The Art Of Deception, Book Two, Stolen Hearts series, Romantic Suspense (15 page)

“I didn’t draw those sketches." She meant to state the fact baldly, but the wobble in her voice made her sound less than convincing.

A frown marked Gage’s forehead as he ignored her and stared at the door to her studio. He strode over to the open door and examined the lock, then tried to shoot the bolt home, but it wouldn’t budge.

“You need a new lock." He shut the door before looking across the room at her.

“I didn’t do those sketches,” she said again. Gage had to believe she was innocent.

“They’re here in your studio.”

“Someone planted them.”

He moved to the sofa and leaned against its back, his eyes a cool assessing blue, his face stern. “Here’s what I’ve got." He held up one finger. “Both you and Raphael have the skill to paint a forgery, and Raphael moves in and out of the country on a regular basis. You buy materials that could have been used in the job." Two more fingers pop up.

“On top of all that,” Sophie started shaking as another finger joined the other three, “another Matisse is discovered in Raphael’s bag as he’s trying to leave the country.”

He closed his hand into a fist and settled it on his hip. “I’d have to be stupid to not believe you and your brother weren’t into this up to your necks.”

Standing in the direct line of fire, Gage’s accusations hit hard, and although she knew she was innocent, she almost felt guilty. “You can’t believe that,” she choked out.

“Give me a reason not to”

Her brain raced in and out of the corners of her mind trying to find something, anything, to give to him. “You’re...you’re twisting things around to suit your purpose.”

He covered the distance between them with three quick strides and jammed his hands in his pockets as he halted a foot away. Standing this close, she realized he was more upset than she'd realized. A muscle worked in his jaw, and his nostrils were flared as if he had picked up a scent–or was spitting mad. “What is not true in what I just listed?”

She swallowed away the tickle of fear in the back of her throat. “It’s true, but it’s not. They’re just facts, Gage. Just part of the picture.”

“Facts make a case.”

“Well this time they make the wrong case." She hadn’t meant to yell, but his tenacity shook her. “Facts can be stacked like cards in a deck–for or against you. But the feelings deep in your gut, nobody can mess with those.”

She snapped her mouth shut; she’d said far more than she intended. And Gage had that weird look on his face again, but this time there was a hint of desperation. He looked as if she’d said she was drowning, but he couldn’t rescue her because he didn’t know how to swim.

He dragged his hands out of his pockets and pressed his fingertips against his eyes. “Okay, you’re going to have to search the studio for anything that wasn’t here before." He pulled his hands away and looked at her with bloodshot eyes. “I mean anything. Nothing’s too big or too small. I’ll help as much as I can, but I don’t know your stuff.”

She pressed her lips together afraid if she said anything she might start crying. Gage was going to try for her. He was willing, at least for now, to step outside his usual parameters and help her find something to fight back with. Either he wasn’t as tough as he liked people to think or he cared a tiny bit for her. Or both.

Gage followed when she walked back to the storage room. She edged to the far end of the closet hoping he’d stay by the door. He moved next to her and stared at her supplies neatly stacked on the shelves.

“You have a lot of stuff in here." His shoulder brushed against hers as he reached for the sketch books she kept on the top shelf.

For heavens sake, the closet was small, but did he have to crowd her? The man took up too much space. “Guess I’m a bit of a pack rat. Plus, I like to stock up when the money’s good." She rubbed the tingle in her shoulder and stared listlessly at the shelves. “Can’t we do this tomorrow morning?”

“I have to go to the office in the morning, and I have a couple of appointments after that." He flipped through the empty sketch books, then stuffed them back on the shelf.

“I don’t need you for this.”

Gage glanced sideways at her, then pulled a shoe box of loose crayons down from the top shelf. “Yeah, you do."

“You don’t trust me." Her whole body ached, and the building pressure behind her eyes made her head throb. But underneath her fatigue, something else ate at her.

She wanted Gage back in his cop slot--the FBI agent out to get her and everyone dear to her. But no matter how hard she tried, he wouldn’t fit in the slot any more than he fit in this small room.

“Got it in one. If you found something here that implicated Raphael, or your mother, or maybe even Ciro, I don’t doubt for a second you wouldn’t hesitate to destroy it." He let out a huge sigh. “Don’t look at me like that, Sophie.”

She wasn’t sure what expression she had on her face, but Gage’s accusing stare softened as he shuffled the shoe box from one hand to the other. She opened her mouth to make another plea of innocence when her stomach growled.

A corner of his mouth hitched up. “How about you make some peanut butter sandwiches? I’ll check this room out some more, and if there’s something that doesn’t make sense to me, you can explain when you bring the food up.”

“Peanut butter sandwiches? You’re sure?”

“Yeah." He put the box of crayons back where it belonged. “Coffee, too, if you’ve got it.”

“I could do that." She could probably whip up an omelet if she wanted to. First she’d have to dig her one recipe book out of the box of books under her bed. “Okay, sandwiches and coffee coming right up.”

Her mind pinged from one idea to another as she slapped together sandwiches while the coffee machine gurgled the last drops of water through the filter. She hadn’t quite convinced Gage that her family was innocent-–she hadn’t quite convinced herself of that, either, but he didn’t need to know that. At least he hadn’t rounded them up and herded them to jail. Except for Raphael, of course. Gage had to let him out tomorrow. Her twin wouldn’t paint or transport a forgery any more than she would. Would he?

She looked at the slabs of bread stuck together with peanut butter on the plate. Pathetic. She could at least cut the damned things into cute little triangles. Grabbing the knife, she thought of the gouges someone had made in the door upstairs.

Someone had broken into her studio. How could she have forgotten? She grabbed the sandwiches and headed for the stairs. She had to remind Gage, point out that someone other than her or Raphael could easily have planted those sketches.

“Gage?” She looked around the empty studio.

“Yeah." His voice came from the storage room.

“Whoever broke into the studio earlier must have left the sketches here. See? I told you Raphael and I were innocent. As far as that goes, none of my friends use that door, so, I suppose theoretically, we could all be off the hook." She shoved the plate on the counter and hurried to the door of the storage room.

Gage stood at the far end of the closet with his back to her. His wide shoulders filled the narrow space. “Funny thing about innocence.”

She couldn’t see what he was looking at, but a prickle of unease skittered across her skin when she heard the tightness in his voice. He sounded like the scary cop again. Half an hour ago, she’d wished for him to be the cop and she the innocent victim. But now, hearing the censor in his voice, she wanted to run and hide. It mattered too much what he thought of her, damn it. She didn’t know how to reverse the feeling.

“No one’s entirely innocent, are they?” He turned to face her, and when she saw what he held in his hand, a blush burned up her neck and into her face.

“I, ah....”

“What did you do? Take pictures and work from them?”

“No, I, ah...." Could a person die of mortification? Heat stung her cheeks as if she were about to burst into flame.

“Not bad. You got a few things wrong. If you want, I could show you.”

“Gage, I....”

“What? I’d really like to know what in God’s name possessed you to do a nude painting of the FBI agent who’s investigating you. You had to know sooner or later we’d get around to searching your place, especially with everything that’s happening.”

He glanced again at the small painting, then shoved it on the shelf beside him. Like a riptide, he plowed down the length of the closet to meet her at the door and tower over her. “Do you have any idea what would happen to my career if another investigator had found that painting? Hell." He looked away. “Of course you do."

“I didn’t think.... When I first met you I...I was inspired, and I...." Words caught in her throat as Gage jerked the hem of his black sweater out of his jeans and dragged it up over his head.

“For the record, I’m not the perfect specimen you painted in your picture." He balled his sweater in his fists and advanced on her.

Sophie tripped over her feet backing into the main room. No, he wasn’t the perfect specimen, but he was all the more beautiful for the scar on his right shoulder and the nick riding just above his waistband. His shoulders were massive, as was his chest, and, oh God, please don’t let her embarrass herself. She snatched back one hand that had automatically reached out to touch his dark chest hair.

She backed up another step as he advanced on her, the sofa pushing against the back of her knees.

“I’ve got a couple more scars." He undid his belt as he stepped into her personal space, then popped the button open on his jeans, his hand resting on the zipper tab. “Maybe you want to check them out, get the whole picture, so to speak.”

“No. I mean, I don’t think...." She caught his hand to stop him from unzipping.

He covered her hand with his, his arousal stirring beneath her fingers. “You want to watch where you’re putting those delicious little hands of yours, buttercup. I’m standing on the edge, here. Wouldn’t want to push me over unless you’re sure about what you want.”

The only thing she was sure about was Gage’s control dangled by a thread. She jerked her hand away from his fly and tried to move away, but the sofa caught the back of her knees, and she fell on to the couch. The sandwiches toppled off the plate. She scooped them back on, then slid the plate beside her on the sofa.

Half naked, he loomed above her. His breathing sounded ragged and a fine film of sweat covered his skin, as if he were about to combust. Her painting hadn’t done him justice, and while part of her mind scrambled to record the details for later, another part wanted more.

She wanted to touch, to taste, to feel his full weight on top of her, to feel him inside her. Her body vibrated with anticipation as her nipples hardened and pushed against her sweatshirt.

He studied her from under hooded eyes, then tossed his sweater on the floor and sank to the sofa beside her, the heat from his thigh scorching hers. “Whatever is happening between us is getting in my way. I think we should do something about it, don’t you?”

He brushed her sweatshirt off her shoulder and traced her exposed collarbone from shoulder to neck, his touch so tender, she wanted to cry out, to beg him to stop--or to never stop. Either way, she lost. Even if she found the courage to open her heart, Gage with his facts and his badge and his gun had no place in her world.

And then there was the suburbs.

Gage tried to hold on to his anger, but the soft allure of Sophie’s skin, the contour of her delicate bones filled him with a feeling so all encompassing, he couldn’t think beyond the hunger that clawed at his belly.

God knows he loved women, loved having sex with them, but what was happening right now with Sophie went beyond lust. He was afraid to keep touching her; she was so small, so fragile, he might hurt her. But he was more afraid to stop.

He needed her in a way he’d never needed a woman before. That alone should have been enough to make him stop. He picked her up and placed her in his lap–and stopped breathing when her ripe, little behind nestled against his throbbing erection.

“Don’t move,” he ground out as she wriggled sideways to face him.

A nervous smile, no more than a faint twitch of her lips, flitted across her mouth, her dark brown eyes turned almost black as she looked her fill. He leaned his head back against the sofa and narrowed his eyes as he watched her hesitantly reach out to touch his shoulder. She curled her hand around his biceps, traced his tensed muscles down his arm to his hand. He closed his eyes, a wave of heat burning through him. When his shudder dimmed to a tremble, he opened his eyes again to catch an intent look in her gaze as she started on his other shoulder.