Saving Grace (Madison Falls) (25 page)

She weighed how much she should tell him. “It’s an appraisal for a piece of art I bought.”

He picked up the paper, his eyes widening like exit lanes on the Jersey Turnpike. “You own a painting that’s worth one point two million dollars? What is it, a Van Gogh?”

She shook her head, holding up a
wait-here
hand. Crossing to the bedroom, her stomach danced with anticipation. She wanted Devon to know.

As she reached under the bed, a sickening thought wormed its way in to defile the last. What if Sam had seen the appraisal as well? He’d helped himself to the crowbar. How did she know he hadn’t poked around in her belongings while he was at it?

Pulling out the crate, she took in a decisive breath. What difference did it make? He most likely wouldn’t confront her about it, not after the way she’d yelled at him. If all went as planned, there was no reason for them to even speak again. Ever.

The moment she entered the living room, Devon leapt to his feet and bounded toward her, still clutching the appraisal. He took the crate from her and set it down on the floor, then anxiously lifted the lid and brushed aside the tissue paper Grace had nested around the artwork.

“Ahh…” He smiled in amused recognition, followed by a burst of laughter. “You’re kidding me. Does Roberts know?”

Her chest pinged. “I haven’t told anybody.” That much was true, whether he
knew
or not.

His eyes remained fixed on the painting. “I mean, I paid him what…ten bucks? How did you know it had actual value?”

Her stomach tightened. “I used to know a collector. I recognized the artist.” She wrung her hands, nervously gauging how much she should reveal. “Kirk has two Blackthorns that are worth a fortune. He made a big show of telling us how much he wanted to find a third by that artist because they’re so rare. He had the spot all ready on his wall. He’s infatuated with opera, and Blackthorn only painted opera themes.”

“So,” he chuckled, “it’s good to have friends who know these things.”

“He wasn’t exactly a friend.” Her stomach lurched at the thought. “He was obsessive about three things—art, opera, and me. He’s the reason I came here.”

Devon looked up from the appraisal, his eyes soft with compassion. “We all have a past.”

“True, but I came here for safety.” She braced herself. “He was stalking me.”

A visible tremor ran through him. He took her hand, his touch soothing. “Grace, that’s awful.”

She relaxed into her recollection, relieved to have his sympathetic ear. “There’s more. I haven’t been completely honest.”

He offered a comforting chuckle as he squeezed her hand. “Honesty is highly overrated.”

She smiled lightly, appreciating his attempt to diffuse the seriousness of her situation. “Maybe, but there’s a time to come clean. I’m not who you think I am.”

A hint of apprehension flashed across his face. “Oh?”

She shook her head. “No. See, I’ve been a professional opera singer for about five years now.”

He lifted a shoulder. “That’s not so surprising.”

“And I’m from New York, not Seattle.”

A look passed across his face that she couldn’t identify. “Okay. But why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because I didn’t want anybody to know who I am. I couldn’t take the chance that Kirk would find me here.”

“Kirk? That’s the stalker?”

She nodded. “He’s dangerous. And he has so much money he’ll stop at nothing.” Her eyes fell to the painting. “It’s funny really. I mean, if Kirk had found this painting, he would have offered a bazillion dollars without even blinking.”

A spark glinted in Devon’s eye. “So…he’s wealthy?”

Grace blew a laugh out of her nose. “He’s so rich, money has ceased to have a realistic value to him. It’s more important to him that he own the thing he wants—like a painting.” Her thoughts chilled. “It’s the same way he feels about me.”

Devon paused as if weighing his words. “That’s flattering—in an odd way.”

“In a sick, repulsive way.”

“Yes, but how many women are viewed like a work of art?”

She shuddered. “I’d really rather not be bought and sold.”

A silence fell for a moment while they both gazed awkwardly at the painting.

When he spoke again, his tone was almost businesslike. “What’s his last name?”

She raised a cautious brow. “Silverman. Why?”

“He’s wealthy art collector…a patron of the arts. I thought I might have heard of him.” The silence stretched between them for another long moment. “So, was he your boyfriend?”

The thought sent a shiver through her. “No, not at all.” The police had tried to force a confession of a personal relationship, as if they thought they could use that to justify his abuse of her. “He was just a fan. He seems to think there’s something more between us, but believe me, there’s not. There never was.”

“But the guy was obsessed with you?”

She nodded. “It went on for close to two years.” She paused, considering the importance of her next words. “He tried to kill me.”

His head snapped up, a look of alarm washing over his features. “How?”

“He pulled me into an alley and stabbed me.”

With a visible swallow, he reached for her other hand. “You survived.”

“Yes. So far.”

“And that was why you left?”

“No.” Her voice quavered. “About a month or so ago, I decided I’d had enough. I had just gotten home from doing a show in South Carolina—my first since the stabbing—and when I opened the door to my apartment…” Her voice cracked under the weight of emotion. “I live in a studio, and when you open the door, you can pretty much see the entire apartment. My table was set for two, complete with candles. The bed had been stripped back to the white sheet, which was sprinkled with something that looked like red rose petals.” She swallowed hard.

Devon gently drew his thumbs against the backs of her hands, his eyes intently focused on her.

“The pillow in its white case was propped up at the head of the bed. He’d written across it in what must have been red lipstick.”

Concern tinged his brow. “What did he write?”

She shuddered. It felt so strange to say this out loud. “He wrote ‘I never lose’.”

He let out a low whistle.

“The worst part was that he’d stuck one of my headshots to the wall over the bed using a switchblade right between my eyes.”

His hands communicated support. “What did you do?”

“I turned around and ran. All I took with me was the suitcase I still had in my hand and my computer. I don’t know if he was inside the apartment or if he just wanted me to discover it that way, but I didn’t stick around to find out. I ran to a payphone and called this police officer who had promised to help me go into hiding. That’s how I wound up here.”

He took a moment to compose his words. “This might seem like a strange thing to say, but I’m glad you ran.” His eyes danced. “If you hadn’t, we wouldn’t have met.”

She smiled, consoled by his line of thinking.

“So,” he searched her face. “What are you going to do?”

She pulled her eyes from his, focusing on the painting. “My plan is to sell this and go home.”

“This is just perfect, Grace.” He stood, pulling her to join him. “I happen to have a friend who’s an art collector—”

“Ty? I know. He mentioned that.”

His eyes glowed with enthusiasm. “He has a dealer he works through. He could handle the sale for us.”

Her heart fluttered. It had sounded so natural, his use of the word ‘
us’
. “But, I thought you said Ty left for Seattle.”

“He did, but he’ll be back home by the time I get there. If all goes according to plan, I’ll be returning to New York to start
Carmen
rehearsals just as soon as
Pirates
opens. The timing will be perfect.”

“Well…” A creeping uncertainty nagged. “You’re sure we can trust him?”

“He’s been my buddy since college. We’ve done some business deals together. Believe me, we can trust him.” He wrapped his hands around her upper arms, instantly shifting her doubts to a lower gear.

She toyed with the front of his collar. “So, a minute ago, you said ‘us’. Does that mean you see a future for you and me?”

A smile played across his lips. “I know it’s a little soon, but who can argue with fate?”

“Good, because I’m starting to really…” She stopped herself just short of saying too much. “
Care
about you.”

He tilted a smile that indicated he understood her meaning. “And I
care
about you too.”

“I love fate.” She gazed into his hypnotic baby blues. “Oh! I almost forgot.” She snapped back to the ruthless reality of their situation, pushing away from him. “Sophia threatened me.”

He almost laughed. “She
threatened
you? With what?”

“She found out about Kirk. She’s threatened to tell him where I am, unless I stay away from ‘her’ man.”

A smirk skipped across his handsome face. “
Her man
, huh? She has a good imagination.”

“Yes, but with so much at stake, we can’t afford any risk.”

He smoothed her hair, bathing her with an admiring glance. “I agree. Fortunately, avoiding contact with
her man
shouldn’t be too difficult.”

“Yes.” Relief washed over her. “You know, I really like the idea of the two of us playing it cool. I don’t want the whole town talking.”

“I agree.” His tone soothed her. She was so lucky. “What goes on between us is nobody else’s business. And I do mean
nobody
.”

“I’m so glad we see eye to eye. Besides, pretty soon we’ll both be back home and it won’t matter. We can be free.”

“Free. I can’t wait.” He smiled, then turned serious. “I should go.” He looked down at the painting. “Why don’t you let me take that and prepare it for the trip? It should be properly wrapped. I’ve helped Ty with that before. We wouldn’t want it to get damaged.”

Her stomach clenched with apprehension. Did she dare let it out of her sight?

He seemed to read her hesitation. “Of course, I understand if you don’t trust me—”

“No, it’s not that.” She touched his arm to reassure him. “Actually, I’d love to just get this thing off my hands. I really don’t know what I’m doing, and I’d be grateful for the help.”

His smile conveyed his genuineness. Kneeling down, he replaced the lid, and picked up the crate as if it were a newborn. His eyes sparkled. “Don’t worry a bit. It’s in good hands.”

She glowed as she walked him to the door. They had so much to look forward to.

Finally fate was doing her a favor.

Chapter 33

Her plan couldn’t have been working out better.

Grace had bided her time for the past several weeks, playing it cool with Devon for Sophia’s benefit. She’d honed her focus on the concession stand which, thanks to Salvatore, had collected a group of ‘regulars’—the
Cheers
of the Bitterroot Valley.

Today she felt breezy as she took what had become her daily afternoon stroll in to work. The July sun felt rejuvenating on her face, and she tipped her head back slightly to gain fuller exposure. She allowed a long blink, an unthought-of action when she’d been a hurried city dweller in constant fear of being followed. She must be loosening up.

Sauntering a little ways further, she caught a glimpse of herself in a shop window. Her hair had grown out a little, and looked ruffled and casual. Her make-up was minimal, much less fussy than had been her norm, and she liked it. She looked like an ordinary small town girl.

Taking a few more steps, she caught herself. She’d neglected to make her customary cross to the other side of Main at the corner of Pine View, and was now about to pass the hardware store. What should she do? She’d intentionally avoided Sam since her unpleasant and, in retrospect, rather embarrassing freak-out over the blood that had turned out to be more smatter than splatter. At first she’d expected him to mention that he’d seen the appraisal she’d so carelessly left out. Now that nearly three weeks had passed and he’d politely stayed out of her way, it felt just plain childish to continue to ignore the elephant on the coffee table. She really should apologize.

She stepped forward, allowing a casual glance into the window, as if the arrangement of garden hoses held a particular interest. She slowed up. Where was he?

Taking a deep breath, she opened the door and stepped inside.

“Well, well.” Mr. Roberts stopped whatever he was doing at a nearby shelf and walked toward her. His deeply-creased eyes filled with tenderness. “Is there something I can help you with, or did you just stop in to brighten my day?”

“That’s sweet of you, Mr. Roberts.”

“I hear from Nancy that your snack stand has turned into the place to be seen in our little burg.”

Grace smiled. “It’s doing quite well. Word’s gotten out that I’m opening in the afternoons, and I convinced Nancy to open the box office too. We’ve been talking up
Pirates
.” She tipped an insinuating look. “I’m sure you’ve heard opening weekend is sold-out.”

A slow smile extended across his face. “I’ve heard, and I couldn’t be more pleased. That old theatre deserves a hit.”

Grace smiled too. She knew Mr. Roberts cared about the theatre. A successful show would surely sway his thinking, whatever Sam thought. She just couldn’t believe Mr. Roberts would be so greedy as to let the theatre be torn down when there was a chance to save it. She opened her mouth, but he held up a hand like a New York traffic cop.

“He’s in the back.”

Grace’s brow creased. “The back?”

His focus shifted to something behind her, and she turned to see Sam approaching from the rear of the store, a large box in his arms. His eyes held a tentativeness that increased her unease.

“Afternoon.” His voice quavered as he set the box down on the floor near the front display window. “Is my dad helping you?”

“I’m busy at the moment.” Mr. Roberts appeared to have assumed a sudden fascination with the Juicy Fruit display next to the cash register.

Sam tossed him a look. “I’ll watch the front now, Dad, if you want to check in that shipment.”