Soldier's Redemption (4 page)

It was obvious to Cole that Skylar Pope didn’t have the slightest idea just how powerful and corrupt her uncle Luca truly was. She was in for some major eye-opening in the near future. And he knew it would be terrible for her, not perhaps because of her deep love for her uncle but on her aunt’s behalf.

So the question became the true nature of Detective Kilo. Was he an honest man, a crook or worse?

“Is anything else missing?” the detective asked Skylar, and Cole leaned forward, anxious to hear her response.

“I can’t tell without doing a complete inventory, which I’ll start tomorrow,” Skylar said. “But offhand, nothing seems out of place except that painting. Oh my gosh, I am going to have to call Mr. Machnik. He’s going to come unglued.”

“We can do that for you,” the detective said.

“No, I’ll do it, thanks,” Skylar said. “He deserves to hear the news from me.”

“We examined Ms. Cazo’s apartment and found nothing of interest,” Detective Kilo continued. He took out a package of cigarettes.

“No smoking in the gallery,” Skylar said. “How...how did Aneta die? Was it a gun? Was it quick?”

“I can’t discuss that right now,” Kilo said, repocketing the packet. “You understand.”

“I suppose,” she said, and Cole noticed she rubbed her hands on her dress as though washing away invisible blood.

A few minutes later, a knock on the locked front door heralded a new arrival. One of the policemen opened it. By the deferential look on the officer’s face as he turned back into the room, Cole suspected he was about to come face-to-face with Skylar’s uncle.

Would Futura recognize Cole? Would he see something of Cole’s father in his face, and would his razor-sharp brain leap to make connections Cole hadn’t anticipated?

As for what Futura looked like...Cole had seen pictures, both a candid shot his brother had taken with his cell phone months before and a few from articles written about him on the internet. Nowadays, the man stayed out of the spotlight, but he was still an imposing and singular-looking guy, and as he entered the shop, his presence dominated the room.

Suave and handsome, even in his late sixties, Luca’s head seemed a little too large for his body. Cole had read that many actors and performers shared this trait of a large head and, hence, a larger face where emotions and reactions could be discerned by cameras and audiences from a distance.

Futura’s body looked strong, as well—back straight, hands large, fingers tapered. Cole’s gaze went at once to his right hand ring finger where he found what he’d been told to expect: a gold band inlaid with onyx in the shape of an owl.

He raised his gaze and found Futura returning the appraisal. The man’s instincts had immediately zeroed in on the one person in the gallery who didn’t seem to fit. A chill ran down Cole’s spine.

Futura’s icy-gray eyes were about the same color as the impeccably made suit that draped his flesh. His tie was white, his overcoat black and in his hands he held a black bowler, a style of hat not seen much anymore.

“Uncle Luca, thank goodness you’re here,” Skylar said and hurried to Futura who wrapped her in a hug. This warmth between them shocked Cole, who had expected his own distaste of the man, hatred even, would be a universal reaction. But Skylar obviously didn’t share these feelings.

Nor did the police who all seemed to snap to attention, vying with one another to bring Futura up to speed both in English and in the language of Kanistan. Once the known details were apparently related, Futura told Skylar to get her things and that he would see she returned home at once.

And then he turned his attention back to Cole although Cole would have bet it had never strayed too far away. “And just who are you, again?” he asked.

Cole introduced himself, stepping forward and offering a hand. Luca shook it, his grip strong and unyielding. His light eyes betrayed nothing of what he thought.

“Cole has been wonderful during this whole ordeal,” Skylar said, casting Cole a warm smile. “I would have been lost without his help.”

“Then we must repay him,” Luca said, replacing his hat and reaching inside his chest pocket to take out a large, flat wallet. He fished a wad of cash out and offered it to Cole, who shook his head gently.

“I wouldn’t dream of taking money for what little I did. I was happy to help,” he said.

“Then you must come to dinner,” Futura said.

Cole smiled. “It’s not necessary.”

“I insist,” Futura said as he replaced the money in his wallet. “How long will you be in Traterg, Mr. Bennett?”

“A week, perhaps,” Cole said.

“Tomorrow night, then? Around seven?”

“I wouldn’t want to be an imposition.”

“I told him about Aunt Eleanor,” Skylar interjected, with a wary glance at her uncle.

“Ah. Well, then, Mr. Bennett, perhaps you will understand it better when I say that my wife would appreciate meeting a man of such chivalry, especially in regard to her favorite niece and her beloved gallery. I would invite you tonight, but I believe Skylar and I must hurry home now and tell Eleanor of the sad news concerning Ms. Cazo.”

“And the missing painting,” Skylar said, eyes downcast.

“The police will find who took the painting, and if it cannot be recovered, the gallery’s insurance policy will cover the theft. Please, do as I ask, and get your things while I have a final word with the detective.”

“I’ll go with you,” Cole said, glancing at Skylar first, then the police. “My car is parked out back in the alley. Is it okay if I leave now?”

“We know how to reach you should the need arise,” Detective Kilo said.

Cole followed Skylar into the back room where she once again retrieved her personal belongings from her locker. She walked him to the back door, twisting the lock, then looking up into his eyes before opening it. “You don’t have to come to dinner,” she said. “Uncle Luca is used to getting what he wants, but he’ll understand.”

“I want to. Your uncle is very persuasive.”

“Yes, he is.”

“But I wish you could meet at the hotel tonight for a late supper. Can you do that, Skylar?”

She hesitated a moment as though thinking. “I don’t think I can,” she finally said.

He lowered his voice, leaning closer so she could hear him. “I’m staying at the Hotel Traterg, room 1311. I’ll make a reservation at the restaurant downstairs for, say, nine o’clock.” He brushed her forehead with his lips and added, “Come if you can, okay?”

“My uncle isn’t the only persuasive one,” she murmured, looking down at his hand, which had landed on her arm as he spoke. She glanced back up into his eyes, and he felt a stirring in his gut and the crazy desire to touch his lips with hers. She was just so damn lovely and so vulnerable—much more so than she even knew.

“I don’t know a thing about you,” she added.

“Not true,” he countered, his voice as soft as hers. “You know I chase after killers and can drive on the right
and
the left side of the road.” He allowed his gaze to devour her as he added, “And you know that I have an appreciation for...beauty...in all its infinite forms. Say you’ll try to come.”

“I’ll try,” she whispered.

He left before he could change his mind and tell her to run like the wind.

* * *

E
LEANOR
A
BLES HAD ALWAYS BEEN
larger than life to Skylar—not only tall but elegant and artistic in everything she did from decorating her home to cooking a meal to blowing glass and running a gallery.

Now, in the middle of treatments, she was still a beauty, but it was of a frailer, more fragile nature, reminding Skylar more of her grandmother than ever before.

Aunt Eleanor took the news of Aneta’s death with stoic grace, but the troubled look in her dark blue eyes was a clear indication of how disturbed she was. She kept repeating Aneta couldn’t have stolen the painting, yet what other possibilities were there? The store had not been broken into, and there was that half-packed suitcase at Aneta’s apartment as though she’d been caught in the act of leaving Traterg.

Skylar sat with her aunt for two hours, consoling her, reading to her until at last the older woman closed her eyes and fell into a deep sleep enhanced with a sleeping aid. She would be out for the rest of the night.

Uncle Luca had left after receiving a call. Skylar startled when he opened the door and spoke from the hall. The house was so big that there were never any of the ordinary sounds like a garage door opener or doors closing or even footsteps in the hall to forewarn her when someone approached. “She’s asleep?” he asked.

Skylar laid the book aside, turned down the lamp and nodded at the nurse who sat knitting by the window. She joined her uncle and closed the door behind her. “Yes.”

“How did she take the news of Aneta’s death?”

“Not well.”

“I should have told Ian I couldn’t come tonight. I should have stayed with Eleanor.”

Skylar patted his arm. “Don’t torture yourself, Uncle Luca.” She spoke his language as she always did when she was staying in his house unless there were people present who didn’t understand it. “Aunt Eleanor needs sleep now, and you’ll be here in the morning. Shall I have the cook reheat your dinner, or would you just like a sandwich sent up to your study?”

“The sandwich will be fine, then I’ll turn in early and catch up on paperwork. By the way, I’ve started a background check on Cole Bennett.”

Skylar glanced up at him, startled. “A background check? Why?”

“You don’t think I would allow someone into my home without knowing who and what he really is, do you?”

“I guess not.”

“And really, is it just a coincidence he was at the gallery ready to offer a helping hand at the very moment you needed one?”

“Yes, I think it is,” she said. “He’d been there for an hour or more.”

Her uncle took off his suit jacket and draped it over one arm. “Still, I am a prudent man. One does not manage to stay afloat in this government if they are not cautious. Now, are you going to your room to sketch?”

“I may. But first I’ll go talk to the cook.”

He leaned down and kissed her cheek. “Thank you, Skylar. You’re a great comfort to both your aunt and myself right now.”

She smiled in response and watched as he walked off down the hall. Then she hurried toward the kitchen where she passed along her uncle’s wishes to the cook.

Upstairs in her own room, which was about as large as her whole place back home, she took out her sketch pad and lay across the bed, pencil poised over paper, mind a million miles away.

She kept seeing Aneta’s still face in her dark little apartment. The girl had always shown up at work looking put together in surprisingly well-made clothes. Her modest apartment had come as quite a shock to Skylar, who had assumed from the way Aneta dressed that she was better off than that. After a few minutes of thought, Skylar came up with an explanation: she was almost positive some of Aneta’s clothes—like the silver knit dress she’d worn the day before—had once belonged to Aunt Eleanor. Did Aunt Eleanor know something about Aneta that would help the police find her killer? Would anyone think to ask her?

And then there was that whole weird phone conversation. Had Aneta been flippant or frightened? Could Skylar have helped her if she’d worked harder at becoming her friend?

Her gaze darted to the clock. It was only eight o’clock, and Cole had said he’d make a reservation for nine. Skylar turned over on her back, sketch pad forgotten. By tomorrow, her uncle would have done a thorough background check on Cole, and perhaps he would have decided Cole wasn’t “safe” enough to have at the house. She might never see him again.

Never look into those blue eyes or find out if his lips lived up to their promise or feel his heat as he held her. The thought of missing all that made her stomach twist.

And face it—there was more to him than met the eye, and she was dying to know what it meant.

* * *

N
INE O’CLOCK CAME
and went. She wasn’t coming. He’d have to wait until tomorrow night to see her, or she might get the feeling he was pushing her and she’d back off.

In a way, Cole was glad to have a reprieve from this charade. He caught a glimpse of something bright and cheerful staring at him from atop the dresser, and he crossed the room to pick it up and look at it.

The figurine was that of a clown, half child’s toy, half trinket. About six inches high and made of some kind of resin draped with cloth, the clown wore a one-piece suit, half red, half yellow, both dotted with green. He had big shoes, a red nose, orange hair and a purple balloon suspended on a wire “string.” The wire was the weak point and had broken many times over the years, but Cole had always glued it back in place, marveling that anyone would have bought something like this for little more than a baby. Amazing he hadn’t poked his eye out on the thing.

He’d had it forever.

Now he tucked it in the top drawer and closed it away from view right as a knock sounded on the hall door. Probably the maid to turn down the bed. His stomach grumbled, so he grabbed his leather jacket and pulled it on, intending to find a bite down in the restaurant while the maid did her thing. But it wasn’t the maid at the door.

His quickening pulse as he looked down and found Skylar looking up at him should have sent cascading alarms all through his head. He smiled instead. “You came.”

“I’m sorry I’m late. I had to stop by the gallery.”

She looked wonderful in her bright red coat with a black velvet collar, her cheeks pink from the cold outside, her hair blond and shiny. He took her shoulders in his hands and pulled her into his arms, surprising both of them with the gesture. Without giving it another moment’s thought, he bent down and kissed her, and if she was amazed at his audacity, she didn’t show it. Instead, she returned his kiss, her body pressed close to his, her arm around his shoulder, her fingertips touching the back of his neck, her lips parting, her tongue smooth against his.

Had he ever wanted a woman this quickly and completely? Never, he knew that. The alarm that should have gone off with his first glimpse of her finally rang clear in his head, and he ended the kiss before it was too late for both of them.