Текст книги "Tall, Dark and Deadly"

Автор книги: Lisa Renee Jones

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Текущая страница: 39 (всего у книги 40 страниц)

Chapter Twenty-Five

Julie sat in the kitchen of Luke’s apartment finishing off a pint of ice cream from his freezer because what else did a girl do when worried senseless but eat ice cream? But now it was gone, and she was still a wreck, so she thought the only other logical thing to do was to go back to her pacing in front of the fireplace.

She tossed the empty pint and was headed that way when she heard what sounded like the ring tone for Blake’s cell. Sure enough, there it was. She frowned. This was so not like him, and so not well timed.

She grabbed the phone and answered, afraid someone on the team was looking for him. Immediately, a man with a heavy French accent said, “Call me the minute you have the journal. Do not fail me, or you will be a dead Dragonfly.”

The line went dead. She looked at the phone and flipped through the numbers. It wasn’t Blake’s phone at all. It belonged to Hendrix.

Julie couldn’t breathe. Her hand went to her chest. She dialed Blake. No answer. She dialed Luke. No answer. She dialed Jesse. No answer. They were all in the tunnels. Finally, Royce answered. “Hendrix is Dragonfly. I can’t reach anyone to tell them.” She quickly told him what happened.

“Keep trying to call them,” he said, “and I will too. I’m stuck on the ferry.”

Julie hung up and kept dialing over and over. No answer from anyone. She had to warn Luke. She ran for her purse and headed for the door.

***

The Flamingo Hotel was yet another dingy dive of a place that fed drugs, prostitution, and other sordid habits. Alone in the room she was given, Gina sat on the edge of a bumpy bed with an ugly orange bedspread, pondered how well Marco knew the people at the front desk. They had treated him as if he was their boss or something.

Gina wasn’t sure what it was about Marco that made her want to please him so, but she did. Perhaps it was simply his exceptional body and phenomenal skill as a lover.

Then again, there was a distinct possibility it was their mutual love of money that intrigued her. The ruthless way his mind worked was downright evil, giving him a dangerously alluring air that clung to him like a well fitted suit.

It was downright sexy.

Tonight’s agenda was brilliant. She’d told the judge she didn’t have the journal so she’d make it up to him until she did. She couldn’t wait to see the judge’s face when ... A knock sounded on the door, drawing her attention.

“Time for the show,” she whispered with anticipation dancing through every fiber of her body.

Stopping at the broken mirror that sat on top of the scuffed white dresser, she smiled at her image. Dressed in a fire engine red lingerie set complete with garters, a tiny lacy bra, barely-there panties, and spiked heels, she was deliciously ready for action.

The knock on the door sounded again. “Anxious,” she said with one last look in the mirror as a devilish smile tilted up her painted red lips.

Sashaying to the door she opened it and leaned on the wall in a sexy come-hither way that displayed her body. “Evening, Judge.”

Judge Moore gave her a heavy-lidded, slow perusal. When he was finished, he stepped forward, wrapping his arms around her as he maneuvered them both into the room and pushed the door shut.

“You look good enough to eat,” he said as he spread his hands around the bare cheeks of her backside and pressed her against the hardness of his body.

“Slow down, baby. Tonight, we’re going to play a little game.” She pushed out of his arms.

The judge started unbuttoning his shirt. “I like games.”

“Good,” Gina said smiling seductively. “You have to promise to follow my rules. Tonight, I’m in charge.” Gina walked up to him and pressed her palm against his bulging zipper. “You’ll be rewarded for good behavior.”

The judge covered her hand with his own making her press harder. Gina tsked. “Not yet, Judge. I won’t play at all if you don’t obey.”

He stared at her as if deciding how serious she was, and then reluctantly released her hand. Gina stepped back and leaned on the dresser. “Get naked. I want to watch.”

“If I do, what do I get in return?”

Her eyes narrowed, her voice hardened. “No questions, no demands. I’m in charge. Want to play or not?” The words were like the flick of a whip.

There was a long silence before the judge shoved his shirt to the ground, and then quickly toed off his shoes before stripping off the remainder of his clothes. Standing before her naked and erect, he smiled.

Gina walked toward him, stopping a mere inch from touching him. She looked him up and down, and then circled him. When she was behind him she smacked his backside. Hard.

He started to turn. “Hey.”

She pressed her fingers in his back. “My rules,” she warned. When he turned again she smacked him even harder. He didn’t turn this time. “Lie on the bed.”

When he was flat on his back Gina opened a dresser drawer and pulled out three scarves. His eyes widened but he didn’t say anything. Standing above him she let one of the scarves lightly trail around his erection. He jerked slightly, his eyes closing.

She picked up one of his hands and he reached for her with the other. She pointed at his hand. “Stop, or else.” He did. Seconds later both of his hands were tied. She straddled him, intentionally teasing him as she blindfolded him.

Leaning down, pressing her chest against his, her bottom against his erection, she whispered in his ear. “How’s it feel being helpless, Judge?”

He moaned. “Like I’m going to go crazy if you don’t touch me soon.”

Laughing softly, Gina moved off him. “Come back,” he said urgently.

“Soon,” she said as she moved towards the door. She pulled it open and smiled at Marco.

His brow inched up. “It is done?”

One side of her mouth inched up. “Of course.”

“Excellent.” Gina stepped back to allow him to enter. Once in the room he walked to the judge and tightened the knots on his wrists.

“Who’s there?” the judge said abruptly. “Gina?”

“Gina is here,” Marco said and watched the judge stiffen.

Even with the blindfold, his features showed fear. Though Marco had never met the judge, his French accent was an easy giveaway of his relationship to Arel.

“What in the hell?” the judge blurted out. He started to tug on the restraints.

“Calm down,” Gina told him. “It’s just a little game.”

The judge didn’t listen, bucking with panic.

“Enough!” Marco blurted and yanked a gun from his waistband. He pressed it to the judge’s temple and cocked it. “Be still or I will shoot.”

The judge froze.

“You are going to have a good time, Judge,” Marco assured him with absolute truth in his words. “You and Gina are going to play. I like to watch, it’s really quite simple. As long as you do as you are told, it will be painless.” He paused and let the words sink in. “Understood?”

Slowly the judge nodded.

“Good,” Marco said and set the gun on the end table. “Get a glass of water, and come here, Gina.”

Gina did as he instructed and then sashayed over to Marco, setting the glass on the table and pressing her body against his. “Can I warm up on you, baby?” she asked as her hand explored the ripples of muscle she loved along his shoulders.

“Non,” he said. “I’ll watch.” He pressed a strip of sweetness to her lips and she swallowed it. He gave her another. “More. Tonight is special.”

Marco handed her four strips. “Give them to him.”

She sashayed over to him and ripped off the blindfold. She wanted to see the panic in his eyes.

“Forget it,” The judge bit out through clenched teeth. “I’m not taking that.”

Marco picked up the gun and held it to his head again. “The drugs will make you feel good. The gun, I assure you, will not.”

The judge took the drugs.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Luke reached the stairs, his coat concealing a variety of weapons and the journal. He might have to get rid of most of them, but he was banking on keeping at least one. He headed through the entry gates and then down the stairs to the train terminal where there were nothing but concrete beams and benches.

Footsteps sounded behind him and he turned to find Hendrix coming down the stairs with a gun in his hand and with three other men following him. “Move to the concrete pole and put your hands on it.”

“You’re Dragonfly,” Luke said. “I should have known.”

“Should have, would have, could have,” he said. “But you didn’t and I can shoot you and get away with it, so I suggest you move.”

Luke pressed his hands to the concrete wall, and two men came to stand on either side of him. One searched him and handed off his four guns and two knives, before grabbing the journal.

The men backed away and Luke turned to watch Hendrix set the journal on fire and then throw it onto the tracks. “That was easy,” he said brushing his hands together. “I thought you Walker brothers were good?” He shrugged. “Guess not.”

“Was it the money that turned you, or were you always like this?” Luke asked.

“Money, power, more money. It makes the world go round.”

“The missing agent–”

“She got too close. Hell, she was sharper than you Walkers. She had to be dealt with. Just like you.”

“And my brothers?”

“Will never know I was involved.”

“Ouch,” a familiar voice said. “Don’t pull so hard.”

Luke’s blood ran cold at the sound of Julie’s voice. She appeared on the stairs, being pulled forward by another one of Hendrix’s men.

“Look what we have here,” Hendrix said as she was shoved toward him. “Nice taste, by the way,” he said looking her up and down and flicking a taunting glance at Luke. “Perhaps I can sample the goods before we do away with her.”

She didn’t react, as if she knew it would please him. Her eyes met Luke’s. “I figured out it was him, and I tried to warn you.”

“Better late to the party than never,” Hendrix said and winked. He walked towards her, stopped directly beside her. “You certainly will liven up this little party. How should we get started?”

“Touch her and you die,” Luke promised, his voice low, lethal. “You’re dead anyway, Hendrix.”

Hendrix gave an exaggerated laugh. “I hardly think you’re in a position to be making threats.” He looked at his watch. “The next train will be here in five minutes.” He called over his shoulder. “Pull the car to the exit.”

“Luke,” Julie said. “There’s something I should have told you and I didn’t.”

“Shut up!” Hendrix said, and cut a look to the man holding her. “Deal with her.”

The man slapped her. Julie yelped with the pain, and pressed her hand to her cheek.

Hendrix smirked at Luke. “Come and get me.” He pointed to a guard. “Tell Marco the journal was destroyed before we could get to it. Make it convincing.”

“All this so you don’t get in trouble with Arel over that damn journal,” Luke said. “You really are a sick man.”

Hendrix laughed. “I am what I am, and that’s smarter than you.”

The wind picked up as faint sounds of the approaching train humming through the tunnel. “Let’s go,” Hendrix said to the men, and moved towards the stairs.

One of the men holding guns on Luke motioned for him to move forward. Hendrix and two other men were already headed up the stairs. The odds just improved. That left Luke with his guard and Julie’s to dispose of. The trick was making sure Julie was safe.

The subway car was approaching. Luke’s guard shifted his eyes toward it, and gave Luke the opportunity. He grabbed the man, covered his gun hand with his own, and fired on the other guard. Before he ever hit the ground, Luke had turned, taken the gun fully from the man he still held and put a bullet in him, too.

Luke pointed the gun, surveying the area for anyone else. “Grab the other gun,” he ordered Julie, “and if in doubt, use it.”

The subway car came to a stop and Luke rotated around to point his weapon. Jesse came out, his gun raised, and fired at the stairs. A man rolled down the steps, his gun falling to the pavement.

“That’s close to even,” Luke said. “But you aren’t there yet.”

“Close is better than nothing,” Jesse said, joining Luke. “Where’s Hendrix? He disappeared on me.”

“He’s Dragonfly,” Julie said, “and how do we get out of here?”

“Everyone okay down there?” Royce shouted from above.

“All clear,” Luke shouted.

“Batman has arrived,” Blake said, appearing on the stairs, two guns in his hand. “Hendrix is dead. Three others in custody. Two others escaped.”

Royce followed Blake down the stairs. “How is it you lost your phone again?”

“We have the same phone, brother dearest. He grabbed mine. And in case you didn’t notice, that’s what warned us about Hendrix before it was too late.” Sirens screamed above ground. “The cavalry has arrived.”

Luke went over to Julie, who was staring at the dead bodies, the gun still in her hand. “You okay?” he asked, removing the gun from her hand.

She nodded, lifted her gaze to his. “I love you.”

“What?” he asked, shocked by the sudden confession.

“I love you and I should have told you before now, and I don’t want to risk ending up like them and you never knowing. I love you.”

He shoved the gun into his coat and wrapped his arms around her. “I love you, too.”

She blinked. “You do?”

“Yes. I do.”

Murphy rushed down the stairs. “Arel’s house is cleared out and we just got a call from a motel a few blocks away. The judge and Julie’s secretary were found dead.”

Blake scrubbed his jaw. “You really know how to mess up a romance novel moment, man.”

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Julie was exhausted by early morning when she, Luke, and his brothers returned to the Walker apartment. The questions had been many, the answers not as easily found as everyone wanted. The missing agent was most likely dead. Gina and the judge were dead. Arel had disappeared along with every known operation he’d been involved with that the task force had known about.

Julie looked around Luke’s kitchen, eying Luke’s brothers and Lauren, with an odd feeling of belonging she’d never before experienced. She sat on Luke’s lap, as Lauren did Royce’s. Blake, as usual, was eating, stuffing his third donut in his mouth. To watch them together made her experience a little part of something warm and wonderful that she had never known. To be with them helped make the night’s tragedy just a little more bearable.

“Have a donut,” Blake said to Julie pushing the box in her direction.

“I’m too tired to eat,” she said.

“I’m never too tired to eat,” Blake commented, and the room broke into laughter.

“Yes, we know,” Julie said smiling.

Blake finished off his donut and stood up. “Time for beddy-bye.”

“Us too,” Royce said and Lauren climbed off his lap.

“I know you’re tired,” Lauren said to Julie, “but tomorrow let’s talk about you leaving divorce behind and coming to work with my new firm.”

“Yes,” Julie said. “I’d like that.” She was ready to leave the past behind, ready to take some risks.

Goodbyes were said, and soon Julie was alone with Luke. She had no idea what had gotten into her, but now that she’d taken the step to confess her love for Luke, she was feeling daring all over again.

“Luke,” she said, caressing his cheek. “Will you marry me?”

Luke stared at her, a stunned look on his face before his lips curved into a smile. “You know you just stole my thunder, right?”

“What do you mean?”

“Us macho Walker men like to go down on one knee and propose properly. And I’m supposed to have the ring first.”

“Oh, right,” she said, smiling at his response. “So, now what do we do?”

He set her on her feet and then back in the chair and went down on one knee. “Julie. Will you marry me?”

She laughed and wrapped her arms around his neck, feeling like she was home for the first time in her life.

THE END

Beneath the Secrets

Out Now

Blake’s Story!

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 IF I WERE YOU

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Chapter One

Excerpt:

When the gallery comes into view, I pause to watch a group of elegantly dressed visitors pour through its double glass doors, which are lined in shiny silver for the black-tie affair. Artsy swirls of red letters, displayed above the entry, spell allure.

Nerves flutter in my stomach, though I can’t say why. I love the contemporary art Allure specializes in, love their mix of local new artists who I can discover, as well as the established names whose work I already appreciate. My nerves are ridiculous. I’m uncomfortable in this world, but then, this isn’t my world. It’s Rebecca’s, and Rebecca is the real reason I’m here.

A glance at my dainty, handmade, gold wristwatch, also bought at the pier, confirms I have plenty of time to spare. It is seven forty-five, fifteen minutes until Alvarez will be unveiling a new painting that will be displayed in the gallery and up for silent auction through the end of the week. Oh, how I’d love to have an Alvarez original, but they don’t come cheap. Still, a girl can dream.

Excitement filters in with nerves as I rush toward the door. A young brunette woman in a simple black dress holds it open for me and offers me a smile.“Welcome.”

I return the smile and enter the gallery, noting the nervous energy bouncing off the twentysomething girl as I pass, an energy that seems to what I am doing.” This isn’t Rebecca, who I know will be daringly bold and confident. In fact, the hostess brings out the schoolteacher in me, and I fight the urge to give her a hug and tell her she’s doing fine. I’m a hugger. I got it from my mother, just like I did my love of art, only I wasn’t talented with a brush as she had been.

The girl is saved from my mothering when the sound of a piano playing from a distant corner filters through the air and draws my attention to the main showroom. I am in awe. This isn’t my first time visiting the four-thousand-square-foot wonder that is the Allure gallery, but it doesn’t diminish my excitement at seeing it again.

The entryway opens to the main showroom of glistening white wonder. The walls are snow-white; the floor glistens like white diamonds. The shiny divider walls curve like abstract waves, and each of them is adorned with contrasting, eye– popping, colorful artwork.

I turn away from the showroom, attending to business before pleasure, and present my ticket to a hostess behind a podium. She is tall and elegant with long raven hair.“Rebecca?” I ask hopefully.

“No, sorry,” she says. “I’m Tesse.” She holds up a finger as she glances through the glass doors at an approaching customer she needs to attend. I wait patiently, hoping this young woman can connect me with Rebecca. I listen attentively while she directs the new guest to a short stairway that leads toward the music and, apparently, the location where Ricco Alvarez will be unveiling his masterpiece.

“Sorry for the interruption,”Tesse finally says, giving me her full attention. “You were looking for Rebecca. Unfortunately, she isn’t attending tonight’s event. Is there something I can help you with?”

Disappointment fills me. To miss an Alvarez event is not something someone in Rebecca’s role is likely to do. I just want to know, for certain, that Rebecca is safe. Painting myself as a stranger doesn’t seem the way to do that. “My sister’s an old friend of Rebecca’s. She told me to be sure and say hello to her and pass along her new phone number. She seemed to think Rebecca worked big events like this one. She’ll be disappointed I missed her.”

“Oh, I hate that you missed her,” Tesse says, looking genuinely concerned. “I’m not only new, but I also only work part-time, on an as-needed basis, so I don’t hear much of what’s going on internally, but I think Rebecca took some personal time off. Mr. Compton would know for certain.”

“Mr. Compton?”

“The manager here,” she says. “He’ll be tied up with the presentation soon, but I can introduce you to him afterward if you like?”

I nod.“Yes. Please.That would be perfect.”

The piano stops abruptly. “They’re about to start,” Tesse informs me. “You should grab a seat while you still can. I’ll be sure to help you connect with Mark after the presenta– tion.”

A thrill shoots through me. “Thank you so much,” I say, before I head toward the seating area. I can’t believe that I am about to see an Alvarez original presented by Alvarez himself.

A tuxedo-clad usher greets me at the bottom of the stairs and offers me some help finding a seat.And boy did I need help. There were at least two hundred chairs lined up in front of a ministage, set in front of a bay window that was essentially the entire wall, and almost every single chair was taken.

I squeeze into a center row, between a man that has artsy rebel written all over him from longish light blond hair to his jeans and a blazer, and a fifty-something woman who is more than a little irritated to have to let me pass. I can’t help but notice the man is incredibly good-looking, and I’ve never been one to be easily impressed. I know too well that beauty is often only skin deep.

“You’re late,” the man says as if he knows me, a friendly smile touching his lips, his green eyes crinkling at the edges, mischief in their depths. I figure him to be about thirty-five. No. Thirty-three. I am good with ages and good at reading people. My kids at school often found that out when they were up to mischief.

I smile back at the man, feeling instantly comfortable with him when, aside from my students, I’m normally quite reserved with strangers. “And you forgot to pick up your tux, I see,” I tease. In fact, I wonder how he pulled off getting in here dressed as he is.

He runs his hand over his sandy blond, one-day stubble that borders on two days.“At least I shaved.”

My smile widens, and I intend to reply but a screech from a microphone fills the air. A man I recognize from photos as Ricco Alvarez claims the stage and stands next to the sheet covering a display, no doubt his newest masterpiece. Suave and James Bond–esque in his tuxedo, he is the polar opposite of the man next to me.

“Welcome one and all,” he says in a voice richly accented

with Hispanic heritage, as is his work. “I am Ricco Alvarez, and I thank you for sharing my love of art and children, on this grand evening. And so I give you what I call Chiquitos, or in English, Little Ones.”

He tears away the sheet, and everyone gasps at the unexpected piece of art that is nothing like anything he’s done before. Rather than a landscape, it is a portrait of three children, all of different nationalities, holding hands. It is a well-executed work appropriate for the occasion, though secretly, I had wished for a landscape where his brilliance shone.

The man next to me leans an elbow on his knee and lowers his voice.“What do you think?”

“It’s perfect for the evening,” I say cautiously.

“Oh, so diplomatic,” he says with a low chuckle. “You wanted a landscape.”

“He does beautiful landscapes,” I say defensively.

He grins.“He should have done a landscape.”

“And now,” Ricco announces, “while the bidding begins,

I’ll be circulating the room, answering questions about my many works displayed tonight and hoping to have the pleasure of meeting as many of you as possible. Please feel free to walk to the stage for a closer look at Chiquitos.”

Almost instantly, the crowd is standing.

“Are you going for a close-up?” I ask the man next to me. “Not much on crowds,” he said. “Nor Ricco’s attempt at

portraiture.” He winks at me. “Don’t stroke his ego when you meet him. It’s big enough as it is.” He starts moving down the row toward the exit. I stare after him, feeling this odd flutter in my stomach at his departure, curious about who he is.

I frown as I repeat part of our conversation in my mind. Ricco. He’d called Ricco Alvarez Ricco and spoken of his ego as if he knew him. It’s too late now to find out how he knows Ricco, and portrait or not, I am eager for an up-close look at the featured painting. I have not met Ricco yet and it is disappointing, but I am still thrilled at the opportunity to see his work.

Sometime later, I am enjoying a lingering walk through the gallery, exploring the full Alvarez collection on display, when I spot a display for Chris Merit, whose work I studied in college. He, too, had once been a local, but I seem to remember his moving to Paris. Excitedly, I head toward his work. His specialties are urban landscapes—mostly of San Francisco, both past and present—and portraits of real subjects with such depth and soul they steal my breath away.

I join an elderly couple inside the small room, where they debate over which of several landscapes to purchase. Unable to stop myself, I join in.“I think you should take them all.”

The man scoffs.“Don’t go giving her ideas or you’ll both put me in the poorhouse. She gets one for above the fireplace.” “Stingy man,” the gray-haired woman says, shoving his

arm playfully and then eying me. “So tell me, honey.” She motions between two pictures.“Which do you think is a better conversation piece, of these two?”

I study the two choices, both black-and-white, though Merit often uses color. One is a downtown shot of San Francisco in the midst of hurricane-like weather.The other is of the Golden Gate Bridge shrouded in clouds, the skyline of the city peeking out from behind it.

“A tough choice,” I say thoughtfully. “Both have a bit of a dark edgy feel to them, and both have the ‘wow’ factor.” I indicate the stormy downtown scene.“I happen to know that one depicts the impact Hurricane Nora had on the city back in 1997.To me, that makes for a conversation piece, and a little bit of history to boot, right there in your living room.”

“You are so right, dear,” the woman says, her eyes lighting up. “This is the one.” She casts her husband an expectant look. “It’s perfect. I have to have it.”

“Then have it you shall,” her husband declares.

I smile at the woman’s joy, but not without a bit of art envy. I would love to be going home with the piece, as she will be, tonight.

“I understand you had a question for me,” a male voice says, pulling my attention toward the display entryway where a man with neatly trimmed blond hair stands. He is tall and confident, an air of ownership about him.And his eyes—they are the most unique silvery gray I’ve ever seen.

“I’m Mark Compton,” he says, “the gallery manager. And it looks like I owe you more than an answer to whatever your question is. It appears I need to thank you for assisting my customers.” He glances at the couple. “I take it you’ve made a selection?”

“Indeed we have,” the husband says, clearly pleased to have his wife make a decision. “We’d like to take it home with us tonight if possible.”

“Excellent,”he says.“If you’ll give me a moment,I’ll have it packaged for you.” He motions for me to walk with him, and I shake my head.

“I’m in no rush. Help them with their purchase, and you can find me later.”

He studies me a bit too intently, those silvery eyes of his rich with interest, and I am suddenly self-conscious. He is, without a doubt, classically handsome by anyone’s standards, but there is also something raw and sexual about this man, something almost predatory about him.

“All right then,” he says softly, “I’ll find you soon.” It isn’t a statement that alludes to a double meaning, but yet, I feel one there. His gaze shifts to the couple.“Let’s go ring you up.”

The couple thanks me for my help and hurry after Mark. The minute they are gone, the minute Mark Compton is out of sight, I let out a breath I hadn’t known I was holding and shake myself inwardly. And not just because of the way his eyes had assessed me so . . . so what? Intimately? Surely not. I still have this overactive-imagination thing going on from reading the journals. I do wonder if he is the he from the journals. He certainly has the animal magnetism Rebecca’s words painted him with. But then, so does Ricco Alvarez. Good grief, I’m making myself crazy.

A staff member interrupts me before I can go on another “crazy” thinking spree, and removes the couple’s purchase from the display. I force myself to stop overanalyzing and relax, basking in the solitude as I discover Chris Merit’s newest work.

“You like Merit?” comes another male voice, this one familiar.

I turn to find the man who’d sat next to me during the presentation standing in the doorway. I give a quick, eager nod. “Very much. I wish they had some of his portraits, but his urban landscapes are magnificent.You?”

He leans against the wall. “I hear he doesn’t have an over– inflated ego.That scores points with me.”

I tilt my head and study him, relaxing into the easy conversation.“Why are you here if you don’t like Ricco?”

Mark Compton appears in the doorway. “I see you didn’t venture far,” he says to me and then eyes the other man. “Don’t tell me you’re pimping your own work at Ricco’s event?” He glances at me.“Was he pimping his own work?”

I gape. “Wait. His own work?” I shift my gaze to my nameless new friend, who looks nothing like the Chris Merit I’ve seen photos of.“Who are you exactly?”

His mouth quirks at the edges. “The man with one red shoe.” And with that, he turns and walks away.

I shake my head. “What? What does that mean?” I turn to Mark.“What does that mean?The man with one red shoe?”

“Who knows,” Mark says, his lips thinning in disapproval. “Chris has a twisted sense of humor.Thankfully, it doesn’t show up on the canvas.”

My jaw goes slack.“Wait.Are you telling me that was Chris Merit?” I rack my brain over the pictures of him I’ve seen and I remember him differently. Do I have his image confused with another?

“That’s Chris,” he confirms. “And as you can see, he has an odd way about him. He was standing in his own display room and didn’t even tell you who he was.” His hands settle on his hips. “Listen, Tesse tells me you . . . I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name?”

“Sara,” I supply.“Sara McMillan.”

“Sara,” he repeats, his tone low, as if he was trying it out on his tongue, trying me out on his tongue. Seconds pass, and the small display area seems to get smaller before he adds,“Tesse was right. Rebecca is on a leave of absence.”