The Art Of Deception, Book Two, Stolen Hearts series, Romantic Suspense (21 page)

“Cleo!” Her friend stood on the sidewalk, a pencil in her hand.

Cleo stepped back and put her hands up in the air. “It was a joke, Sophie. Sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you. I stopped by half an hour ago, but I couldn’t get in." She stuck her pencil in her jacket pocket. “You’ve changed the lock.”

“Yeah, I, ah...I’ve had some trouble." Her hand shook as she turned back to the door and stuck the key in the lock. “I haven’t seen you for a few weeks. What have you been up to?”

Cleo followed Sophie through the door and trailed behind her up the stairs. “The night that hunk of an FBI agent showed up to ask you a few questions." Her voice deepened as if she were sharing an intimate secret. “He called me, you know.”

“He did?” Sophie stopped in front of her apartment door and stared helplessly at her key ring. How could she forget which one opened her door? It was as if her entire mind had emptied out but for one thought. Kill Gage. Did he come onto every female artist he met or just her friends?

“Are you going to open the door or what?”

Appalled by the violence that coursed through her, Sophie dragged in a deep breath and let it out slowly. “It’s these new locks. I can’t remember which key to use sometimes. Hang on, I’ve got it."

“Finally." Cleo followed her into the apartment and arranged herself on the sofa. “Have you seen him again?”

Sophie put her satchel and the container of spaghetti sauce on the table by the door. “Who?”

“Vince.”

Vince. Sophie’s stomach coiled into a tight knot. It seemed so personal, almost a violation, to hear Cleo call Gage by his first name. “A couple of times. Did you go out with him?”

“Not yet, but I’m working on it.”

“So he didn’t call you up to ask you out?” Why had she never noticed Cleo could look so...smarmy sometimes?

“No. I had to go the FBI office and answer some questions about art supplies and things. He asked a lot of questions about you and Raphael, too. Don’t worry." She looked up from the circles she was tracing on the sofa. “I told him you two were cool.”

Sophie perched on the arm of a chair. “Thanks." Maybe. Cleo could be incredibly self involved at times. “I thought you and Ciro had a thing going.”

“Ciro’s acting kind of hinky these days." She shrugged. “I thought I’d try on something different. I was sure Vince would ask me out, but he didn’t.”

Sophie slid down the arm of the chair into the seat, her body rubbery with relief.

“So I asked him out,” Cleo continued. “He can’t date anyone involved in a case he’s working on, so I said to give me a call when this is over. Hey, Soph." She sat forward. “What’s going on--the new locks on your apartment and the FBI asking everyone about you and Raphael? Ciro didn’t seem to think it was anything serious.”

Sophie’s shoulders drooped under sudden exhaustion. The whole mess was too much–just as Gage was too much. Hadn’t she thought that when she first met him? Her feelings for him were too big to be contained in a reasonable way. The forgeries were too close to home, as were the menacing notes she’d received and the break-ins. She felt as though she was blindfolded going hell bent for leather on a roller coaster ride, and she had no idea when that next sick swoop or sudden turn would catch her unawares.

“Are you hungry?” she asked Cleo. “I have some spaghetti sauce. If I can find some noodles, we could make a quick supper." She couldn’t think any more. It seemed the harder she tried, the worse everything became, so she was going to stop trying.

“Sounds good." Cleo stood. “Have any wine? You can tell me all your worries over a few glasses of vino.”

“Better than that. I have two bottles of wine." Sophie started for the kitchen. “And we’re not going to talk about anything that’s bugging us. Let’s just get drunk."

Gage shrugged out of his black leather jacket and tossed it on the kitchen counter. He took a turn around the kitchen, inspecting the clean counters. It was as if Sophie’s disastrous supper hadn’t happened. After he’d tucked her into a cab, he’d erased all evidence of her being here. He’d even left the windows open to get rid of the smell of spaghetti sauce, because he knew any reminder of her presence would drive him wild.

Then he decided what he needed was to go out, hang out with some of the guys at the local watering hole and talk about football, and the pros and cons of this year’s new crop of trucks–-anything but women and the troubles they brought.

He sniffed the air experimentally. All he could smell was the cleanser he’d used to wipe up the spaghetti sauce that Sophie had gotten everywhere. The lady was one wild cook. He turned and slammed the windows shut, one after another, an edgy feeling rubbing up against him.

He’d felt the same way at the bar when he noticed a woman sitting at a corner table. At first he thought it was Elaine, his old girlfriend, and the thought came to him that maybe that was the way to go. He was so damned wound up-–horny, bucko-–that he was going to blow if he didn’t do something about it soon. Except the woman wasn’t Elaine, and although the lady kept tossing encouraging smiles his way, he knew in his gut it wasn’t that simple. Even if she’d been Elaine, nothing would have happened. Because he wasn’t just horny; he was in love.

He leaned against the refrigerator, folded his arms and let his chin sink to his chest. When he thought of marrying, he assumed it would be to a cool, collected, professional woman. They’d share the burden of housework, take turns cooking gourmet dinners for each other, and have intelligent conversations about their day.

Gage snorted and rubbed a weary hand over his face. Sophie wouldn’t notice if the house was falling down around her ears. As for her cooking.... Damn it, she made him laugh. He’d race home at the end of every day just to see her smile. He wanted her here, where he could take care of her. She belonged here. She belonged to him.

Shaken by the possessiveness he felt, he pushed away from the refrigerator and stalked out of the kitchen. Sophie was a bright, independent woman who belonged to no one but herself. The only thing she needed from him was for him to find the jerk who was setting her up. And the only way he could do that was to distance himself from her, bury his needs. Do his job, for God’s sake.

The jarring ring of the phone stopped him in his tracks. He hurried back to the kitchen and glanced at the clock on the wall, then checked his watch. Eleven o’clock. Whenever the phone rang this late, it was never good news.

He snagged the wall phone. “Gage here.”

“They killed them,” Sophie wailed in his ear.

“Sophie? Where are you?”

“Home.”

His heart started racing at the sound of her gulping back a sob. “Are you hurt? Is anyone there with you?”

“No.”

“No, you’re not hurt or no, you’re alone?”

“Both,” she sniffled. “They killed them,” she wailed again.

Gage gripped the phone tighter. “Sophie, I need you to tell me exactly what happened. Who’s dead?” She’d said them. Pure, unadulterated terror turned the blood in his veins to ice.

“My paintings,” she whispered. “All of them. They’re ruined. Slashed to bits.”

“Your paintings." His breath rushed back into his lungs. “Sophie, listen to me. Is there a chance whoever did this is still there?”

“No." She hiccupped and sniffed again.

“Are you sure? Because if they’re still there, you have to get out of your apartment right now." “I’m sure. When I saw my paintings, I got my old baseball bat and checked every damned corner and closet. I was so mad, Gage. If I’d found someone, I would have killed them, I swear.”

Or be killed. Dear sweet Jesus. Why had he let her go home by herself? “Have you phoned anyone else?”

“No, I...I know this isn’t right, but could you come?”

He pulled the cord as far as it would go and grabbed his jacket. “I’m on my way, but I want you to phone Raphael and ask him to go over and stay with you until I get there. He’s a lot closer than I am.”

“Okay."

His heart turned over at the sound of her small voice. “You’ve got my cell number?”

“Yes.”

“Phone me as soon as you talk to Raphael. Don’t call anyone else. Check all the locks, and don’t open your door to anyone but Raphael and me. No one else, Sophie.”

He hung up the phone, dug his truck keys out of his pocket and was out the door before he had time to second think his decision. Sophie would have to report the break-in this time, and he would finally have to fill Parker in on everything that had happened. His boss would be furious. Mad enough, maybe, to suspend him.

Gage slammed the truck door shut and jammed the key in the ignition, his heart still leaping in his chest. The clown pulling these numbers on Sophie had lost control. God knew what he, or she, would do next. He revved the motor and shot out of his driveway.

The drive downtown to Sophie’s apartment was a session in torture. Minutes zoomed by faster than the houses and buildings he passed, and with each moment that ticked by and every new street he raced down, a new and more grizzly scenario slammed into him.

What if Sophie had been home when the maniac was slicing up her paintings? What if he returned before either he or Raphael could get there? And why the hell hadn’t she phoned him back? Gage screeched to a halt as the traffic light turned red. He looked both ways. No vehicles. He roared through the intersection and held his breath, waiting for the wail of a police car or the flash of their lights. Where the hell were the cops when you needed them?

His cell phone chirped, and he snatched it up off the seat and flipped it open. “Sophie? Are you okay?”

“Raphael’s here. He’s double checking all the locks now, but...are you...are you coming?”

The hesitant wistfulness in her voice, her need for him-–for him–-to be there with her calmed him. He drew in a deep breath; fear and confusion clearing out of his brain.

“I’m on my way, buttercup,” he said with soft assurance. “You sit tight. Don’t let anyone else in. No one, understand? And don’t touch anything." He tucked the phone under his chin. “Talk to me. Tell me what happened.”

“I was asleep, or, well...I had some wine, and I..." Her voice broke. “Maybe that’s when he.... He used a knife from the kitchen. He came in and took the knife and went upstairs, and I didn’t know. He slashed my paintings, and I was sacked out like an old wino. I didn’t know.”

Gage heard her drag in a teary breath. He stomped on the accelerator, silently cursing his old truck as it started to shimmy. “Thank God you didn’t know. The guy’s out of control." Guy. Sophie had said he as well. Why assume it was a man? Why not a woman? “Sophie, do you know who did this?”

“No, I.... No." Her voice sounded stronger, more defined. “I don’t. I keep trying to think of something I might have done or said. You know how things just pop out of my mouth, but this.... Whoever attacked my paintings hates me, and no matter how hard I try, I can’t understand why." She hesitated. “That’s almost worse than not knowing who it is, isn’t it?”

“We’re going to get him, and when we do, I’ll make sure we get some answers out of him–-or her." He stopped, afraid the violence in his voice would frighten her. The thought made his gut churn. What kind of sick bastard would do this to his beautiful, innocent Sophie?

“I’m almost there, honey,” he said when he could trust himself to speak. “When we’re finished with the police, you’re coming home with me, so start thinking of what you need to bring with you. I’ll see you in five minutes."

“How will I know it’s you at the door?”

He smiled in the darkness of the cab. “I’ll be the guy shouting your name and pounding on your door.”

“Oh...right." She cleared her throat. “Gage?”

“Yeah?”

“This is probably not the right time, but I...I’m really glad that you...that you.... I think I’m in love with you.” She hung up.

Stunned, Gage held the phone to his ear and listened to the dead line. She was in love with him. No, she said she thought she was in love with him.

In love. A window in his mind opened, and fresh, sweet thoughts blew in. He hadn’t completely embraced the idea that he was in love with her, hadn’t let himself think where he’d go from there. Sophie was...she wasn’t.... Hell, she was Sophie, and ever since he’d sat across from her at the coffee shop and watched her unquestioningly defend the people she loved, he’d been hooked. He wanted one person–no, he wanted Sophie–to love him with that same blind trust. It didn’t seem to be too much to ask, yet until now, until Sophie had said she might be in love with him, he hadn’t let himself think it possible.