Fairytale (26 page)

She closed her eyes, as if afraid he might
see it written right there, in neon ink. “I will tell you,” she
whispered, and the words carried the force of a vow. “Very, very
soon. I promise, Adam.”

“But not yet.”

“No.” She lowered her head to his chest, but
not in time to hide her fresh tears. “Not yet.”

He was hurt that she couldn’t tell him the
secrets she was keeping. And that she was still holding herself at
arm’s length from him. She could feel his pain. And while she could
strive to keep her heart set aside, she couldn’t physically put a
distance between them. When he slid his arm around her shoulders
and drew her close to his side for the walk back to the house, she
didn’t resist. Didn’t pull away. Couldn’t.

“I don’t want to worry about it anymore,” he
whispered, leaning close to her ear. “I don’t want to think about
anything bad. Not until I have to.”

“But, Adam, I—”

He silenced her with a finger to her lips.
And then he replaced it with his mouth. He kissed her deeply,
thoroughly, and his hands cupped her backside, pulling her tight
against him.

“You’re good for me, angel,” he whispered
against her neck, as his mouth moved there. “You make me feel like
I’ve never felt. And I want to feel that way again.”

“We shouldn’t—”

“I need you, Brigit.”

It was a confession that was wrung from him,
she realized. And it was her undoing. The next thing she knew, she
was the one kissing him. Holding him so tight her arms ached,
wishing she never had to let go. He did need her. She’d always
known that. She was the one who could heal his old wounds. And God,
how she wanted to do that. There was nothing she wanted more.

His kisses became feverish, and hers
responded in kind. They made frantic love on the forest floor, with
the blue sky overhead and the music of birds playing in time with
their breathing and their whispers and their kisses and the gentle
slapping of their bodies, one against the other.

And when it was over, and he scooped her into
his arms and carried her naked, back to the house, she realized it
wasn’t over. Not at all. It was only beginning.

The entire day, and long into the night, they
spent together. Talking and laughing and making love, over and over
again.

It was, Brigit thought, the most perfectly
wonderful day of her entire life. And the most perfect night. She
wished to God it didn’t have to end.

But it did. The next morning, when Adam
headed out to the university. She kissed him goodbye, and pretended
to believe he’d come home that night, and the magic would begin all
over again.

But the magic was make-believe. And the time
for her betrayal came again. Her heart felt as if it were made of
lead, this time, when she took out the canvas, and the paints, and
set up the tripod in the study. And it took a lot longer to achieve
the state she needed in order to work. But she did it. Because
Raze’s life was hanging in the balance, and because she had no
choice.

She felt like the lowest, most vile being on
the planet.

And even then, she let her mind wander back
to the story Adam had told her out there in the woods. And his
earlier questions. What if it were all true? What if she really was
the little girl in the
Fairytale?

Impossible.

And yet, here she stood, wielding
paintbrushes without looking, letting some other force control her
hands. The ability had been a part of her life for so long, she’d
simply accepted it as natural. The way some people can do
acrobatics, and some can run like the wind, and some sing like
angels. But now, she wondered if maybe that thing, that
juice,
as she called it, might go by another name. Like
“magic.”

Silly. Ridiculous.

And what about her green thumb? Sure, lots of
people were good at growing things. That was no big deal. But
often, when a plant seemed to be in trouble, she’d instinctively go
to it, and rub its leaves between her fingers while envisioning it
healthy and strong. She’d done that automatically. Without
forethought. The way one pets a dog. But every time she did, the
plant would begin to thrive within a day or two. More than thrive.
Those formerly ill subjects often grew better than any other plants
in the shop.

And then there was the way she could read a
man’s heart by looking into his eyes. Another talent she’d grown
accustomed to. So much so that she never questioned it.

But now she wondered if there were the
slightest chance...the tiniest possibility that...

No. No, letting herself believe again would
only bring disappointment.

Inside, the wild one called Brigit a fool for
refusing to see what was staring her in the face. But Brigit
ignored her, and she painted all the same.

***

Adam didn’t actually sit down. He was knocked
there, hard, right into the chair facing the desk in Mac’s shoddy
little office. Mac’s words, his information, hit him like a fist,
and Adam simply collapsed, the wind whooshing from his lungs in
response to the imaginary blow.

“That’s not possible. It can’t be...”

Mac crooked one eyebrow. “Jesus, Adam, don’t
tell me this woman means something to you.” When Adam didn’t
answer, Mac, came around the desk, staring down at him, looking
scared. “Dammit, this is exactly what I was afraid of. Adam...Adam,
talk to me. Are you all right?”

Adam shook his head, but couldn’t speak.
Words deserted him. Pain took their place. Pain so intense there
had never been its equal. His muscles went limp. He was drunk with
pain.

“You
knew
she was scamming you!” Mac
tugged off his tie, whipped it to the floor, and began pacing the
office in quick, angry strides.

“You knew it right from the first day, Adam.
How could you let yourself—”

“Doesn’t matter.” He managed to speak the
words, but they were muffled, dull. “Doesn’t matter at all, does
it?”

He flipped open the file folder he’d slammed
shut only seconds ago, looked at the police mug shot of the man
who’d been at the house. The man who called himself Brigit’s old
friend. Ernie Zaslow was only one of his many aliases. The man was
into many scams, but his favorite, it seemed, was brokering stolen
art. He’d served eight years when he’d tried to sell a stolen
Picasso to an undercover fed. The police had suspected him of many
similar acts of fencing, but had been unable to prove many of the
charges.

Most interesting of all was his m.o. Zaslow
had got away with his crimes for so long, because his victims
rarely knew they’d been robbed. He replaced each stolen painting
with a duplicate so perfect even the owners had trouble telling the
difference.

But Zaslow was no forger. He’d been working
with a partner. And that partner had never been caught.

Adam recalled that paint-smeared rag he’d
found on the marble pedestal stand the other day, and he felt sick
all over again.

“What could she be after, Adam? Come on, you
have to snap out of it. You want to catch her, don’t you?”

Adam lifted his head, but it seemed too
heavy. Did he? He wasn’t sure.

“The only painting I have thar’s worth
anything is ‘Rush.’” He shook his head slowly. “I can’t believe
she’d be involved in a plot to steal it. She knows...”

“Knows what?”

Adam didn’t answer aloud. Internally, though,
he was kicking himself. Brigit knew how much that painting meant to
him. How could she be plotting something like this? How?

And why?

He remembered the stains on her fingertips,
and the faint aroma in the study...

...and the look in her eyes when he made love
to her. And the feel of her skin under his hands, and the smell of
her hair.

God!

“But ‘Rush’ isn’t valuable, is it? It wasn’t
done by a master...”

“It’s anonymous. Unsigned. Art dealers
speculate all sorts of theories about it, but none nave been
proven. It’s the mystery that makes it so valuable. But not
priceless. It’s only priceless...to me.”

How could she...after what they’d shared?
He’d let himself believe in her, let himself begin to care.

“What are you going to do, Adam?”

Adam shook his head. “I don’t know.”

“According to the FBI files, Zaslow is only a
broker. A fence, if you want to call it that. He had a forger that
was never named, and he had a talented burglar by the name of
Melvin Kincaid who made the switches for him. He and Kincaid both
did time. They went up for a heist they pulled in seventy-eight.
And either of them could have reduced their sentence by naming the
forger, but neither would do it.”

Seventy-eight. God, Brigit couldn’t have been
much more than a teenager back then. A teenage art forger? How much
sense did that make?

He looked up at Mac, who was still pacing.
“So why do you think they didn’t turn her over, pal? Loyalty. Honor
among thieves?”

“Her?” Mac stopped walking and stared at him.
“You think Brigit’s
the forger?”

Adam nodded.

Mac swore. Then he walked to the window and
swore some more. “With Mel, it might have been loyalty. From what
I’ve dug up on him, he was goddamn likeable, if a little
light-fingered. Adam...”

Adam looked up, coming alert at Mac’s
tone.

“Adam I tried to check these two out. Mel
Kincaid is dead.”

Adam blinked. “How?”

“He was tied to a chair and beaten to death
with a baseball bat. They found him in an abandoned apartment
building in Brooklyn. The day he was killed was the same day Ernie
Zaslow hopped a commuter flight into Lansing.”

Adam’s devastation was compounded now. By
fear. “You think Zaslow murdered him?”

Mac shrugged. “If he did, he’s one dangerous
son of a bitch, Adam. Your Brigit Malone has herself mixed up in
some bad company. She’s either in league with a killer, or in
danger from him. Either way, you have to get the hell away from
her. Throw her out, Adam, before she drags you down with her.”

The thought that she might be in danger sent
cold chills racing up his spine, and slapped a little more sense
into Adam. He grimaced at his own idiocy. He’d known for days that
Brigit was up to something, and suspected almost from the start
that she was being forced, somehow, to do whatever it was she was
doing.

So nothing had changed, had it? Except that
he now knew what it was she was being forced to do.

He was angry. Yes, he was still very angry at
the thought that this morning Brigit had kissed him goodbye, and
then she’d gone into the study to work on her forgery. And he was
furious that she hadn’t trusted him enough to tell him the truth.
Didn’t she know that he’d have given her the damned painting if
she’d asked?

He closed his eyes tight.

“Adam?”

“I know,” he said softly, though he didn’t
know. He didn’t know anything anymore.

“So what are you going to do?”

He only shook his head.

Mac sighed, impatience making him grimace.
“You’re not going to ask her to leave, are you?”

Adam blinked. “No. Not yet.”

“Adam, wake up! You go home, right now, and
you toss her out the front door, bag and baggage. You tell her
you’re onto her little con game, and if she ever darkens your door
again, you’ll turn her in to the cops so fast she won’t know what
hit her. You got it?”

Adam looked up into his friend’s concerned
eyes and simply said, “I can’t do that.”

“Then what are you going to do?”

Adam rose, surprised to find his legs
unsteady. The pain was hardening, changing. “I don’t know. But I
know she’s not a criminal.

Maybe once, Mac, but not anymore.”

“This isn’t enough to convince you? Jesus,
Adam, I never thought you were gullible.”

Adam almost laughed out loud. If Mac had a
clue the kinds of things that had been dancing through Adam’s mind,
he’d have thought the term gullible far too mild. He had to
convince Brigit to trust him. Had to make her let him help her out
of this mess. And then...and then he had to let her go. He knew
that. Had known it from the start. He had to let her go.

Even though it would tear his heart out.

Mac sighed long and hard, but went to his
desk and unlocked a drawer. He withdrew what looked like a marking
pen, brought it over, and tucked it into Adam’s pocket. “The ink
only shows up in a black light, pal. Take my advice and mark the
back of your painting. At least take that precaution.”

“All right.”

“Adam...”

Adam looked at Mac, and knew his friend was
genuinely afraid for him. “I’ll be okay,” he said, but even to his
own ears, it lacked conviction.

“If you need me...”

“Yeah.”

She stopped painting earlier than usual, and
put her things away. The juice just wasn’t flowing today.

Adam’s manuscript had been sitting on the
desk in the study, and something...some force she didn’t pretend to
understand, had drawn her to it. It felt as if, from the second
she’d stepped into the room, that book had been calling to her.

And she’d never been one to ignore her
instincts. So she went to the desk, and she looked at the
leather-bound translation of some ancient Celtic text.

And then she stood motionless, blinking in
shock because the words on the pages had a magical cadence, a lilt
of sincerity. They rang true, somehow, as they outlined the
characteristics of fairy folk. Especially those of the feminine
ilk. It told of their affinity with nature, and the way plants and
animals thrive when a fairy is near. It told of how a fairy could
read a man’s soul by looking into his eyes, and how she could
capture the soul of a mortal man, and enslave him forever.

Breathless with wonder, Brigit sank into the
chair behind Adam’s desk, and continued to read. And when she came
to the pages describing the crescent moon birthmark and what its
color might signify, she was trembling all over. Head to toe.
Goosebumps traveled up and down her arms and chills tumbled over
her spine.