Eye of the Storm (2 page)

There was no fight, no reason for him to rescue her. He’d seen the look she’d given her escort, the way the man’s hand never strayed far from her body—not out of possessiveness, but compelled by tender regard.

She watched the antics of a hummingbird attracted to the day lilies. Then she smiled. His breath caught. This was no damsel in distress, but if she had been, he would have gladly slain a dragon or two for a chance to see that smile. It wasn’t that she was beautiful; her skin was too pale, hair unruly like a child’s, eyes a touch too wide and deeply set to be comforting. And her smile was a little cock-eyed, lopsided even.

But there was just something about her. The same something that most of these society women paid their surgeons and cosmetologists dearly for but never achieved. He watched her rise and walk barefoot across the grass toward him. Her dress was sleeveless, falling in drapes down her chest and much lower in the back. He slid off his stool and moved to open the heavy glass door for her as she crossed back into the lobby.

“Thank you.”

She wasn’t going to tip him for holding the door for her. But he didn’t mind. She strode past, her deep purple dress swishing against bare skin. No, he didn’t mind at all. He knew instinctively she wasn’t like the other women who attended these galas, women who brushed their bodies and hands against him as they waited for husbands to return with the car. Women who acted as if their five-dollar tips had bought and paid for him, who didn’t recognize that not everyone had a price.

He watched her bend forward, set black leather heels into place on the gold marble floor, and he sucked in his breath as the folds of her dress shifted over her back, tantalizing him with possibilities.

She rose in one fluid motion and curled her toes before stepping into the shoes. His sigh resonated with hers, echoing against the glass walls of the lobby. He admired the view as she continued down the hall, heels clicking against the marble floor.

She was graceful, but not rigid like a dancer, he thought, hypnotized by the fabric swinging back and forth at her lower back. When he was young, he’d seen a group of Chinese acrobats. One of the set pieces had been two men dueling with sharp swords, one in each hand. The four blades moved faster and faster until they became a blur dancing around the stage. The only thing that prevented bloodshed had been the acrobats’ grace, balance, and supreme confidence.

She disappeared into the main gallery and the guard sighed once more, longing for something he’d never possessed in the first place. He gave thanks to God for the mysteries that were women.

His finger tapped the guest list; it was easy to find her name, she and her escort had been the first to arrive. Hart, Cassandra Hart.

The guard moved back to his desk. He had the sudden urge to talk to his wife, to hear the voice that had kept him company for the past eleven years.

“SO, HOW DOES
it feel to finally come out of the closet?” Jimmy Dolan handed Drake a flute of champagne and grinned at the blush that colored the younger man’s cheeks. Always one to push a joke as far as it would go, Jimmy caught the eye of a busty matron swathed in black velvet and diamonds. He leaned over, smacked his lips against Drake’s cheek.

“It’s all right,” he told the woman, wrapping his arm around Drake’s shoulder, “we’re partners.”

“You two make a lovely couple.” She gave them an indulgent smile and continued past.

Indeed they did. Drake at six feet was a few inches shorter than Jimmy. His dark hair hung over the collar of his dinner jacket, but Jimmy saw that even though Drake hadn’t made it to the barber, he had managed a real bow tie.

Despite his own clip-on tie and military buzz cut, Jimmy thought he still looked pretty damn sophisticated in his black tuxedo. He figured it had something to do with the way his broad shoulders strained against the fabric, making the rental appear custom-fit. The guy at the shop said he was lucky to find one his size.

Drake shrugged his partner’s arm away and elbowed Jimmy in the gut. “Would you shut up?”

“What? She loved it, probably thinks she’s just so broad-minded now.”

Drake rolled his eyes as Jimmy’s wife, Denise, approached. “Are you still torturing him?” she chided her husband. “You know, this is why I never take you anywhere.”

“Just trying to keep the kid’s cover from getting blown. You know everyone thinks these arteests,” Jimmy drawled the word, “are all gay. Especially with a name like Remy Michel.”

“What did you expect me to use? Pittsburgh Police Detective Rembrandt Michael Drake—specializing in pastels, oils, murder and mayhem?” Drake kept his voice low as they eased into the reception hall.

“You keep pulling in 1.2 million with every sale and you won’t need us peons in the Major Case Squad anymore,” Jimmy told his partner.

Drake shook his head. 1.2 million. Hearing it aloud made his ears ring. Last week when he’d gotten the check and held it, he’d actually felt his knees sag. Not because of how much money it was—but because someone would pay that kind of money for something he’d painted, for an original Drake—or Remy Michel to use his
nom de l’art
. It was exhilarating.

And it scared the crap out of him. What if he never created anything that good again? What if
Steadfast
was a fluke—a one-hit wonder? He’d been painting for years; sales of his work in galleries on the East Coast had been modest but steady. Encouraging was the adjective his manager used.

But 1.2 million? Only a family like the Fairstones would have that kind of money to blow on three canvases. Although, Drake thought with a smile, it wasn’t as if they weren’t getting their money’s worth. The model for the triptych was exceptionally inspiring.

He just wished Alicia Fairstone hadn’t been from Pittsburgh. She’d insisted on learning the true name of the artist she’d selected to grace the new headquarters of her charitable foundation. He’d always kept his art separate and anonymous from his life as a detective on the Pittsburgh Police Bureau’s Major Case Squad. Never even told Jimmy, his partner of five years, until a few weeks ago when the Fairstones announced they were going to display
Steadfast
as part of their annual holiday fundraising gala. Even now, Jimmy was the only cop who knew about Drake’s second career.

“Where’s Hart?” he asked Denise. He had thought the two women had gone to the ladies’ room together, to do whatever it was that took women so long in bathrooms.

“Cassie’s a little nervous. She’s afraid everyone will recognize her as the model.”

“With a body like hers, she’s got nothing to be ashamed about,” Jimmy said, earning simultaneous elbows to the gut from both of his partners.

“You better not talk like that around her,” Denise told him.

“How would you know anyway?” Drake asked.

Jimmy gave a heaving sigh. “A man can dream, can’t he?”

Denise merely arched an eyebrow at him. It was the same look she gave their kids when they were pushing her limits. Jimmy straightened up with alacrity. The mother of twin six-year-olds, Denise stayed trim in the natural course of days spent chasing them both. Not to mention the effort it took to keep her husband in line and run a business as a financial consultant.

“How’re we doing on money?” Drake asked her. 1.2 million sounded like a lot, but after the government and his manager took their share, there wasn’t much left. Not to mention the final payment on renovations to convert the part of his building into a community clinic, the Liberty Center.

Denise frowned. “It’s a good thing the check cleared,” she told him. “That money’s already spent.”

Easy come, easy go. Creating a nonprofit and getting it up and running was taking more time, money, and effort than he ever imagined. But it was a helluva lot of fun—almost as good as painting or nailing a criminal. Plus, it gave him a chance to work side by side with Hart.

A black woman with voluptuous curves accentuated by her gold, form-fitting dress approached.

“Where’s Cassie?” Adeena Coleman was Hart’s best friend and a social worker helping out at the Liberty Center. “Let me guess. She’s hiding.” She shook her head, her intricate arrangement of beaded braids swinging with the movement.

“I was just going to look for her.” Drake left them mingling with Pittsburgh’s rich and famous. He worked his way through the crowd, searching each of the museum’s smaller galleries until he came to one that was dimly lit and quiet. The walls were draped in indigo velvet while flood lights illuminated sculptures of ivory and bronze.

His breath caught when he spotted the alabaster figure of a woman standing beside one of Degas’ dancers, her back to him. Her shoulders were draped in a low cascade of fabric that revealed the sinuous curves of her back as well as the well-defined muscles of her shoulders. She balanced with her weight on one bare foot, the arch of her other foot curving up her calf as if she were a ballet dancer preparing for an arabesque.

The foot moved up and down, winking in and out of folds of aubergine velvet, offering Drake enticing views of skin. Then she shifted her weight and stepped back into her heels.

Dr. Cassandra Hart made the sound of a woman whose feet were suffering dearly in the cause of fashion and love. She turned to look over her shoulder.

Her dark, almond-shaped eyes met Drake’s and her mouth rounded in the O of a child caught shaking Christmas presents. The unruly curls she’d tried to restrain in a French braid had escaped, twisting in tendrils around her face.

She wore no stockings, no makeup, and no jewelry other than a small sapphire ring on the third finger of her left hand. To Drake, she was the most beautiful thing in this gallery filled with masterpieces. He moved forward, handed her his champagne to sip, and wrapped one arm around her waist.

“They’ll be starting soon,” he told her. She leaned back into him, and he could feel the tension knotting her muscles. Unless it was in the midst of managing a multiple trauma, Hart hated crowds.

Yet still she came tonight, to be with Drake in his hour of triumph. Hart believed actions spoke louder than words and this one spoke volumes to Drake.

She said nothing, taking a quick gulp of champagne to steel her nerves.

“Have I told you how beautiful you look tonight?” He turned her in his arms so she faced him.

Steadfast
was the first major piece he’d finished since he met her ten months ago, the first since he’d been shot and almost died before she saved him, the first inspired by Hart.

He leaned forward to kiss her deeply. If he never raised a brush again, it was enough,
this
was enough. He wouldn’t trade this simple woman or her quiet beauty for all the diamonds in the building.

“It’ll be all right.” He took her by the hand and led her back to the reception hall.

“Detective Drake!” A woman in her early forties, her blond hair pulled back into a tight bun, the better to display the diamond and ruby earrings that matched the heavy necklace draped over her ample bust, waved a hand.

Drake cringed at the use of his real name, but knew he couldn’t avoid her. Alicia Fairstone was the hostess of tonight’s festivities and thus, considered herself Drake’s patroness. He had asked her not to announce his presence at the opening. In the program he was listed as Remy Michel, a local artist, with no biographic information.

Before he could beat a retreat, Alicia was in front of them, extending her slender, manicured hand to Drake.

He hid his sigh in a gracious smile and lifted the hand to brush his lips.

“Isn’t it marvelous, Detective?” Alicia gushed, snaking her arm around his even as she raked Hart with an appraising look. The Fairstone heiress had already disposed of husbands one and two and was rumored to be on the prowl for number three.

“Please, Ms. Fairstone,” Drake said.

“I’m so sorry. I forgot that you were undercover, so to speak. Then I shall call you Remy and you may call me Alicia. That way your secret will be safe.” She turned to Hart. “And you brought your model with you—how thoughtful of you, Remy.”

Alicia unleashed him long enough to take both of Hart’s hands into hers. “My dear, you’re much too thin,” she said. “I hope these scars aren’t marks of that ‘cutting’ thing that I’ve heard some models do. You aren’t anorexic, are you? Because we’ve laid out a sumptuous buffet.”

The socialite steered Hart away from Drake and toward the food. Drake felt compelled to intervene. Not for Hart’s sake, but Alicia’s. Hart wore her “wither and die” look and Alicia had no idea who she was dealing with. Just as the heiress didn’t realize that Hart had earned the ragged scar on her left arm, along with several others, while struggling with a serial killer. Alicia was also oblivious to the fact that, despite Hart’s petite frame, she was all compacted muscle—strong enough to spar with men twice her size while earning her Kempo black belt.

He gulped as color suffused Hart’s face and she aimed a glare at Alicia’s hand on her arm. If he didn’t do something soon, he could lose his deep-pocketed patroness. Which was something they couldn’t afford.

“May I present Dr. Cassandra Hart?” Drake said, inserting himself between the two women. “This is Alicia Fairstone, who purchased
Steadfast
. She’s arranged for the Liberty Center to receive the proceeds from the silent auction later tonight.”

Hart darted a look at him; he’d be paying later for her self-control. She disengaged her hands from Alicia’s. “That’s very kind of you,” she said through gritted teeth.

“I’m always looking for worthy causes to invest in.” Alicia linked her arm through Drake’s once more. “If an artist of Remy’s caliber supports the Liberty Center, then it must be a good cause.” She brushed her free hand over Drake’s arm possessively. “I feel quite proud to have discovered him. After tonight, Remy, you can quit your day job and concentrate on your art full time.”

Like hell, Drake thought. Alicia obviously hadn’t gotten a recent look at his checkbook. Besides, he loved being a cop—who would want to give that up?