Forster, Suzanne (14 page)

A doorbell sounded somewhere in his Beverly Hills gallery. He barely registered the sound, knowing it was probably a delivery and his assistant would handle it. He hadn't finished inspecting the oil painting for damage... or studying the young woman's intoxication. He couldn't help but wonder who had inspired such a fever of longing in her, what sort of man? A tiny, whiplike nerve stung deep in his jaw as he surrendered control of his objectivity for a moment and let himself imagine that very first touch of her trembling lips, the sweet taste of her innocence.

He breathed with the feeling, his head lifting. It had been so long since he'd felt anything, anything at all, that he wasn't willing to let go of it immediately, even the sensation of pain. It was interesting that this particular work stirred something inside him when little else could. Technique-wise it was one of the least exceptional of Mary Goddard's
oeuvre.
The American painter specialized in portraits of women and girls, and she'd done many that were more technically adept. Still, Webb could hardly take his eyes off this one. The subject's innocence was the draw, perhaps because he'd lost his in such an early, violent way.

The oil painting was two feet by three, but it looked smaller in the packing crate. Force of habit brought him to one knee, his finger glistening from a touch of his tongue. Very gently he rubbed a small portion of the canvas, cleaning it to better see the detail of the artist's work.

The art world called her Blush, but she was listed as
Girl in the Mirror
in the
Benezit's Dictionary of Painters and Sculptors.
Webb had purchased her at Sotheby's main summer auction just before leaving London, but not on his own behalf, sadly. He'd acted as the buying agent for Lake Featherstone.

An intercom buzzed down the hallway in his office.

Irritation flared as he rose to his feet. He didn't like having his concentration broken when he was working in the warehouse, but his assistant knew that, so it must be important.

The cinder-block room was huge and climate-controlled to a chilly fifty-five degrees, but Webb didn't mind the coolness. It kept him alert. Since most of the area was devoted to storing the art he bought and sold, the lighting was indirect fluorescent tubes and the humidity carefully regulated. For convenience, he'd arranged his workspace in a corner alcove that was lit by large windows and a skylight.

Paintings were propped up against walls, mounted on viewing easels, and spread over trestles, and the faint smell of rubbing alcohol was ever-present. The phone and intercom were mounted on the wall opposite his worktable, and the one hospitable touch in the austere surroundings was a black walnut Renaissance cabinet, where a decanter of malt Scotch sat on a gleaming Jean Couzo tray.

The intercom sounded again. Webb walked to the brass panel and pressed the blinking button. "What is it, Marge?"

"Mr. Featherstone would like to see you, " his assistant said, clearly apologetic. "Can I send him in?"

That explained the interruption. Marge knew Lake Featherstone was one of the gallery's best clients and a personal friend. She was also aware that Lake's stepsister had been kidnapped—as was the entire planet by now—but beyond that she knew nothing of Webb and Lake's dealings or of Webb's connections beyond the legitimate world of art trading, which was exactly the way Webb wanted it. "Yes, send him in, " he said. "I have something for him here. "

Webb was never quite prepared for how much Lake looked like his twin, Lily, though Lake wasn't effeminate any more than she was masculine. They simply looked like the boy and girl version of the same set of genes. Webb had always privately thought of them as Donny and Marie in shades of ash blond, though, at thirty-seven, the Featherstone twins' features were more sharply planed and their bodies angular to the point of boniness.

Now, as Lake appeared in the doorway, Webb registered his wan nod of greeting and the signs of strain around his hazy jade eyes. The mauve hues of his polo shirt and the light linen slacks he wore washed him out even further. It would have been natural to assume that he was concerned about his stepsister, but this was the Featherstone family, and in the half-dozen years he'd known them, Webb had come to realize that life inside the mansion was as complicated as a French court.

It was more likely that Lake's lack of color was due to the time he spent in his war room, the security nerve center he'd had installed in the mansion when he had the house and grounds wired with video cameras. If he had to guess, Webb would have said that Lake Featherstone was developing the prison pallor of a voyeur.

"Your timing is perfect." Webb indicated the opened crate in which the painting was still packed. "The Goddard arrived this morning. "

"Really? Let's have a look. " Lake peered down his nose as he approached the crate. He hesitated, staring at the painting for a moment, then bent closer, as if to study the details. Finally he knelt, just as Webb had done and wet his finger. He rubbed a bit of her ivory white dress, shifted back, and let out a swift, appreciative sound. "What an exquisite thing, " he said.

Webb caught the shake in his voice and knew that this was more than just another purchase of fine art for Lake. It was another
obsession.
The Featherstones were old money as those things went in California. Their retailing empire had been passed down through several generations, and besides being well-known in art circles for their enviable collection of old and modern masters, they were continual grist for the gossip mill. Their stepsister, Gus, accounted for most of it, but artsy insiders loved to speculate on the sex lives of the unmarried twins and rumor had it that they'd formed some kind of narcissistic attachment to each other. It was also widely believed that Lake's passion for art and Lily's penchant for horses were sublimations for what they really wanted, which was each other. But no one actually knew where the gossip ended and the truth began, including Webb.

"Exquisite," Webb agreed. "And expensive. Do you want to know how much she cost you?"

"I don't care. " There was such low, tremulous passion in Lake's voice that he seemed to startle even himself. He laughed and brushed the lapse aside with a wave of his hand. But when he glanced up, Webb saw traces of the same uncontrollable yearning in his expression that emanated from the painting.

Webb knew little about Lake's early years except that the Featherstone children had been raised by the family housekeeper. Their own mother had gone into severe postpartum depression after Jillian's birth and was rumored to have drowned herself when she swam out into the Pacific, fully clothed, one frigid winter morning. Lake Senior's second wife, Gus's mother, had ditched the old man after less than a year, primarily because of his stinginess, it was said. It happened in the best of families, children so profoundly deprived of love and emotional nourishment that they turned hungrily to other things to fill their needs, usually material things.

Fortunately or not, the Featherstones had the money to indulge themselves. "Tell me about the kidnapping, " Webb said, conscious of Lake's rising discomfort. His client's color was much healthier now. "What's the status?"

Lake seemed to be avoiding the painting as he stood and shook down his pant legs. "Nothing's changed, except that the FBI is involved now. I spent the morning being
interviewed.
Interesting, that word they use. " He laughed, but was still clearly rattled. "You'd think
I
did it the way they grilled me. They had Lily on the rack when I left. "

"Cooperate with them, " Webb advised as he went to the small bar where he kept the Scotch. "Cooperate to the fullest. Offer the agents good brandy and sympathy. Make it cognac if you have to." He tapped the decanter. "Drink?"

Lake's good manners failed him again. He didn't seem to have heard the offer. "I doubt anyone would believe it, " he said, staring past Webb and out the window that faced the hazy blue Santa Monica mountains. "But I'm genuinely concerned about Gus. These terrorists—or whatever they are—who took her are far more likely to harm her for the good of their crazy cause than if they'd been after our money. "

Webb did believe his concern, and felt a flash of sympathy for the man. But that's all it was, a flash. Still, a reassuring tone seemed to be called for. "The Bureau has specialists, " he reminded Lake. "They handle nothing but kidnappings, and they're surprisingly good at it. "

In fact, the FBI was good at most of what fell under its jurisdiction. The CIA, however, was another matter. Webb had reason to be familiar with the competency of the various companies in the international intelligence community, especially the National Security Agency. It was widely believed that the NSA had trained and activated The Magician.

A stack of color photographs sat on Webb's worktable. They were snapshots of old masters of varying degrees of importance that he'd collected during the summer season in London. "Have a look, " he told Lake. "There might be something there that interests you. The Dughet landscape appears to be from his mature period, circa 1657. "

Lake sorted through the pictures without much enthusiasm, spending most of his time studying the landscape. "You're certain this is Dughet? Do you have documentation?"

"The seller's from Antwerp. He tells me he can get whatever certificates of authenticity we require. " Webb joined him at the table and handed him a magnifying glass. "Check the figures in the foreground, the trees, even the clouds. It's authentic. "

Lake used the glass, but only briefly. "I'd have to see the actual painting, " he said, clearly distracted by whatever else was weighing on him. "If it's still available when I'm in London next month, I'll make a side trip. "

He glanced over at the decanter of Scotch. "I think I'd like that drink. May I help myself?"

Webb nodded, remaining quiet.

Lake spotted the deck of art Tarot cards laying next to the mirrored tray as he reached for one of the tumblers. He picked up the pack instead, and his startled reflection was caught in the brass intercom panel.

"God, these are frightening, Webb, " he said, opening the pack and drawing out the deck. He fanned the cards, seeming mesmerized by the macabre designs of demons and magicians, succubi, and incubi. "I've never seen anything so fiendish. Where did you get them?"

Webb slipped his hands into the pockets of his brushed cotton khaki slacks. "They were sent to me by someone who knows I'm a collector. I haven't had time to research them, but he thinks they're Romanian, and probably at least a century old. They're call The Devil's Tarot. "

"They're in remarkably good shape if they're actually that old. " Lake turned to him. "Are you ever going to do a reading for me?"

"Do you really want me to, Lake, especially with that deck?"

The other man shuddered and slipped the cards back in the pack. "No, I don't think so. "

"Wise choice," Webb said, and smiled as Lake poured himself a stiff drink. He very much doubted his visitor would welcome what the Tarot had in store.

Gus Featherstone had grievously miscalculated. She hadn't thought her jailer, as she now referred to him, would rise to the bait. How wrong she'd been. Not only was he naked, he was currently
tensile
enough to cut diamonds. And that was just his jaw. She didn't want to know about the rest of him.

"I heard someone was throwing a shower," he said.

"Check your weapons at the door. " She meant it as a retort, but her voice was so soft she could barely hear it over the noisy patter of water. Her heart was adding to the general clamor with some violent little reports of its own. If it had been her goal to shock him before, it wasn't anymore. Her strongest impulse was to cover something, only she couldn't decide which—her breasts or her eyes.

Gus Featherstone, suddenly shy? Must be a sign of the apocalypse, she thought.

"Got room for one more in there?" he asked.

"Just one? Looks like you brought a friend. " She managed to smile
and
speak, doing both without glancing down at said friend for more than a heartbeat. She shouldn't have, not even for that long. Her stolen look sparked a dizzying rush of vertigo.

He was six feet tall and then some of magnificently clenched muscle, sheened in perspiration from head to toe, and he was looking directly at her... just standing there in the altogether, cocked and locked, as he'd so succinctly put it, and gazing at her as if she ought to be pleased to see him.

"Who is it you don't like?" he said. "Me or my friend?" She ducked her head. "Your friend can stay, but you've got to go. "

To her great relief he laughed. Her retorts were automatic, but only because they were the modus operandi for her entire life: When in doubt, fake it. She'd learned that early. She was the original zing'em-though-your-heart-is-breaking girl. And the way her heart was pounding now it could break at any time.

"What is it?" she asked, uneasy with his interest.

"You look frightened."

"Me? No—" She scoffed, making a face.
"Frightened?"

The faintest of smiles relaxed his jaw a little, but had no visible effect on the rest of him. His dark eyes glinted, lending extraordinary energy to his features. He would have made one hell of a male underwear model, she had to admit. With those body scars and his... well, his build, he could have made Calvin Klein even more millions.

"Yeah, you are," he persisted. "This frightens you, doesn't it? Me in pursuit? Me making the moves? You like to set things up so that you can do all the pushing, so you can call the shots. This way you have to wait and see what I'll do next,
if
I'll touch you,
how
I'll touch you. Not knowing makes you jumpy, isn't that right, Gus?"

He stepped into the room, crowding her a little.

If the wooden floor hadn't been so slippery, she might have been able to give way more gracefully. As it was she had to hang on to one of the exposed, crud-encrusted plumbing pipes that fed into the faucets and flatten herself against the wall to avoid coming into bodily contact with him. And somehow that seemed very important, everything considered.