Stolen Fury (27 page)
He looked back at the grill and flipped the steaks. “
Ex
-wife. And no. Stacked is fine, but blonde and bitchy doesn’t do it for me.”
She resumed her chopping. “I see. Red and snarky’s a whole lot better.”
“Lately? Yeah.”
The surprise in his voice made her glance up again. He didn’t look her way, simply shook salt over the meat with a bewildered expression on his face.
And her stomach knotted all over again.
Determined not to touch that one, she filled a salad bowl with greens and tomatoes. She sprinkled feta over the top, added a splash of balsamic vinaigrette and took the salad to the table in the breakfast nook, where she found plates and utensils to set the table. When she discovered a drawer with candles, she thought about adding them to the arrangement and then quickly changed her mind. Already enough distractions going on here. She didn’t need to bolster the mood.
She slid onto a stool at the counter with her wine while he finished working the grill, and searched her mind for a neutral topic that wasn’t too personal. “So Pete seemed pretty nice.”
“Yeah, he is. We’ve been friends a long time.”
“How did you two end up working together?”
He turned the fire down, flipped the steaks again. “We were college roommates freshman year at Florida State. After graduation, I joined the Navy, he opened a gallery in Miami. When I got out, he hooked me up with a job.”
He’d been in the Navy? That was news. “Just like that?”
He shrugged, and she sensed there was more to it, but didn’t push.
She lifted her glass and took a sip. “So does this gallery have a name?”
“Odyssey.”
She paused, glass midway to the counter. “The Odyssey Gallery? In Miami? Are you serious?”
He nodded but didn’t look her direction.
She didn’t know quite what to say. This little bit of info shocked her. No, it
floored
her. “They’re big. I mean, well respected. And you worked for him?”
“Hard to believe, huh?”
His tone made her realize she’d just insulted him. “I didn’t mean it like that. I meant it’s hard to believe someone like you would work for such a big…” No, that was
coming out wrong. “What I meant is that I just never expected a gallery like that would be involved with…” Oh, crap. She was making it worse. Heat burned her cheeks. “Not to say that you don’t…”
Humor ran across his features when he glanced up. “It’s okay, Lisa.”
Mortified, she brushed a hand over her hair. Holy cow, she was saying everything wrong to night. She took a deep drink of her wine.
“The gallery’s on the up-and-up now,” he said. “For the most part. I’ll be the first to admit, it wasn’t for quite a while, but about six years ago Pete changed things up.”
“Why?”
Rafe shrugged. “Personal reasons.”
She was curious what those personal reasons were, but more curious about Rafe’s involvement. “So what did you do?”
“My job was to track down rare pieces clients were specifically looking for. Nine times out of ten, if a piece was in an owner’s collection, we negotiated for a fair price.”
“And what about the other 10 percent?”
“The rest of the time we convinced the collectors that considering our offer was a smart investment. That nothing in life was guaranteed.”
Her eyes narrowed with understanding. “You stole it from them.”
“Sometimes.” He went back to his steaks like it was no big deal. “We never went for pieces that were worth a lot of money or would be missed. In fact, in every instance it was a froufrou collector who couldn’t have cared less about the piece in question but enjoyed the power of saying no. Art’s only valuable if someone else wants it.”
Except in her case.
He shrugged again and slipped one hand in his pocket. “We always
over
compensated the collector with either a piece from our own collection more valuable than the first
or through donations to their charity of choice that netted them prestige in their social circles. Ultimately, that’s all they cared about.”
“So you’re telling me you’re an honest thief? Did they know about this?”
He chuckled. “No. Not specifically. But trust me. They got what they wanted. In the end, everyone was happy.”
“Hmm.” She studied him, trying to make sense of a world that was completely foreign to her. The pieces she uncovered in her work went to museums, universities and occasionally private collections, depending on the muscle funding a dig. But the world he described, the one of art for money, wasn’t something she had much background in. “Compensation, huh? No one’s compensated me for my piece.”
“I’m not done with you yet,
querida.
”
She was starting to get a better idea of how things worked, and suddenly didn’t like it. “I see.”
He darted a quick look her direction, any hint of humor long gone. “What happened between us upstairs had nothing to do with the Furies, Lisa. That was strictly personal, between you and me and nobody else. That’s not the kind of compensation I was talking about.”
She could tell by the seriousness of his voice and the intensity in his eyes he was telling the truth. Hating that the thought had even crossed her mind, she glanced away.
He went back to the grill, and an uncomfortable silence filled the room, one she wanted to break. She propped her elbow on the counter, rested her chin on her hand and tried to lighten the mood. “So, aside from your career choice, Sullivan, let me see if I’ve got this straight. You cook, love your mother and are phenomenal in the sack. So why are you still single? Did you get burned by love?”
That sexy grin pulled at his mouth again as he lifted the steaks to a plate and turned off the grill. “Phenomenal, huh? I’ll have to remember that.”
She rolled her eyes. “Don’t let it go to your head.”
He brought the steaks to the table and gestured for her to join him.
They sat, and he spooned salad on her plate. The ceiling fan turned lazy circles above. “Why don’t you ask what you really want to know?” When she looked up, he lifted his eyebrows. “You’re wondering why I’m divorced.”
The thought had crossed her mind a few
thousand
times. Especially every time she thought about the drop-dead gorgeous cop that was his ex. She lifted her fork and took a bite to keep from asking.
“Hailey and I never should have gotten married,” he volunteered as he cut into his steak.
“Why not?” The question was out before she could stop it. Before she could remind herself discussing personal topics was treading on squishy ground.
He swallowed a bite. “Because we didn’t love each other.”
Interesting. “So why did you get married, then?”
He leaned back and took a sip of his wine. “We dated, and one weekend we got this bright idea to take a weekend trip to Vegas. Ended up having too much to drink and wound up in one of those cheesy chapels, the ones you see on TV.” He shook his head and looked into his wine as if thinking back. “Anyway, let’s just say alcohol makes you do some pretty stupid stuff sometimes.”
“Why didn’t you have it annulled then? People do that all the time, don’t they?”
“I don’t know.” He shrugged. “Neither of us was getting any younger, we weren’t involved with anyone else, and we liked each other, so we decided to give it a go.” He looked up. “Bad idea. We both knew a week later it was a mistake. Hailey’s got her own reasons why she stuck it out for six months.”
“And why did you stick it out?”
He looked out at the water and didn’t answer. She sensed there was so much about him she didn’t know. Wondered if she ever would. What kind of man stays married to a woman he knows he’s not in love with?
And then she knew. He had that same soft look across his features she’d seen at the hospital.
The kind of man who was trying to please someone else. The kind of man who would put his own needs aside to make someone else happy. Someone he thought wouldn’t be around much longer.
Her chest squeezed tight.
When he looked back at her, the ghosts were gone from his eyes. He forced a grin. “So aside from your career choice,
querida
, let me see if I’ve got this straight.” His tone lightened. “You’re smart, sexy as hell and amazing between the sheets. So how come you’re still single? Did you get burned by love?”
The smile teasing her lips instantly faded. “I don’t believe in love.”
“No?”
She shook her head, refusing to go down that road with him to night. Ever, if she could help it.
His eyes narrowed. “What do you believe in?”
“Anything tangible.”
“Like what?”
She didn’t want to talk anymore. Talking would only get her in trouble, take her places she didn’t want to go. For one night, she just wanted to forget about Doug and the Furies and everything that had happened in her life to get her to this point.
Her appetite slid to the wayside. Intent on distracting him, she pushed back from the table and closed the distance between them by slithering onto his lap. “Like this.”
Her lips captured his. She felt the questions in his tense muscles, in his cautious kiss. But he didn’t push, didn’t ask. Instead he framed her face with his hands and opened to her mouth, taking her exactly where she wanted to go.
Away. For as long or short as this wild ride lasted.
In the morning she’d figure out how to be the tough-as-nails archaeologist he’d partnered with. To night she just wanted to be a woman without a past.
Shane popped open his Tic Tacs and shook three into his hand as he ducked under the crime-scene tape surrounding the ritzy Chicago mansion. Darkness pressed in, but patrol lights illuminated the quiet neighborhood, reminding him shitty things happen even in nice-looking places.
He flashed his badge and made his way up the front steps and into the house. A myriad of officers moved through the massive entry and first level. Shane pulled gloves from his jacket pocket as he headed up the curved staircase where his partner for the past two years, Tony Chen, was waiting.
Tony was second-generation Chinese-American, tall and slim, with dark hair and the weirdest light eyes, which unnerved almost every suspect. When Shane stepped through the open office door, Tony glanced up. “About time you got here, Maxwell.” He gave Shane the once-over and then went back to the sketch of the scene he was creating. “You look like crap. Hot date?”
Yeah, right. With his couch, trying to catch a nap. He stepped up next to Tony. “What have we got?”
Tony looked toward the body lying facedown on the carpet behind the shiny wood desk. The victim was barefoot, dressed in black slacks and a white dress shirt rolled up to his elbows. Blood had seeped into the carpet beneath his head. A small hole in his skull was evident through his
blood-smattered silvery hair. The stench of death filled the room.
A camera flash popped, and Shane blinked twice. Several crime-scene techs milled through the room collecting evidence.
“Maid found him when she was cleaning this afternoon,” Tony said. “ME estimates time of death to be between twelve and eighteen hours ago.”
Shane knelt by the body, tipped his head to get a better view. The man’s hand was clenched in a fist at his side.
He turned, taking a careful sweep of the room. A leather couch sat against one wall, a marble-topped fireplace graced another. There was an oriental area rug on the floor and an oval glass coffee table in front of the couch. Nothing appeared disturbed.
A frown tugged at Shane’s mouth. Alan Landau had been their number-one person of interest in Laura Hamilton’s murder. Now, apparently, it looked like that theory had been blown to hell.
“Got Ruiz working on the guest list from last night’s brouhaha,” Tony said. “He’s calling them in one by one. So far nothing, but someone had to have seen something.”
Shane was in the process of studying the hole in the sheetrock left by what he guessed was a .22 when his blood ran cold. Landau’s party. Lisa had been
here
. He hadn’t made the connection until just now.
“We’ve also got a broken window in a library downstairs,” Tony went on. “But it looks like it was forced from the inside out, not the other way around.”
“We’re ready over here, boys.”
Perspiration pricked Shane’s skin, and they both looked over to where the medical examiner was preparing to turn the body. Shane stepped forward.
Two officers assisted as they rolled the victim onto his back. A bright red circle stained the plush cream-colored carpet when they moved him. Landau’s eyes were open,
staring up at the ceiling, and a small hole pierced his forehead. Another officer snapped photos as the ME went to work.
“He’s got something in his hand,” one of the crime-scene techs said.
Shane waited until it had been carefully photographed, then knelt down and pried the paper from Landau’s cold, dead fingers. He unrolled the scrap and stared at it.
His eyes grew wide. Behind him, Tony swore.
He’d left her sleeping. And he hadn’t wanted to.
Crawling out of that big cushy bed when all he’d wanted to do was wrap himself around Lisa for a few more hours and lose himself in her softness had been one of the hardest things Rafe had ever done. Much harder than walking out of that hotel room in Italy.
Now, three hours later, standing at the wall of windows in Pete’s office, staring out at the bay as he waited for his friend, he couldn’t get thoughts of Lisa out of his mind.
I don’t believe in love.
That one statement had kept him up most the night after she’d finally drifted to sleep in his arms. That and the knowledge she’d used sex to distract him when the conversation in the kitchen had shifted her direction.
Her adamant declaration had been so matter-of-fact, he couldn’t help wondering what had happened to put that cold look in her eye. The same look that had disturbed him long after their conversation had died.
It had to be related to Stone. Her drive to find the Furies was emotional, even though she’d never admit to it. A niggling thought in the back of his head said it was also somehow tied to that small faded scar he’d found low on her belly when he’d been savoring every inch of her last night. The one that looked suspiciously like an old surgical scar.