’d photographed everything. Kitchen cupboards were all opened and the insides exposed. Other than varying sets of mismatched dishes, she saw nothing of interest. Brendan’s fireplace was a narrow column of white brick with a simple yellow pine ledge. And there, the candelabra.
She set aside her plate to dig deeper into the pile until she found a close-up. She sighed. They were different. Not enough that they couldn’t, in fact, be a set, though. Both featured little cupids with reaching arms, chubby legs, curly hair, and rosebud mouths. The coloring was different, as well. The one discovered in Tanbee House had a more orange cast to its brassiness. Old as the candelabra might be, the thing was cheap. She bent her head over the photo. Well, if they were antiques, Brendan’s would be the less valuable of the two. There was a dent, long and narrow, as if it had fallen from a height and hit the edge of a table or something.
Something about the dent taunted her. The crease wasn’t deep or angular enough for brass. The edges of the indentation had an almost rounded quality. She snorted softly. Almost as if the metal were soft.
She froze, her fingers gripping the picture so hard it bent in her grasp. Soft metal.
Something else…something about Brendan tickled the lobes of her brain. She’d felt the sensation once before, back when she’d discovered the candle stick wedged into the wall. But what was it? Some subliminal message from the buried recesses of her mind. While she waited for the idea to surface, she had a firm grasp on another suspicion.
Kay ducked into the room. “Having fun yet?”
Seraphina palmed the picture of Brendan’s candelabra. She blinked at the surreptitious action, unsure of her own motives. She had a suspicion, but she wasn’t ready to share it just yet. Oliver was in no mind to withstand another disappointment. Until Seraphina was certain, she wouldn’t get his hopes up. She stood abruptly. “A blast. Listen, I forgot something. Back at the office. I’ve got to run, but I’ll call you. Later.”
Kay’s blond brow crinkled. “Are you sure? It’s late.”
“I’ve got keys. Besides, there’s usually someone hanging around after hours. Young upstarts burning the candle at both ends, janitors, what have you. Sorry, Kay.”
She inhaled and sighed. “I understand. At least finish eating, though.”
Seraphina was already moving toward the door. “I can’t. I’m so sorry. I have to go.” She didn’t wait for Kay to dismiss her or argue. She bolted for the door and took off at a brisk pace toward town. When she reached a busy enough avenue, she hailed a cab. With her access card, she slipped into Gallagher Interiors and headed straight for the elevator after a curt nod toward the night shift security detail hanging out in the lobby.
It took her five minutes to reach her office. As predicted, she passed a few stragglers. Swiftly, she unlocked her office, stepped inside, and then locked herself inside. In the bottom drawer of the filing cabinet on the far side of her desk,
she withdrew the candelabra she’d taken from Tanbee House.
It was only a matter of time before Oliver wanted his evidence. Eventually, he’d break out of his slump and want to attack the potential relation between the two candelabras.
She retrieved her pen knife from her desk and flipped the candle holder over. She placed the tip against the flat bottom and pressed. Then she gave up being delicate about it, and gouged the metal as hard as she could.
Her suspicions were confirmed after the second strike. Brass was tinny, heavy stuff. But the tip of her pen knife pushed into the metal, revealing it as not only soft, but also coated. With her breath held in her throat, she turned the pen over and scraped. A curl of paint peeled away.
She licked her lips. The candelabra wasn’t brass at all, but gold. Gold, painted to hide the real value. If the candelabra in Brendan’s apartment was also paint-covered gold, would that be enough to declare them a match? How many coincidences were one too many for a judge? This was good, but was it enough?
She was loathe to hand Oliver one more disappointment. Instead, she’d look into it herself, first thing in the morning. Because the answer was simple—as simple as tracking down the appraiser Brendan mentioned that one afternoon in the lounge.
She realized with a start that the flighty feather in the back of her mind had found purchase. The appraiser. Brendan had recommended one to Lucia. Perhaps, he’d let the comment slip without thinking.
If both candelabras were gold, maybe—a strong maybe—she was looking at just another coincidence. But if Seraphina could prove Brendan had the objects appraised together, then hid their worth, well now, that was a solid chain of evidence. That was enough to secure an arrest that would stick, and firmly link Brendan to the drugs at Tanbee House. Whether he’d had the runner who’d nabbed the drugs from Tanbee House leave the candelabra behind, or if he’d snuck into the property himself afterward, she could prove he’d had possession.
Maybe. If, and only if, he’d ever had the antiques appraised. Longer than a long shot, but one she had to take. She groped around in her desk until she found the scarf she’d used to hide her camera. She carefully wrapped the candelabra, and cradled it in the crook of her arm. If someone asked why she was smuggling a bundle out of her office in the evening hours, she’d have to get real clever, real quick. She escaped the building without incident, and paused on the sidewalk in front of the building to withdraw her cell phone and compose a quick text.
In late tomorrow. Helping O.
She hoped that would be enough to keep Grant from bothering her for a few hours. They hadn’t spoken since the day at the lake. Even from a distance, far out of sight, she felt linked to him, drawn by a thread of tension that sought relief. She loved him. She knew it, accepted it. But coming to terms with what it might mean for her future—for their future—would take time and consideration. And if she knew him at all, she knew he wouldn’t be satisfied leaving things as they were between them for long.
She hailed a cab with her free arm and clutched tight to the swathed candelabra with the other. This was it, perhaps the last chance to bring Brendan Berkley to heel.
* * * *
Grant stared at the text message. He didn’t buy it. He sent a quick response, but not to Seraphina. Oliver exposed her false excuse with his reply that he was free in the morning. No plans. No meetings. More scratching his head over results of the search warrant.
Perhaps he deserved Seraphina’s deceit. Tit for tat. And if she were anyone else, he’d accept it as his due. But Seraphina wasn’t anyone else. She was forthright and unabashed in the face of confrontation. So something else was going on. He stood up, grabbed his keys, and left his apartment. Text messages and phone calls weren’t going to cut it.
In less than ten minutes, he was standing outside of Seraphina’s building. Her expression at finding him at her door didn’t bode well for what happened next. But he refused to leave without trying, at least. “May I?”
She stared at him another few seconds before stepping back, tightlipped. “If you must.”
He stepped into the apartment. The lit candles provided an ambient glow.
Suddenly, he felt awkward. Too clumsy and rough for the small, cozy space Seraphina inhabited. He scratched his cheek and tried to recall the singlemindedness that had propelled him here.
He found a grain of it. Just enough to convince the next words to come out of his mouth. “You lied to me. I just wanted to drop by and see for myself if this means we’re even now.” He met her gaze directly. No chagrin in her pale eyes. Only a sort of wariness that sent a vague sense of alarm through him. “What’s going on?”
Seraphina closed the door, brushed past him, and strode into the kitchen with a defiant swagger. She’d been making herself a cup of tea. A fat porcelain mug sat on the counter. She picked up a spoon lying next to the mug and proceeded to swish around the steeping tea bags before meeting his gaze again. “Fine. I’m not going to help Oliver tomorrow morning. But what I’m doing is equally important. I won’t take long, I promise. An hour. Two, tops.”
He leaned against the other side of the island counter so they could face one another. “We’re on the same team. The secret’s out. So, why push me away?”
“I’m not pushing anyone,” she declared. She stirred her tea. “In fact, there’s no momentum to speak of. We are as we’ve ever been, Grant.”
He cocked his head at her. “That’s the most false thing I’ve ever heard you say. I know, as you do, that there’s more to your reticence than secrets between us, and this secret wasn’t mine to share, after all. I kept Oliver’s secret. And I know you, and I know you can’t hold that against me for long. So, shall we call this what it really is? I’ll happily speak plain.”
Her carefully guarded expression slowly hardened, until she might’ve been made of stone. “Grant, don’t.”
“Don’t?” He stared a challenge at her, daring her lips to form a lie, her eyes to hide the truth. “Don’t say out loud that I’m not willing to let you get away this easy? Don’t say we both know there’s something real and precious between us? Don’t accuse you of being too scared to open your heart? Or perhaps you’d tell me don’t be offended that you assume all men are like your father? That you suspect I get my kicks from dangling my affection and love just out of your reach, and offer you nothing true?”
Seraphina’s eyes were perfectly round and she looked as terrified as a deer caught in the glare of headlights. When she finally blinked, her eyes were lined in unshed tears.
He hated to have caused them. But if he didn’t stand his ground, she’d push him so far away he’d never find his way back. “I’m not asking for a chance. I’m not asking you to trust me, or put blind faith in me.”
He paused and searched for the courage to say what came next. This seemed easy when it was a matter of Seraphina’s vulnerability. But to meet her in the middle, he had to expose his own. He was Grant Gallagher. His reputation revolved around the concept of his immovable will, his life around the illusion of invulnerability. For him to toss all aside was more than simply telling Seraphina how he felt; he was placing a high-stakes bet, and taking a shaky chance on a loss.
He licked his lips, swallowed, and refused to allow himself to glance away, or look anywhere but directly into her eyes. “I’m asking you to tell me you love me. If, in fact, you do. I’m telling you I’m as guarded and distrusting as you are, and I’ve decided I don’t care anymore. If you did break my heart, I can’t find any part of me that would ever regret giving it to you. So, it doesn’t matter that I love you. It doesn’t matter that I’d risk my own ruin and stand vulnerable in front of you, weak and stupid and pleading. It doesn’t matter that I’ve come to regard you as more important than my pride. What love I can give, however short that love may fall, is yours. The only thing that matters now is if you want it.”
As they stood staring at one an
other, Grant thought of great, romantic movie scenes. The heroine and hero look into one another’s eyes as they fall into the abyss. Time stands still. Snowflakes fall in gentle swirls.
This wasn’t like that at all. This was standing on the precipice of darkness and praying the person you were deadlocked into a staring contest with would reach out to save you before you fell. It was a slow unraveling, a dwindling into the myriad of doubts that rode on the flipside of every word he’d uttered. How many stories were told of men who “knew” what a woman wanted? On the knife’s edge of the moment suspended between them, he all but decided her next words would be a gentle letting down. But he’d already offered her his pride. She’d have it, one way or another.
Her hand had traveled up to cover her mouth. Behind it, she drew in a shaky breath. Above it, tears still threatened but held steady on the rims of her lashes, defying the fall. Grant wouldn’t put any faith in those. Tears could mean anything, from fear to regret.
He stood there until he was certain the air between them would crack and shatter like glass. His hands seemed to weigh as much as the moon as he reached for her, gently pulled her hand away from her mouth, and took her face between his palms.
He kissed her. Not hard, not soft, but firmly. A promise.
She sucked in a breath and pulled back slightly, so her gaze could scour his face. Grant knew the doubt in the lines around her eyes. She nodded mutely, her lips pressed together. She blinked the moisture from her eyes, and finally uttered, “I do.” She bit her lip, as if she still doubted his sincerity. “I do want it.”
She kissed him, then. They’d known passion, and they’d been taciturn. They’d spoken of their past hurts, told one another their stories. But in that one kiss, there was a taking and a giving beyond what all they’d shared before. Their careful, singular openness seemed so fragile, Grant was almost afraid to end the contact, or move at all. Like a bubble, the moment could burst.
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