Soldier's Redemption (2 page)

He didn’t look like any other customer she’d ever encountered in this establishment. He was young, not much over thirty, but there was the look of experience in his clear blue eyes that held a challenge, an aura of appraisal, like he was checking out the room in a calculating way and that included her. As though he’d made a decision, he moved toward her with a purpose of step that galvanized her to the spot, his shoulders broad beneath a well-cut dark brown leather jacket that shone with the same richness as his equally dark hair.

The almost imperceptible limp that revealed itself as he walked aroused curiosity and speculation and somehow added to his inherent swagger. She wasn’t sure why this guy was here, but she’d wager it had nothing to do with art.

At five foot two, Skylar was already a little on the diminutive side, and when he stopped a few feet away and stared down, his presence was imposing, muscles impressive, expression impossible to read.

“Do you speak English?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said, smiling.

“You’re American,” he said, eyes sparkling as though he’d longed to hear his own language.

“Same as you,” she said. She’d known before he opened his mouth that he was a fellow Yank. There was something very U.S. of A. about him, something quietly strong, infinitely self-assured. And maybe something slightly dangerous.

“My name is Cole Bennett. I’m looking for Eleanor Ables,” he said, using her aunt’s maiden name, the one she’d kept when she’d married three decades before. His voice was deep and sexy and sent a little flutter down her spine. “I’m betting you’re not her.”

“What gave it away?” Skylar asked with a smile. “The pink stripe in my hair?”

He narrowed his eyes, but there was a glint of humor evident in the slight curve of his lips as his gaze darted up to peruse the stripe. His appraisal traveled down her body to her feet, and he smiled. “I think it might actually be the yellow cowboy boots.”

“Maybe I’m an avant-garde kind of artist,” she flirted. It was obvious to her that he knew she was playing with him and didn’t mind it one bit.

“Maybe you are, but you’re also a few decades too young. Are you even out of high school?”

“I beg your pardon,” she said. “I’m twenty-five. And a half.”

“You look like you’re sixteen. And a half.”

“I think I’m offended,” she said.

His smile ratcheted up a notch. “Didn’t mean it that way. Most women are happy to be told they look younger than their years.”

“Not when it plunges them into jailbait territory,” she said. “Anyway, as you so astutely discerned, I am not Eleanor Ables. I’m filling in for her. May I help you?”

“How about a name?”

“Skylar Pope.” Skylar suddenly became aware that the other customers had moved to the counter with their choices and had discreetly approached the cookie plate. “Excuse me a minute,” she said and hurried over to help them, aware that Cole Bennett’s gaze tracked every move she made.

Skylar chatted warmly with the customers as she wrapped each modest purchase as though it was a Picasso, per her aunt’s long-standing tradition. After the women left, she looked around to see where Cole had wandered off to and found him studying a shelf of glass displayed against a roughly hewn wooden wall. She decided to give him space. It took him a few minutes, but eventually he sought her out again. She offered him coffee and a cookie.

“Thanks,” he said, accepting the coffee, watching her as she dropped a single sugar cube in it as requested. “You speak the language very well.”

“Years of practice,” she said. “Unless I get careless, most people can’t tell I’m from somewhere else.”

“And where is that somewhere else?”

“California, but I spent a week or two here each summer when I was growing up.” She tilted her head and added, “Do you know my aunt, Mr. Bennett?”

“Eleanor Ables is your aunt?”

“Yes, my father’s sister.”

He took a sip, and she struggled to ignore the way his muscles moved under the soft leather of his jacket, the snug fit of the soft black shirt against his trim torso. Hopeless not to notice those things, however. She’d never designed men’s clothes, but she bet he’d look fabulous in anything he wore.

“Call me Cole,” he said. “And, no, I’ve never had the pleasure. A friend of mine visited Traterg last year and brought home the most unique glass figurine. He raved about the woman who had created and sold it to him. When I found myself in Kanistan, I decided to come meet the artist and see if I could find something equally tempting for myself.”

She looked up into his eyes. Everything he’d just said sounded as though he’d rehearsed it. She almost called him on it but stopped herself short. He was a customer, and he’d been looking at very expensive pieces. What did she care if he made up a story about why he wanted one?

“Has anything in particular caught your eye?” she asked and felt warmth in her face as his gaze lingered on her mouth.
Now who was flirting?

“Tell me about this display,” he said, setting the cup aside and leading the way back to the wooden wall.

For the next forty-five minutes, Skylar showed Cole just about everything in the gallery, starting with her aunt’s tree of life theme, the pieces of which ran the gamut from an intricate vase to a huge handblown tree with a thousand individual leaves to a dozen other more modest pieces. As they moved from that to artwork to jewelry, she answered a dozen questions about the artists, their procedures and about herself. His curiosity in everything seemed genuine and as sincere as the unacknowledged dance going on between them as they spoke. They were in the middle of considering colorful three-dimensional glass elliptical shapes that were reminiscent of the famous Fabergé eggs when the bell at the door announced a new customer.

This time, Skylar recognized the man as an elderly collector who had come in ten days before to choose a different frame for his miniature painting. They’d spent a satisfying couple of hours judging the merits of this one over that. Skylar wasn’t an artist per se, but she did understand color and proportions.

“Mr. Machnik, how nice to see you,” she said in English as she knew he appreciated practicing his when he could. “I bet you’re here to pick up your Bartow.”

“Yes, yes, I’ve missed it hanging in my parlor,” he said, his speech heavily accented. Bushy white eyebrows lifted over light gray eyes as he added, “It is back yet?”

“Yes, it came back yesterday, and I have to admit I took a peek. You were right to insist on the gilt. The gold in the frame perfectly reflects the light in the sky. It’s waiting for you in the vault. I’ll be right back.” She excused herself to go get it, anxious to conclude this transaction before Cole Bennett got bored and left without buying something.

The painting was where she’d left it, wrapped in brown paper, about twelve square inches including the frame. She took it from the shelf and returned to the showroom, meeting Mr. Machnik at the counter where she carefully peeled away the invoice and the brown paper surrounding his treasure.

Machnik and she both gasped in the same instant. “Is this a joke?” he choked out.

Skylar looked at the ornate gilt frame she’d rewrapped when it returned from the workshop the afternoon before and felt her pulse quicken. The beautiful rendition of a bucolic hilltop was gone, replaced with a blank rectangle of cardboard.

“I don’t understand,” she said.

“Where is my painting?” he demanded as the kindly veneer flaked away from his voice.

“I don’t know,” she said, looking around the gallery as though it might have walked out of the vault on its own and hidden behind a sculpture. “It was in this frame yesterday.” She met Cole’s gaze and flinched at the intensity of his stare as he obviously eavesdropped.

“I demand to know what’s going on,” Machnik said. “I paid fifty thousand euros for that painting, and as you know, it is worth double that now, maybe triple.”

Her attention flicked back to Machnik. “I know, sir. All I can think is that Aneta may have mistakenly rotated it back into the gallery.” It was possible although Aneta was seldom alone here for long. Still, there was no doubting Aneta was acting flaky as of late. “I assure you, I’ll look into this right away. Let me get you a cup of coffee.”

“No, thank you,” he said, checking his pocket watch. “I’m going to be late for an appointment. I will be back at four o’clock, and I expect to find my painting waiting for me.”

“Yes, I understand,” Skylar said, her voice shaking. She was already punching Aneta’s number into her phone.

Aneta answered on the first ring as though she’d been waiting for a call. “Thank goodness you’re there,” Skylar said as the bell jangled, signaling Machnik exiting the shop. She was vaguely aware of Cole following the older man to the door and cursed the events of the past few minutes.

“I cannot speak,” Aneta said.

“You have to,” Skylar insisted. “What do you know about Oleskii Machnik’s painting, the one in the vault?”

“What! I know nothing,” Aneta insisted. “I’m hanging up.”

“No, wait. It’s missing, Aneta. The Bartow miniature was in the safe when I left yesterday, and now it’s gone. Just the frame remains. Did you move it?”

“I cannot speak,” Aneta repeated, her voice dropping.

“What do you mean? Why aren’t you here at the gallery? What’s going on?” Skylar stopped asking questions as she realized Aneta had disconnected.

Skylar hit Redial, but there was no answer this time. She wanted to throw the phone in frustration. If she didn’t find a rational reason for this situation, her aunt would have to be told and that would bring in the police.

She raced back to the vault, shoving things aside, opening other packages. Had she made a mistake? Had she inadvertently misplaced it herself?

“Can I help?” Cole Bennett asked from the doorway.

She looked up at him, shock robbing her of her voice. She’d forgotten about him. She wasn’t sure what to do now, who to contact.

“I couldn’t help overhearing just about everything,” Cole continued as though recognizing her inability to form a coherent sentence.

She stared at him, still speechless.

“I’ve taken the liberty of locking your front door and turning the open sign to closed. It seems your coworker knows something.”

That jarred words back into her mouth. “How could you possibly know what she said?”

“I just gathered as much from your end of the conversation. Am I right?”

“I think so, but she won’t talk to me. We have trouble with each other on the phone.”

“Then you have to see her face-to-face. Do you know where she lives?”

“I know the address. I mean, I can find it. It’s in the book over on the desk. But I’ll have to call a cab or find the right bus.”

“Or call a friend.”

“I don’t have many friends here, just family,” she said, hurrying to the desk and finding Aneta’s address. She had no idea what part of the city it was in, but she copied it quickly.

“Your aunt—”

“She mustn’t hear a word of this.”

“I got the feeling Mr. Machnik will not meekly accept the loss of something he cares about,” he added. “And what did he mean it’s worth double or triple what he paid?”

“The artist died earlier this year. The prices on his miniatures skyrocketed. I’ll have to find the painting or make retribution somehow.” She gulped her panic and wondered about insurance, but more than that, she wondered how the painting could have disappeared from a locked vault....

“Your aunt—”

“I can’t tell my aunt. She’s undergoing chemotherapy. She’s too sick to be involved.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice compassionate and yet in control. “Well, here’s an idea. I have a rental outside. I’ll give you a ride.”

“I can’t ask—”

“I don’t believe you did. Are you coming?”

It took Skylar one heartbeat to review her options. She locked the vault and the store. A minute later, she slid into his rental, her heart jammed high in her throat.

Chapter Two

It turned out Skylar’s coworker lived thirty minutes away in a cinder block apartment building with a rusty black fire escape zigzagging its way from the top floor to the bottom. The small, unlocked lobby was dark and held only a row of mailboxes. Cole and Skylar stood side by side looking at the names, searching for Aneta’s apartment number and floor.

Cole’s original plan upon entering the art gallery had been to flirt his way into a dinner invitation with Luca Futura’s niece. He’d been well on his way to accomplishing that goal when the missing painting provided a solid plan B. Cole was used to taking opportunities as they presented themselves. He was former special forces, and that meant augmenting years of physical and mental training with split-second tactical decision making.

Now, hopefully, Skylar would see him as a friend, a confidant, someone who’d been willing to lend her a hand...someone she could trust.

He’d chosen Skylar for his mission because she appeared to be the weakest link in Futura’s chain—and as such, Cole’s best chance of getting close to a man shielded behind layers of protection.

He’d done his research, and he knew Skylar was a recent graduate of a design school. She had three brothers and a sister plus a large extended family spread all over the States. She created clothes for a living and wore them like a petite fashion model, tended to change her hair color on a whim and worked whatever odd jobs paid the bills and gave her time to do what she loved.

He’d known all that going in. What he hadn’t known was how damn pretty she was up close and personal, the way her eyes resembled blue diamonds, the creamy texture of her almost translucent pale skin, the fullness of her lips or the rounded curves of breasts and hips that merged into a trim waist.

Totally feminine and utterly breathtaking—and this from a man who didn’t often allow a person’s appearance to affect him.

But it wasn’t just her looks...there was something else, something robust and lively about her. She’d flirted with him with ease, yet she had no hidden agenda like he did. She just seemed to like people. And there was the way she’d faced first the disappearance of the painting and then her customer’s threats with polite courage, and that had touched him. And to be honest, her distress alarmed him.