Forster, Suzanne (32 page)

There was a part of her that wanted to blame everything that was happening on him, and it was true to some extent. He posed a threat that had forced her to think the way he did, to operate outside the boundaries. He also sparked impulses so forbidden they made her wonder if the things she had always believed about herself were true.

Low laughter drifted to her, reminding her that there were other people in the room, dinner guests. A couple she knew only as architects and friends of Lily's were enjoying each other's company in a pair of Rosewood parlor chairs that faced a leather-topped library table. They were safely on the family's side, of course. Only Webb Calderon was occupying neutral territory as he perused a collection of bound first editions on the bookshelves at the far end of the room.

Gus had a moment of indecision. She couldn't hover on the threshold forever, but which way should she go, and to whom? It made no sense that she go to him, the blackmailer. This was the perfect time to join forces with her family against the interloper. They already believed he'd stolen a valuable painting; perhaps now they also believed he married her for that reason, so he could have access to the collection. If he exposed her kidnapping scheme, it shouldn't be any great trick to convince them he was lying. She could paint him as a treasure hunter whom she'd had the bad judgment to fall for, and who'd made up the kidnapping story and threatened to expose her if she didn't give him control of her trust fund. A little far-fetched perhaps, but no more so than the story he'd be telling. She would confess tearfully and allow them to feel superior, especially after what her mother had done. They'd want to believe her anyway, if only to get Culhane out of their midst.

Her decision was made as soon as Lake and Lily noticed she was there. The expression that swept both their faces when they saw her was so alike it was uncanny. They were curious, but remote. Not in any way welcoming. Foolish of her to have expected otherwise. They were not only Featherstones, they were twins, a united front that was impenetrable. She was as much an outsider to them as Culhane was, she realized. She would never be one of them, no matter what she did.

Even McHenry, who had seemed so pleased to announce the family's support of her foundation and the magazine, now had a distant, measuring air to him, as if he were trying to decide whether she might even be in league with Culhane.

It welled up inside Gus unbearably—the loneliness, the isolation and pain she'd felt over the years, all at the hands of these people,
her family.
With that fresh in her mind, she returned her stepsister's chilly smile, then had the pleasure of turning away and walking straight to Jack. He looked up as she crossed the room toward him, as if he'd known she was coming. The fires he'd been contemplating seemed to glow in his blue-black irises, bringing a strange heat to his expression.

Their gazes connected with an impact that rivaled physical force. Watching him on the sly was challenge enough, but looking directly into his eyes while she walked toward him made Gus feel as if something had been rammed down her throat. It was difficult to swallow over the obstruction. Odd, considering everything.

"The woman who flies through the air with the greatest of ease, " he said when she was within hearing distance. He continued to lean against the bar, supported by one elbow as he watched her approach. He was cradling the glass of fire in both hands, and his eyes were colder now, dark with meaning.

"And the man who doesn't. " She returned his measuring stare with a bold once-over. "No permanent damage, I see. " Her faint smile went unacknowledged.

"It could have been very permanent, " he said, setting down his drink. He rose from the bar as she reached it. "Would you like some?"

"Damage?"

"A drink. " A vast array of libations were arranged on shelves that abutted the bar's mirror. He swept out a hand. "Just pretend I'm the bartender. "

"Shouldn't be too difficult. " She meant his shirt and let him know it, lowering her lashes as she perused the garment from stitched placard to open collar. Her eyes met his again, but only fleetingly. It was too icy and dark to stay there long, a winter night.

"What'll it be?" he asked.

Gus was aware of the background music, of violins playing out soft, extended arpeggios. He turned to the booze, and she noticed a nasty bruise where his jawbone jutted to meet his ear.

"Are you all right?" she said, aware of the husky concern in her voice. The irony didn't escape her.
What is it you want from this man, Gus? Do you want him dead? Or do you want him in bed? Make up your mind, dear.

Culhane never got a chance to answer any of her questions, not even the one she'd voiced. A flicker of movement caught Gus's eye, and as she looked over Culhane's shoulder, she saw Webb Calderon coming their way. Another defector to the enemy? How interesting. She and Webb had spent some time together once, in a manner of speaking. They'd met two years ago at a fashion show fundraiser for one of the local art museums. She'd never been sure of him in any way, how he felt about her or what he wanted with her, because it had seemed from the beginning that he wanted something besides her sparkling company. The physical attraction hadn't been there, at least not on his part. There'd been chemistry to spare on hers. Her family had ruined it, unfortunately. They'd approved of him.

In all truth she'd never understood why. Webb had been both frightening and enigmatic. Even tonight he reminded her of a beautiful Nazi SS officer in his white mock turtle-neck and severely cut black Armani suit. And though she meant beautiful only in the physical sense, perversely attractive men had always appealed to her. In Webb's case, his sun-whitened hair, bleak gray eyes, and Teutonic bone structure were the compelling features. They had the effect of quickening a woman's heart and making her wonder what cruel and unusual things such a man might do in the name of love.

She'd also decided he was a mystery better left unsolved.

If she'd had the choice, she would have made the same decision about Jack Culhane. But she was already in too deeply with him. He had taken her hostage in more ways than one with his haunting hints of desolation and desire, and somehow he had made her an integral part of his dark quest, whatever the hell it was. She still had no idea why he was here. Or what he wanted with her.

"If you're pouring drinks, I'll take one," Webb said, nodding to Jack. His smile encompassed them both, but it lingered on Gus and her flowery silk slipdress. "Apparently you're feeling great. "

"I am, why?" Gus asked, laughing.

"Because you look terrific."

"She does, doesn't she?" Jack agreed. "I'm a lucky man."

He slipped a proprietary hand around Gus's waist, and the other man's eyes narrowed. Gus could almost see horns growing and hear hooves pawing the ground. It was amazing how quickly two seemingly bright adult men could be reduced to territorial posturing. Animal intelligence in action, she thought.

"Help yourself," Jack added pointedly. "To the booze. There's some champagne on ice behind the bar. "

Webb conceded with the grace of a man who'd long ago learned how to prioritize. He rounded the ornate bar, and once he'd pulled the dripping bottle of Dom Ruinart rose champagne from the ice and read the label, he poured himself a sample of the bubbling blush-pink froth. Clearly a connoisseur, he raised the flute to the light and then to his nose, breathing it in before drinking the splash he poured. The muted resonance of violins seemed the perfect accompaniment to his ritual with the sparkling wine.

"I'm told you design security systems, " he said, intent on replenishing his glass. As he returned the bottle to the ice, he looked up at Jack. "I've always been curious. Are any of them fail-safe?"

"The system hasn't been designed that can't be beaten, " Jack admitted. "Even one of mine. "

Surrendering for the moment to Jack's claim, Gus nestled up against him and caught traces of castile soap and lanolin. The scent brought a visual of him in the shower, shampooing his hair, and then in rapid succession, several more of him in the shower, doing things that had nothing to do with shampooing and everything to do with her. He was having his way with her!

She gently extricated herself from his hold to discourage any further flashbacks. Besides, she wanted to observe the two men. There was some kind of current running between them, transmitting signals she didn't fully understand, but she was reasonably certain they weren't just about her.

"So then any work of art could be stolen?" Webb wanted to know. "Potentially, I mean. Even one that was protected by a computerized, multisensor system?"

Jack nodded and picked up his drink, watching the chandelier light glitter and stream across its amber surface. Gus found it interesting that he never did anything more than hold the glass. He never drank from it. It was not unlike the way he had sex.

"Would you care to explain how?" Webb pressed.

"I'd be happy to. What are you planning on stealing?"

Uneasy laughter drifted from across the room. Lake, Lily, Ward McHenry, and the other couples had stopped talking, Gus realized. They were also listening to the two men.

"Since you asked, Mr. Culhane, how about a painting?" Webb held up his champagne as if he were toasting Jack. "If I were the very clever thief who'd stolen Blush, Lake's Goddard, how would I have done it?"

"There are several possible ways, " Jack said, apparently more than willing to play Webb's game. "The gallery has multiple systems—a microwave intrusion system, closed circuit television cameras, plus the more valuable works have promixity sensors. All of it's computerized, so obviously the easiest way to beat it is to reprogram the software. "

Webb looked intrigued. "But you'd have to be a computer hacker to do that, right?"

"Not necessarily, but you would have to be familiar enough with the technology, for example, to know how to create a time-lag between when the promixity sensor detects something and when it reports back to the computer, which is programmed to alert the guards. That's relatively easy once you have access to the software. "

He set down his drink on an antique silver coaster and blotted his fingers on a cocktail napkin, taking his time, as if he were perfectly aware of the bated breath all around him. "The video cameras are a little trickier, " he explained. "That requires creating a loop in the visual feed so that the same image of the undisturbed painting is seen over and over again. "

Webb seemed to understand the concept, though Gus wasn't at all sure she did.

"The sequence you loop shows the gallery and the painting before the theft, " Webb said. "Then while the burglary is in progress, and even after it's done, the guards are seeing the looped sequence on the screen, as if the painting were still there. Is that it?"

Jack shrugged his agreement. "As I said, it's not particularly difficult if you have access to the program. "

What was he doing? Gus wondered. Knowingly incriminating himself? Now she wished she'd taken that drink. She was even tempted to pick up his.

Webb nodded, his cold gray eyes suddenly piercing. "Which means it had to have been an inside job, am I right? Someone who lived or worked here in the house?"

Jack's silence brought the tension in the room into ringing contrast. The chamber music, which had been soothing before, was verging on strident. The strings were thin, straining.

Gus wanted to intervene, but she couldn't think of a way. The others were edging closer so as not to miss a word, and she was afraid of what Jack might say. Webb's questioning seemed to be leading Jack into an admission of the crime in front of everyone, and for some reason Jack was going along with it.

"Not necessarily," he said. "With the new high-gain antennas you can pick up the electromagnetic radiation from a computer monitor or its cables at some distance. You could be sitting in a van on the street, for example, "

"Sitting in a van and reading the access codes as they appear on the computer screen?"

Jack settled against the bar, a faint smile appearing at Webb's question. "That's right, " he said, gazing at the other man. "You sound as if you've done this before. "

Gus had clasped her hands together by this time to keep them still. It appeared that Jack had done the impossible. He'd stepped into the trap and pulled out his foot before it sprang. Was he that good? Or was there something else going on? For the first time Gus realized that Jack might be setting a trap for Webb—or someone else in the room.

"Of course," Jack went on, caressing the rim of his drink with his forefinger, "there is a much easier way to steal a work of art. It's the perfect crime in a sense. "

"The perfect crime?" Lake had stepped forward, his face pale, his mouth taut with anger. "And who better to plan and pull it off than a man who designs security systems. "

"Actually, you're wrong, " Jack countered. "This crime would depend very little on breaching security systems. It's as simple as impersonating the customs officials who transport art to the storage areas. All you'd need is a way to divert the transport, and that could be done by interrupting their radio transmissions, telling them there's an emergency—a bomb on board, for example—and redirecting them to some way station. "

Gus was astounded.
Why was he doing this?

Webb had come around the bar by now and was standing at the end opposite Jack, facing him. "But that depends on being able to read their frequency, doesn't it?" he wanted to know. "And given the trouble they would have gone through to secure it, that would take some damn sophisticated equipment. "

"Not all that sophisticated, actually. You'd need a spread-spectrum modulator to analyze the frequency and, of course, a phone with a built-in sequencer to place the call. " Jack reached into his jacket and pulled out one of the tiniest cell phones Gus had ever seen. He looked up, smiled. "A phone just like this one. "

The low hiss of an expletive startled Gus. It had come from somewhere behind her. She turned and saw Rob Emory standing in the doorway, wearing the same jacket and slacks he'd worn at lunch. His face was flushed and he looked as if he'd been listening for some time. He also looked angry. No, enraged, she thought.