Blush

by Suzanne Forster

  In all truth she'd never understood why. Webb had been both frightening and enigmatic. Even tonight he reminded her of a beautiful Nazi SS officer in his white mock turtle-neck and severely cut black Armani suit. And though she meant beautiful only in the physical sense, perversely attractive men had always appealed to her. In Webb's case, his sun-whitened hair, bleak gray eyes, and Teutonic bone structure were the compelling features. They had the effect of quickening a woman's heart and making her wonder what cruel and unusual things such a man might do in the name of love.

  She'd also decided he was a mystery better left unsolved.

  If she'd had the choice, she would have made the same decision about Jack Culhane. But she was already in too deeply with him. He had taken her hostage in more ways than one with his haunting hints of desolation and desire, and somehow he had made her an integral part of his dark quest, whatever the hell it was. She still had no idea why he was here. Or what he wanted with her.

  "If you're pouring drinks, I'll take one," Webb said, nodding to Jack. His smile encompassed them both, but it lingered on Gus and her flowery silk slipdress. "Apparently you're feeling great. "

  "I am, why?" Gus asked, laughing.

  "Because you look terrific."

  "She does, doesn't she?" Jack agreed. "I'm a lucky man."

  He slipped a proprietary hand around Gus's waist, and the other man's eyes narrowed. Gus could almost see horns growing and hear hooves pawing the ground. It was amazing how quickly two seemingly bright adult men could be reduced to territorial posturing. Animal intelligence in action, she thought.

  "Help yourself," Jack added pointedly. "To the booze. There's some champagne on ice behind the bar. "

  Webb conceded with the grace of a man who'd long ago learned how to prioritize. He rounded the ornate bar, and once he'd pulled the dripping bottle of Dom Ruinart rose champagne from the ice and read the label, he poured himself a sample of the bubbling blush-pink froth. Clearly a connoisseur, he raised the flute to the light and then to his nose, breathing it in before drinking the splash he poured. The muted resonance of violins seemed the perfect accompaniment to his ritual with the sparkling wine.

  "I'm told you design security systems, " he said, intent on replenishing his glass. As he returned the bottle to the ice, he looked up at Jack. "I've always been curious. Are any of them fail-safe?"

  "The system hasn't been designed that can't be beaten, " Jack admitted. "Even one of mine. "

  Surrendering for the moment to Jack's claim, Gus nestled up against him and caught traces of castile soap and lanolin. The scent brought a visual of him in the shower, shampooing his hair, and then in rapid succession, several more of him in the shower, doing things that had nothing to do with shampooing and everything to do with her. He was having his way with her!

  She gently extricated herself from his hold to discourage any further flashbacks. Besides, she wanted to observe the two men. There was some kind of current running between them, transmitting signals she didn't fully understand, but she was reasonably certain they weren't just about her.

  "So then any work of art could be stolen?" Webb wanted to know. "Potentially, I mean. Even one that was protected by a computerized, multisensor system?"

  Jack nodded and picked up his drink, watching the chandelier light glitter and stream across its amber surface. Gus found it interesting that he never did anything more than hold the glass. He never drank from it. It was not unlike the way he had sex.

  "Would you care to explain how?" Webb pressed.

  "I'd be happy to. What are you planning on stealing?"

  Uneasy laughter drifted from across the room. Lake, Lily, Ward McHenry, and the other couples had stopped talking, Gus realized. They were also listening to the two men.

  "Since you asked, Mr. Culhane, how about a painting?" Webb held up his champagne as if he were toasting Jack. "If I were the very clever thief who'd stolen Blush, Lake's Goddard, how would I have done it?"

  "There are several possible ways, " Jack said, apparently more than willing to play Webb's game. "The gallery has multiple systems—a microwave intrusion system, closed circuit television cameras, plus the more valuable works have promixity sensors. All of it's computerized, so obviously the easiest way to beat it is to reprogram the software. "

  Webb looked intrigued. "But you'd have to be a computer hacker to do that, right?"

  "Not necessarily, but you would have to be familiar enough with the technology, for example, to know how to create a time-lag between when the promixity sensor detects something and when it reports back to the computer, which is programmed to alert the guards. That's relatively easy once you have access to the software. "

  He set down his drink on an antique silver coaster and blotted his fingers on a cocktail napkin, taking his time, as if he were perfectly aware of the bated breath all around him. "The video cameras are a little trickier, " he explained. "That requires creating a loop in the visual feed so that the same image of the undisturbed painting is seen over and over again. "

  Webb seemed to understand the concept, though Gus wasn't at all sure she did.

  "The sequence you loop shows the gallery and the painting before the theft, " Webb said. "Then while the burglary is in progress, and even after it's done, the guards are seeing the looped sequence on the screen, as if the painting were still there. Is that it?"

  Jack shrugged his agreement. "As I said, it's not particularly difficult if you have access to the program. "

  What was he doing? Gus wondered. Knowingly incriminating himself? Now she wished she'd taken that drink. She was even tempted to pick up his.

  Webb nodded, his cold gray eyes suddenly piercing. "Which means it had to have been an inside job, am I right? Someone who lived or worked here in the house?"

  Jack's silence brought the tension in the room into ringing contrast. The chamber music, which had been soothing before, was verging on strident. The strings were thin, straining.

  Gus wanted to intervene, but she couldn't think of a way. The others were edging closer so as not to miss a word, and she was afraid of what Jack might say. Webb's questioning seemed to be leading Jack into an admission of the crime in front of everyone, and for some reason Jack was going along with it.

  "Not necessarily," he said. "With the new high-gain antennas you can pick up the electromagnetic radiation from a computer monitor or its cables at some distance. You could be sitting in a van on the street, for example, "

  "Sitting in a van and reading the access codes as they appear on the computer screen?"

  Jack settled against the bar, a faint smile appearing at Webb's question. "That's right, " he said, gazing at the other man. "You sound as if you've done this before. "

  Gus had clasped her hands together by this time to keep them still. It appeared that Jack had done the impossible. He'd stepped into the trap and pulled out his foot before it sprang. Was he that good? Or was there something else going on? For the first time Gus realized that Jack might be setting a trap for Webb—or someone else in the room.

  "Of course," Jack went on, caressing the rim of his drink with his forefinger, "there is a much easier way to steal a work of art. It's the perfect crime in a sense. "

  "The perfect crime?" Lake had stepped forward, his face pale, his mouth taut with anger. "And who better to plan and pull it off than a man who designs security systems. "

  "Actually, you're wrong, " Jack countered. "This crime would depend very little on breaching security systems. It's as simple as impersonating the customs officials who transport art to the storage areas. All you'd need is a way to divert the transport, and that could be done by interrupting their radio transmissions, telling them there's an emergency—a bomb on board, for example—and redirecting them to some way station. "

  Gus was astounded. Why was he doing this?

  Webb had come around the bar by now and was standing at the end opposite Jack, facing him. "But that depends on being able to read their frequency, doesn't it?
" he wanted to know. "And given the trouble they would have gone through to secure it, that would take some damn sophisticated equipment. "

  "Not all that sophisticated, actually. You'd need a spread-spectrum modulator to analyze the frequency and, of course, a phone with a built-in sequencer to place the call. " Jack reached into his jacket and pulled out one of the tiniest cell phones Gus had ever seen. He looked up, smiled. "A phone just like this one. "

  The low hiss of an expletive startled Gus. It had come from somewhere behind her. She turned and saw Rob Emory standing in the doorway, wearing the same jacket and slacks he'd worn at lunch. His face was flushed and he looked as if he'd been listening for some time. He also looked angry. No, enraged, she thought.

  "Fascinating scenario," Rob said, making no attempt to hide the hostility in his voice, or to join the crowd as they turned to look at him. "A valuable painting was stolen today, and you just told everyone how it was done. But you forgot the punchline, Jack. You forgot to tell them who did it. "

  "I didn't forget, Mr. Emory—"

  Rob cut him off, determined to have his say. "You also forgot to tell them that you've done time, didn't you, Jack?"

  He turned to Lake and the others. "This man, Jack Culhane is an ex-con. He did hard time for nearly killing a man. And as for his so-called security business, it's nothing but a front. His clients are unsavory characters looking for ways to protect the art they've acquired illegally. He consorts with thieves and smugglers and probably is one himself. "

  For a moment Rob's fevered breathing was the only sound in the room. Even Gus was too alarmed to speak. She wasn't as shocked by Rob's revelations as by the way he'd revealed them. Didn't he realize that cornering Jack could be dangerous? If Jack retaliated he could destroy everything she was trying to do.

  "Rob, what are you doing?" Gus asked softly.

  "I told you I was going to have him investigated, " he countered. "Thank God I did. "

  He'd told her that at lunch, Gus realized. But no one could amass that much information that fast, which meant he must have had the investigator on the case for some time, probably ever since the "honeymoon" trip to Mexico.

  Without warning Jack broke from the bar and walked toward the large arched window at the far end of the room.

  "Stop him!" Rob shouted. "Someone call the police!"

  But no one could seem to move. Massive walnut bookshelves lined the wall on either side of the window, reaching about halfway to a ceiling that was thirty feet high. They also lined a portion of the inside wall. As Jack reached the window, he began to search the molding as if he were looking for a way to open it.

  "Don't be stupid, man, " Lake called out. "You'll never get out that way. "

  Jack glanced back over his shoulder. "Don't be so sure, " he said. His hand stopped on the corner piece, and as he maneuvered it ever so slightly, a section of the bookshelves lining the inside wall rolled open, revealing a passageway large enough for a man to enter.

  No one spoke, not even Rob as Jack disappeared into the passageway. Everyone seemed too shocked to respond. The windowpanes sparkled and danced with light, as if the chandeliers were moving. An antique clock on the fireplace mantel counted out seconds, ticking weakly in the silence. By the time Gus and the others had begun to recover, Jack had reappeared, a framed painting in his hands.

  "Jesus Christ, " Rob breathed. "It was him. I knew it!"

  Jack propped the portrait on the windowsill where everyone could see it. The young girl in Goddard's magnificent oil seemed to be blushing furiously in the warm glow of the room's light.

  Webb Calderon spoke first. "Is this your idea of a joke, Culhane? What does it mean?"

  Jack left the painting where it was and walked toward them. "I did it to prove a point, " he said. "I told Lake his system was vulnerable, but whoever sold it to him had convinced him it was impregnable. This seemed to be the only way to get my message across. "

  "An odd way to pick up new business, " Lake said, his voice strangely quiet.

  "Believe me, I don't need new business, " Jack assured him. "I subcontract out the actual installation, but I design and test the systems myself. Earlier today I checked out Bruce Houston's new system. Of course, everyone knows the president of Houston Tires is an art thief and a smuggler. " He flashed a black look at Rob.

  Rob colored hotly, clearly embarrassed. "That painting could be a replacement, " he said, pointing at the oil. "What if it's a forgery? And even if it isn't, he stole it right out from under your nose, Lake. He was trying to make you look like a fool. "

  By now Gus was furious. "Speaking of fools, " she told Rob, her voice hushed as she glared at him.

  Lake didn't seem to be pleased with Rob's assessment of the situation, either. "I don't think we know each other well enough for you to be calling me by my first name, Mr. Emory, " he said coldly.

  Rob went quiet at that, much to Gus's relief. And if she'd been frightened that Lake might decide to take some kind of action against Jack, she needn't have worried. He was studying her husband in an entirely different way. There was something new in his expression, something secret and speculative. As Gus glanced from one man to the other, she wondered what was going on.

  The veiled look on Calderon's face tipped her that he might be a part of it, too, and suddenly the little bits of information she'd been receiving all evening began to form a vaguely coherent whole. That's what Jack Culhane wants with me, she realized. He wants them, my stepbrother and Calderon. Whatever he's after has something to do with them, and I'm the conduit.

  She glanced around the room, noting Lily's narrowed, furtive fascination, and Ward McHenry, who'd been uncharacteristically quiet and removed through it all. Now he was watching with a dark interest that told her even he might have an agenda.

  Fear struck Gus then, real fear, and for the first time. Her mouth went dry and her heart unsteady. The questions forming in her mind brought with them a premonition that was all the more terrifying because it had been generated by her own psyche. Was she the only one who didn't know what was going on? Was there some conspiracy of silence here between these people and the mysterious man she married? Or did they each have their own ax to grind? Confusion overwhelmed her, coupled with a sense of helplessness. No fortune-teller could have frightened her the way she had frightened herself, and yet she still had no real sense of the threat itself. She didn't know what was wrong, she just knew something was, terribly.

  Someone had been in his room. Jack knew it the moment he opened the door. He'd used the oldest trick in the book, a piece of thread in the doorjamb. For his purposes it was just as effective and far less trouble than a laser beam. If anyone had entered in his absence the thread would be gone, and it was. He went immediately to the computer, which he'd stashed in an intake air vent on the wall behind the bed.

  He'd programmed it to record the time and date when the lid was opened, and now as he tapped out the combination and the green quartz screen materialized, he saw that the system had not been breached. The entry log indicated it hadn't been opened since he used it last. That could eliminate Gus, he reasoned, though searching his room seemed almost innocuous, considering everything else she'd done. His intuition was telling him one of the other Featherstones or their guests was even more curious.

  A professional would have checked the doorjamb, which meant that whoever'd come in had probably been at the party tonight. Rob Emory had admitted to having him investigated, but Jack's money was on Lake. His erratic behavior had caught Jack's attention. He'd gone into a rage when the painting was stolen, then been strangely subdued when Jack returned it.

  Jack wished now that there'd been time to inspect the painting when he had it. Something about it hadn't looked quite right. He wasn't sure what the inconsistency was, perhaps an air bubble in the canvas, but there hadn't been time to investigate. He would, first chance he got.

  Moments later he'd changed into his jeans and stretched out on the bed, knowing he wouldn't sleep. He
was still charged with adrenaline, and the residual sparks were flying. His mind was alive, thinking about the day's events, the woman who was an event. There were many things he could do tonight, including input the new data he'd picked up today into the security matrix of the Featherstone estate. He'd scoped out the house's system, using a tiny, portable, high-gain antenna to collect the data and the software he developed to analyze it. His next step was to flush out an art thief. The Van Gogh that had disappeared five years ago had never been recovered. Jack had reason to believe it was hidden somewhere here in this house, and when he found it, he would be that much closer to the criminal mastermind who'd destroyed his family.

  He closed his hands, feeling their restless need for action. Yes, there was plenty he could do, but only one thing that would calm him.

  The formless block of satinwood he held was going to be her. Jack knew it by the feel of the wood in his hand. It was warm in his palm, vibrant and alive beneath his clasped fingers. It wasn't the only time he'd felt as if something were waiting to be born with the virgin cut of his knife. But he was surprised at this impulse, surprised that the first human figure he'd ever carved would be her, Gus.

  He sat on the braided rug in his room, resting his shoulders against the side of the bed, the block of golden wood cradled in one hand, his knife in the other. The bedroom wasn't made for a man his size. It was roughly as wide as a hospital corridor and about as inspiring. The rest of the house smelled of lemon oil and fresh-cut flowers and was sumptuously decorated with antiques, fine crystal, and damask fabrics, but this room was as spare and spartan as a monk's cell. The gleaming brass bed sported a quilted Granny Goose coverlet and had a cedar chest at the foot.