Текст книги "The Gilded Chain"
Автор книги: Lauren Smith
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Текущая страница: 3 (всего у книги 21 страниц)
Chapter 3
At precisely ten the following morning, Wes climbed into Royce’s Porsche Spyder, and a few short minutes later they were pulling into the front driveway of the Morton mansion. Wes wore his favorite suit, a light gray Burberry classic-cut light wool suit, while Royce had gone more casual in jeans and a black sweater beneath a leather coat.
“Is the FBI still in town?” Wes asked his friend.
“Probably, but I haven’t heard. I’m sure the Mortons will know.”
They drove through the black gates tipped with gold spires and stopped in a circular drive before a massive Mediterranean-style stucco mansion. It was a grand palisade that always impressed Wes each time he visited. The real attraction was the Roman statuary that filled the gardens and the limestone gazebo where rich amethyst-colored blooms of wisteria draped over the stone every spring, filling the air with its thick scent. It was a beautiful sight during the late spring and early summer.
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 necktie, 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.
Surely Wes wouldn’t mind, and watching one of her favorite movies would help her relax. Besides, what was the point of riding in a plane decked out with the best of everything if you weren’t going to use it? Then again, Wes struck her as a workaholic, and maybe that intensity didn’t allow for sacking out and watching a movie on your private plane.
Callie felt a pang of envy remembering why exactly Wes had this private plane. He was an art specialist and traveled to Europe frequently to consult with museums, auction houses, and private collectors on pieces. That wouldn’t be work to her. To have a job like that would be a dream come true. A dream she’d certainly never get to live. At twenty, she knew she could still start college, but she hadn’t saved up and wouldn’t know where to begin the process of getting enrolled in a decent art school. The idea of figuring it all out and knowing she’d leave her father and the ranch behind was scary. She admitted that, and she hated herself just a little for feeling so scared of something she wanted. Even if she won this bet between her and Wes, and she was able to go to art school on a scholarship, what if she wasn’t good enough to stay?
The wave of depression that hit her made her sink back into the leather chair, her shoulders sagging. What was she going to do? She couldn’t stay on the ranch forever, not when she knew Fenn and Hayden would be returning there to live permanently. She’d overheard her father and Fenn talking about it one night on the phone. The luxury cabins were Hayden and Fenn’s plan to save the ranch and create a business to run while living out there. And when they came home, the ranch was going to feel awfully crowded with her as a third wheel. She wasn’t stupid. There was no reason to torture herself or pour salt on her heart’s wounds.
“Your father said he has to get back to the ranch but to call him when we reach New York.”
She tensed and looked up to find him leaning in the doorway of the cabin, watching her. His red hair had grown a little in the month since she’d seen him. It was longer, almost touching the tips of his ears. She had the sudden urge to slide her fingers into his hair and see if it was as soft as it looked. Instead, she walked over to the small window on the opposite side of the plane and saw her father standing on the tarmac. He must have seen her because he suddenly lifted a hand and waved. She waved back, a lump forming in her throat as she tried not to bolt for the door and run back down to him. It was the first time she was really leaving her home and him and it was scary as hell.
“He’ll be fine. I told him he better take it easy while you’re gone otherwise he’ll ruin your trip by making you worry.” Wes’s hand settled on her shoulder in a gentle touch.
Scrubbing at her burning eyes, she moved back from the window and he allowed her to brush past him to return to her seat. She flinched when she realized she’d left the cabinet door open with all the movies displayed.
“You’re welcome to watch a movie.” Wes’s voice was gentle, amused, the almost sweet tone surprising to her. He slid out of his suit coat as he talked, then removed his cuff links and rolled up his sleeves. Aside from the ranch, it was the most relaxed she’d ever seen him.
“Oh no, I couldn’t—”
“Nonsense.” He turned to his left, knelt in front of her as he faced the TV cabinet, and picked out a movie. Laura. He popped it into the disc player.
She stared at him. How in the hell had he known that movie was the one she wanted to watch? He hit play and powered on the flat-screen TV. He stood and walked into the attendant area, where he retrieved a briefcase and then, without so much as an invitation, sat down directly beside her, not looking at her. He buckled in and then dug around in his briefcase for some papers before he set the case on the floor and leaned back again, his lap covered in documents. He set his pair of cuff links down on the armrest and she reached for them, worried they’d fall to the floor. Their flat surfaces were etched with a letter T and a thorny branch entwined around the base of the letter. Elegant and edgy. Like him.
Did he have to do that? Sit right next to her when there were other seats? She blinked owlishly at him, almost disbelieving that he’d do that. It was to ruffle her, she was sure.
“You don’t have to sit there,” she almost whispered.
A devilish look came over him as he glanced at her, then leaned toward her conspiratorially. She leaned close automatically, wanting to hear whatever he planned to say.
“I have to sit here, darling. You’re cornered, just the way I like. That nervous edge makes your breath a little quick and I like knowing you’re thinking about how close I am to you.”
When he leaned back into his seat, she knew her jaw was scraping the floor as she gaped at him. Then irritation flared under her skin. He was toying with her! With a frustrated little growl, she turned away from him and focused back on the TV screen.
The sound of the movie momentarily distracted her and when she looked in his direction again, he seemed to be deep in his work. She could feel his body heat radiating off him. She half watched the film, and half watched him, fascinated and irritated. He was doing this on purpose, to rile her. The question was why? She couldn’t even guess. Even that kiss in the barn hadn’t been because he was attracted to her. Was this part of his attempt to win the bet? That was the only explanation and she still didn’t understand why he was so determined to sleep with her.
Men like him didn’t go for the little small-town girls like her. She would have bet everything that he liked girls who were stunning, sophisticated, women who wore tight dresses and strappy heels and knew how to politely laugh at anything he said. She wasn’t that girl. She liked running wild, feeling the rain on her bare skin, cuddling down in her PJs on the couch and watching old movies. Her eyes darted to the screen, where the detective was exploring the dead woman’s home and had stopped before a painting of the lovely woman.
Thoughts of Wes and his ulterior motives momentarily vanished as she lost herself in the story. A man falling in love with a dead woman simply by seeing an oil painting…She sighed. The best part of the movie was when the detective discovered that the woman wasn’t dead, but that a friend of hers had been killed when the murderer mistook her for the heroine of the story. It was a love story disguised as a harsh film noir.
As the detective on the screen started interviewing suspects, Callie lifted the armrest to her right and used the two empty chairs next to the window to stretch her legs out and then she rested her head in one hand. The weight of a gaze settled on her, and she tried not to look to her left. He was staring at her. Finally she couldn’t stand it anymore and glanced his way. He was in the most relaxed pose she’d ever seen him in. His legs were stretched out, his papers put away, and he was leaning his left elbow on the armrest. He rested his chin in his hand as he continued to gaze at her. Much like she knew a lion watched a grazing gazelle. Content for now to observe. It was only a matter of time before he struck. Her heart fluttered wildly and her blood began to pound in her ears. She was in serious trouble.
