If I Didn't Know Better

by Barbara Freethy

  "You didn't agree to that, did you?"

  "No, that would be taking things way too far."

  "I wonder what happened to the missing paintings," he mused.

  "They could have been destroyed. We did throw a bunch of ripped canvases into the garbage. I suppose I should have looked more closely at them, but I just wanted to get the destruction out of my sight and out of my mind."

  "Which was understandable. I still don't think anyone has a right to anything they left behind. You're being generous to try to help them, but you don't have to bend over backward for them."

  "Hopefully, I won't have problems with any of the other artists. I also had a nice conversation with Didi Eckhart from the gallery. She liked the paintings and asked me to pick out the ones I like the best and bring them over this week. Then we'll figure out a date for the show. She also said she'd put the word out to see if we can find any of the other artists, just in case anyone else has a problem, which I hope they don't."

  "You accomplished a lot."

  "It did feel good to get something done." She paused. "Didi actually offered me a job."

  He gave her a quick look. "Really? In the gallery?"

  "She said she wants to turn her gallery into a more welcoming venue for local artists and her current curator is stuck in the old ways of her husband. She somehow thought I'd be perfect, even though we've only spoken for about thirty minutes."

  "You make a good first impression," he said with a warm smile. "As well as a second and third and fourth…"

  "Thank you, but I think she was basing her respect for me as much on her friendship with my aunt as anything else. Apparently, Carly helped her a lot when her husband died, and Didi felt like she found her feet again because of my aunt's inspiring words."

  "Your aunt certainly did change a lot of lives."

  "That was her legacy, right? It wasn't all the stuff she left behind; it was the people whose lives she touched."

  "What about your mystery painting? Did you get any leads on that?"

  "I heard from my friend in Paris. She confirmed my suspicion that the painting was done by Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec. She said she thinks it was one of several paintings that he didn't deem good enough to sell or show. Apparently, after his death, there were numerous paintings found in his attic that no one had known about. Those paintings were later sold to a museum in Paris. Unfortunately, that museum was raided by the Nazis during World War II, and not all of the art was recovered. The pieces have ended up all over the world."

  "So what's next?"

  "I still need to hear from Kate. I want to know if the FBI has any leads on the painting's ownership after the war. I'll also need to get the painting appraised to see if it is in fact an original and not a copy, but I'll probably have to go back to San Francisco to do that. I want to be careful about how I handle this. Because the painting was found in my aunt's house, that could make her culpable of something."

  He gave her a thoughtful look as he stopped at a light. "You don't think your aunt stole the painting, do you?"

  "Of course not. But I don't know how to prove that. I need more information. Hopefully, Kate will get back to me soon, but I know she's on assignment in Japan, so who knows what she's up to."

  "What is she doing in Japan?"

  "I have no idea, but she sounded pretty excited about being there. She just finished her training, and I know she's eager to get into the action."

  "She should be careful what she wishes for," he said, a serious note in his voice.

  "Are you thinking about your own desire for adventure and how that turned out?" she asked.

  He glanced over at her. "Your words did take me back to the early days and also my first few assignments with Delta. We were considered the best of the best. We were the ones who would be sent into impossible situations to make miracles happen. It was a heady, powerful feeling."

  "Is that what's so hard to give up now—that feeling of power?"

  "It's more like the rush I got when I managed to do the impossible. Unfortunately, that didn't always happen. Not every mission was successful. And sometimes bureaucracy and politics played too big of a role, but that's the way the world goes." He turned into the parking lot behind the Stonecreek Inn. "We're here."

  "It looks beautiful. Have you been here before?"

  "Never, but I heard the food is great and the atmosphere is romantic."

  She smiled at the look he gave her. "Looking for a little romance tonight, are you?"

  "Definitely." He put his hand on her leg. "What about you?"

  "We'll see how dinner goes," she said with a laugh.

  They got out of the car and walked into the restaurant, which was tucked into a hillside. There were two decks: one on the front side of the restaurant overlooking the ocean and a side deck that looked over a picturesque creek and an ornamental bridge.

  Their table was by the creek, and Mia liked the ripple of water over the rocks next to their table. It was very relaxing. They ordered wine, a vegetable appetizer and their entrées, then toasted each other with a drink and settled back in their seats.

  She'd chosen the wild salmon with risotto and Jeremy had ordered a NY strip steak, both of which were absolutely delicious. As they ate, they talked about nothing too serious: movies, books, baseball teams, fantasy football leagues and the legends of Angel's Bay—all the ordinary conversations that they'd somehow skipped in their very fast relationship.

  Mia discovered that they shared a lot of the same views on the world, and on life. They also shared a similar sense of humor and had a crazy love of really bad movies involving robots and superhuman animals.

  "I can't believe it," Jeremy said with a bemused shake of his head. "You actually liked Rebel Robot III. That is so not a girl's movie, especially a girly girl like you."

  "I'm not that girly."

  He laughed. "You're just the right amount of girly, Mia—soft, sexy, and we fit really well together."

  "We were talking about Rebel Robot," she said, a little breathless from his seductive words. "I actually thought the second movie was the best."

  "I liked the first one; the other two were pale imitations."

  "There's going to be a fourth one next year."

  "We'll have to go," he said.

  It was an impulsive statement, she told herself. He wasn't making a promise, but his words still unsettled her a little, because she'd decided not to make plans beyond the summer with Jeremy. Not even movie plans. She couldn't look that far into the future, not because she was scared she would see them together having a relationship, but because she was afraid she wouldn't.

  Her breath caught in her chest, and she reached for her water glass. She didn't want to admit she was falling in love with him, but she definitely felt like she'd lost her balance.

  "You okay?" he asked, giving her a curious look.

  "I think I got a crumb stuck in my throat," she said, coughing a little and then sipping her water. "It's fine now."

  "Good. I thought maybe it was my invitation to a movie next year that upset you."

  He'd told her that what he loved most about their relationship was that they were honest with each other, but she didn't want to be honest now. Thankfully, she was saved from an answer by the ping of her phone. She pulled it out of her purse. "I'm sorry, do you mind if I read this?" she asked. "It's from Kate."

  "Go ahead. I want to know what she has to say."

  She read through the long text, her pulse beating a little faster with the new information. "Kate says the painting is on a list of stolen art from the museum in Paris that my friend told me about. Some of the art from that same museum was recently found in a palace in Bahrain." She looked at Jeremy. "Kate is worried that Aunt Carly was involved in either the theft or the knowledgeable acceptance of stolen art. But how could that be? I don't think Aunt Carly ever went to Bahrain. I don't even know where that is."

  "Bahrain comprises a series of islands off the coast of Saudi Arabia," Jeremy
said, his jaw tightening, his eyes darkening with shadows. "I was there a year ago."

  "As part of a mission?"

  "Yes."

  "Can you tell me anything about it?"

  "No. Sorry," he said in clipped tones. "I can't tell you about any of my jobs, Mia, not because I don't want to share with you, but because I can't. It would be a breach of national security."

  "I understand. I shouldn't have asked. Anyway, I don't think my aunt ever went to Bahrain."

  "She might not have had to go there to receive stolen art. A lot of things go missing in that part of the world. There has been a tremendous amount of looting in the Middle East, and it's not always easy to tell the good guys from the bad guys."

  "Kent said the same thing earlier. He told me that he'd never expected the enemy to wear so many faces, sometimes the face of a child."

  "That was the worst," Jeremy agreed. "A kid walking toward us shouldn't have been threatening, but one day one of the kids we'd played soccer with showed up with explosives strapped around his chest."

  Her stomach turned over. "That's awful."

  "Which is another reason why I don't need to share my past with you, at least that part of my past. You don't need to know what I've seen. No one does."

  His expression was harsh now, his eyes grim with painful memories.

  "I wish you didn't have to carry those memories around, Jeremy."

  "I don't carry them around; I locked them away a long time ago."

  "But sometimes memories leak out. That's what happened to Kent, right? He came back to the safest place in the world and then found out he was more scared than he'd ever been. He told me that he painted his demons through the night—angry, hard brushstrokes, slashes of the brightest and darkest colors he could find. He said it was cathartic. And Kent had been with Jeremy in Delta—maybe in Bahrain.

  Her stomach began to churn as she thought about the painting Kent had described. She hadn't put it together before, but his painting now sounded very much like the one she'd found covering the stolen painting.

  "Oh, my God," she murmured.

  "What?" Jeremy asked sharply, his gaze narrow. "What's wrong?"

  "Kent's painting. He told me what it drew, and I just realized that it sounds like the one that was covering Toulouse-Lautrec's art."

  Jeremy's jaw dropped. "What are you talking about?"

  "Was Kent in Bahrain with you?"

  Her question put anger in Jeremy's eyes. "Yes, but he didn't steal anything while he was there. He didn't smuggle out a painting and hide it in your aunt's house under his own artwork. That's ridiculous, Mia."

  It didn't sound as ridiculous to her as it did to him, but then she didn't know Kent that well, and the man was like a brother to Jeremy. "I could be wrong," she said quickly.

  "You are wrong. Kent is an honorable man. He has more integrity than anyone I know."

  "It was just a theory," she said, realizing she probably should have thought a little more before sharing her suspicions with Jeremy.

  "Maybe you should base your theories on facts, not wild imaginings. You're accusing a war hero of art theft."

  "I wasn't exactly accusing—"

  "Do you know what Kent went through when he was a hostage? He was tortured, Mia. They tried to break him, but he didn't break. He didn't give up secrets or people. He did what he was trained to do, and he helped bring down a terrorist cell. Does that sound like an art thief to you?"

  She could see that she'd crossed a huge line. "I'm sorry, Jeremy. Let's talk about something else."

  "No, we're going to finish this subject. If Kent stole that painting, why would he leave it at your aunt's house for a year?" Jeremy demanded. "Why would he cover it up and stick it in a closet? Why wouldn't he just sell it?"

  "Maybe he felt guilty, had second thoughts after he got back."

  "That's absurd."

  "Well, I don't know."

  "You don't know, because there's no way Kent is a thief. You just want to get your aunt off the hot seat. You want to blame someone else, when it's pretty clear to me that your aunt is the guilty party. It was in her bedroom closet, not even in the studio. She had to physically put it there. Maybe she didn't steal it, but I think she knew damn well what she had—that's why she hid it." He folded his arms across his chest as if he'd just closed the case.

  She stared at him in shock, wondering how things had gone so bad so fast.

  The waitress stopped by their table. "Who's in the mood for dessert?"

  She shook her head, feeling like she might throw up if she ate anything now. Her stomach was churning with the heat of their argument. She and Jeremy had never really disagreed about anything, but this was big; this was personal and very intense.

  "We'll just take the check," Jeremy told the waitress.

  Her phone pinged again, and she glanced down at Kate's next message.

  "What does it say now?" Jeremy asked.

  "She wants me to turn the painting over to the FBI. She gave me the number of an agent to contact."

  "Good, then you'll be out of it. And the real culprit will be caught."

  She nodded, but she wasn't sure it was a good idea at all. She didn't want her aunt's name to be tarnished in any way, and who would defend Carly but her? Jeremy had accused her of throwing Kent under the bus to save her aunt, but wasn't he doing the same thing?

  Jeremy paid the bill and then said, "Let's get out of here."

  She was more than happy to leave.

  They didn't speak all the way home.

  So much for date night, she thought with a sigh, as he pulled into the driveway next to hers. There was nothing but tension and anger between them now. She'd been feeling so close to Jeremy, but now he was an icy stranger, and she knew she was getting her first look at the hard, ruthless side of his personality. But she also had to admit that his anger came out of loyalty to his friend, and that wasn't such a bad thing. It just wasn't great that she was the one who'd tested that loyalty.

  Jeremy pretty much hated her now for accusing his friend of theft, and while she didn't know if she was right or wrong, she did believe she had some basis for the theory she'd put out. It might have been premature to talk about her suspicions, but she'd never imagined Jeremy would have such a strong reaction to her rambling thoughts.

  When they got out of the car, she said, "I'm sorry things went downhill. I guess I shouldn't have read my sister's text."

  "You shouldn't have accused Kent."

  "And you shouldn't have accused my aunt," she retorted. Their fight had not been one-sided. Jeremy had given as good as he got. "I care about her and believe in her as much as you care and believe in Kent. But we're not going to agree, so let's just call it a night."

  "Fine."

  "Fine," she echoed. "I guess I'll see you around."

  "Wait. You're not going to turn the painting over to the FBI, are you?" he asked. "You're going to keep looking into this yourself."

  "I don't know what I'm going to do. I need time to think."

  "Why don't you think about this? The aunt you admire so much had no real source of income. She rented the studio out for art. She traveled the world, but how did she pay for it? Did she inherit money? I know she didn't have a rich husband."

  Mia stared back at him. "She used to teach art at the high school. And she gave art lessons, too. She did work."

  "And those teaching jobs financed her worldwide adventures? She did all that on a teacher's salary?"

  She hated that he was making her doubt her aunt, but he had raised a question she'd never considered. "I'm going to call it a night before we both say something we'll regret."

  "I think it's too late to avoid that."

  She didn't respond; she just turned and walked away, anger fueling her quick path into the house. She opened the door and let out a breath. She didn't bother to turn on a light; the darkness matched her mood. She felt angry and sad at the same time.

  She didn't want a painting to come between he
r and Jeremy, but she couldn't take back her doubts about Kent, and he couldn't take back his doubts about her aunt.

  Stalemate.

  She walked down the hall and into the kitchen, shocked to see a figure standing by the kitchen table, the flashlight in his hand illuminating the painting on the table.

  She flipped on the light. "Oh, my God," she said, meeting his gaze. "What the hell are you doing in here?"

  Twenty

  Jeremy threw his keys down on his kitchen table, opened the refrigerator door, stared at the contents, and then slammed the door shut.

  Damn Mia and her stupid accusations.

  And damn him for being such a fool.

  He'd let a painting ruin what had been a wonderful night.

  He'd just seen red when Mia had accused Kent of being a thief. She had no idea what Kent and the rest of them had gone through—the injuries they'd suffered, the horrors they'd seen—and they'd always put their duty first, beyond everything else. Kent wasn't a thief. He was a patriot, a soldier, and an incredible man. But Mia didn't know his world, and he couldn't explain it to her. But he also couldn't let her cast suspicion on his best friend.

  He just needed to help her find the truth, he realized. Instead of being pissed off and attacking her, he should have just offered his assistance. The truth would not lead to Kent. Maybe it would lead to her aunt; he didn't know. But he did know that Mia wasn't going to give up until she figured it out.

  Going out the side door, he walked down the driveway and through the side gate. There was a light on in her kitchen. So he walked toward the sliding doors that led into the family room.

  He'd planned on knocking but he was surprised to see the door open.

  As he stepped into the darkened room, he heard a man's voice coming from the kitchen, and he froze at the familiar tone. He couldn't believe what he was hearing…

  * * *

  "I thought you were out with Jeremy tonight," Barton said.