The Art Of Deception, Book Two, Stolen Hearts series, Romantic Suspense (28 page)

This was ridiculous. Sophie blew on her chilled fingers and tried again to fit the key into her locked apartment door. The day was unseasonably hot for April. Sweat had matted her shirt to her back as she trudged the two blocks from the bus stop to her apartment, but her hands and feet were so cold, she couldn’t stop shaking.

Finally, the lock snicked open. She lunged into her apartment and slammed the door shut behind her. When Raphael hadn’t answered his phone, the only place she could think to go was here. She’d hoped to find comfort in the familiarity of her home, but it looked bare with the walls stripped of her paintings, and although she knew differently, there was a vacant feeling to the apartment, as if no one had lived here for a long time.

She shivered and tossed her overnight bag on the floor, then walked straight to her bedroom, dragged the quilt off the bed and trailed it behind her to the living room. She wrapped the quilt around her and curled up on the sofa.

Now what? There was a half finished bottle of wine sitting in her kitchen from two nights ago, but the thought of alcohol curdled her stomach. She pulled the blanket up to her chin and let the silence wrap around her. The persistent buzzing in her head slowed to a dull hum and she released a long, bitter sigh. Gage believed she was guilty. She blinked back a tear and bit down hard on her bottom lip. Even she had to admit the evidence stacked against her and Raphael was overwhelming. But Gage had believed her up to this point. What had changed? Had the intimacy they shared frightened him? More than once he’d admitted their relationship scared him.

She punched a pillow. It scared her too, but not enough to make her turn away from him. And her job was in as much jeopardy as his. Now that she thought of it, they were pretty much in the same position. Gage could go to jail as well, if the FBI decided to get nasty. He had broken the law.

To help her.

Sophie threw off the blanket and grabbed the phone. She had the advantage because she knew she was innocent. The person who set her up had to be someone close to her to gain access to her apartment and studio. What was she doing, sitting here feeling sorry for herself? She had to find out which one of her friends was guilty, because she was damned if she would let anyone hurt the man she loved.

Gage wiped a finger through the condensation on the outside of his beer bottle. Without being aware of it, he must have made a sound because the burly bartender stopped stacking bottles into the cooler behind the bar and looked at him.

“Another beer?”

Gage shrugged. “Why not?”

“I don’t usually see you in this early." The bartender slid a fresh bottle toward him.

“Nope." Gage picked the beer up and drank deeply.

“You’re a cop or something, aren’t you?”

“Used to be.”

“Lost your job?”

“Pretty much." That’s not all he’d lost, but it didn’t bare thinking about. Not yet.

“Tough times." The bartender went back to his work.

And tougher ones to come. Gage looked at his watch. One thirty. He should go home instead of hanging out at this dead end place. Sophie had probably left his house by now. His gut twisted, and he pushed the beer away from him, stood and threw a five dollar bill on the bar. He didn’t know where he was going, but it wasn’t home. No way was he ready to face an empty house.

He strolled out of the bar and stood on the sidewalk and blinked in the bright sunshine. The first time he’d met Sophie she’d asked him why they kept bars so dark in the day. He hadn’t given it much thought at the time, but he knew the answer now; so people could hide from themselves and their problems. Man, he could go for that in a big way right now.

So why the hell wasn’t he still in the bar drowning his sorrows? He rolled his shoulders as he walked the half block to where he’d parked his truck. When he got to it he stopped and stared at the shabby old beast. No new truck for you next year, bucko.

He walked around to the driver’s side and climbed in. He stuck the keys in the ignition but couldn’t think of where he wanted to go, so he slumped down in the seat and closed his eyes.

Where was Sophie now? If she’d gone back to her apartment she’d be there by now. His breath cut short in his throat, and he rubbed his chest. Why did that make him anxious? Spencer said she was as guilty as they came, and if that was true, she wasn’t in danger from anyone except the law. Likely they’d arrest her this afternoon.

He opened his eyes when his whole chest squeezed tight as if starved for air. Sophie in jail. No matter how hard he tried, it didn’t seem right. More of those damned feelings that didn’t mean squat. He should have known better than to buy into all that intuition crap. He knew better. Yet the minute he thought of Sophie back at her apartment alone, adrenalin had started pouring into his system. His heart raced to keep up to his shallow breathing, and his mouth felt as dry as the sole of an old, discarded shoe.

But Spencer had sounded so decisive on the phone. He’d rapped out all the incidences Gage had listed in his case file, then added the last one-–more sketches found at Raphael’s. Spencer had been curt, even harsh, saying Gage needed to get his head out of pants and start thinking straight.

And, in defense, he’d turned around and lashed out at Sophie. He hadn’t wanted to admit he could be so wrong. He’d wanted it all to be Sophie’s fault.

Which it may still be to some extent, but why hadn’t Spencer told to him to hang onto Sophie so they could pick her up? Had he suggested Gage get rid of her so he could distance himself from the fallout?

Sweat trickled down into his eyes. He blinked and rubbed the sting out of his eyes. He tried to follow the thought through, but ideas bombarded him from every angle. Both Spencer and Parker had said they wanted to wrap the case up quickly, but they hadn’t rushed out to arrest Sophie. Sophie swore she was innocent, and she was Sophie, for God’s sake. As Raphael said, she didn’t even know how to think bad let alone actually do something that would hurt someone.

Oh. My. God.

He cranked the ignition and shot out of his parking spot. Spencer had said just enough to mess with his head. Enough that he knew Gage would send Sophie away.

On her own.

So the maniac would come after her.

The old truck groaned and shivered as Gage tore on to another street. Spencer knew as long as Gage believed Sophie innocent, he’d never agree to using her as bait.

He was going to kill Spencer.

Sophie leaned the baseball bat just inside the living room closet and left the door ajar a couple of inches. She rubbed her sweating hands down the side of her jeans and squared her shoulders. Cleo was on her way over. On the phone, she’d sounded surprised that Sophie was back in her apartment. How had Cleo known that she’d left it to start with?

No one else had answered their phone. So much for her Agatha-Christie-everyone-meeting-in-the-parlor-scene she’d been hoping for. Maybe it was better this way. One on one. Buddy to buddy.

Who was she kidding? She and Cleo had never been close. They hung out together sometimes, and if some of their group planned to go out, they always included Cleo. But spending time with a person didn’t necessarily make you friends.

Or lovers. What was Gage doing now? She wished she could phone him just to hear his voice. She wished he were here. As she walked through her apartment to the door that led to her studio, she absently rubbed a hand over her heart as if to massage the ache away. She pulled the door closed and engaged the lock.

A board creaked on the stairs behind the locked door. Her heart leaped into her mouth, and she held her breath, straining to hear more sounds. Was someone up there? After a few breathless minutes, she expelled her pent up breath and smiled wryly. She was seeing ghosts and goblins in every corner. That’s what happened when you didn’t know who to trust. This was an old house. Creaks and groans were part of its personality.

Someone knocked on her front door. She hurried out to the living room and opened the door a crack.

“You sounded kind of weird on the phone. What’s going on?” Cleo glanced down the stairs to the street.

“Is someone with you?”

“No. Are you going to let me in or what?”

Sophie slipped the chain off and opened the door. “Thanks for coming.”

“You’re acting kind of hinky. What’s up?”

“I wish I knew." Sophie locked the door. “I thought you might be able to help me.”

“With what?”

“I know this is going to sound paranoid, but someone is trying to get Raphael and me thrown in jail.”

“God, Sophie. Get a grip." Cleo sat on the sofa and stretched her legs out in front of her. “You sound like you’ve completely lost it. Why would someone want to get you and Raphael in trouble?”

Exhaustion settled heavily on Sophie’s shoulders. “I don’t know. Raphael’s been arrested twice for two different forgeries. The FBI think all three of us, Raphael, my mother and I are running an illegal business. They’re on their way over to search my studio.”

Cleo sat up. “The FBI are coming here now?”

“They have to get a warrant first." Sophie perched on the arm of the sofa and massaged her right temple

“What’s going to happen?”

“We’re all going to jail, I guess." Sophie stopped rubbing her temple. She needed something stronger to get rid of the pain behind her eyes. “And Gage loses his job.”

“Gage? What’s his job have to do with all this?”

“He didn’t report everything that was happening, and he...we kind of got involved."

“I have to go." Cleo sprang to her feet and rushed toward the door.

Sophie jumped up to block her exit. “You know something, don’t you?”

“Maybe I do, but I have to think about it. I’m going to help you, Sophie. I promise." She squeezed Sophie’s arm, ducked around her and unlocked the door. “Give me an hour or two to figure out the best way to help.”

She grabbed Cleo’s arm again and pulled her away from the door. “I’ll be in jail in another hour. Tell me now.”

“It was supposed to be a joke,” Cleo wailed.

“What was supposed to be a joke?”

The door swung open. Sophie twisted sideways to see Ciro standing in the hallway--with a gun in his hand. Before she could react, he stepped into the apartment and gently closed the door behind him.

“Cleo. Cleo." The gun hand wavered back and forth as he shook his head. “You never were very good at keeping secrets, were you?”

Cleo dove at him, but he raised his arm and smashed the butt of the gun down on her head. She whimpered once before slumping to the floor.

Her heart racing, Sophie sidled toward the closet and the baseball bat. Not that a bat was much protection against a gun, but she had to do something.

“Whatever’s going on in that sweet little head of yours, forget it." Ciro had been staring at Cleo’s unconscious body, but he now focused his attention on Sophie. “This is partially your fault." He waved his gun in Cleo’s direction.

Sophie licked her dry lips. Ciro didn’t look nuts. He didn’t even look excited. “Why? I thought you were my friend,” she croaked.

“Friend? Oh, I’m much more than your friend, chickie. We’re going to have to do something with her before she wakes up." He toed Cleo’s limp arm. “God, I hate making a mess. Well, there’s nothing for it. We’ll have to drag her downstairs and stuff her in the back seat of my car.”

Sophie inched toward the closet. Could she grab the bat before he shot her? “I’m not helping you do anything.”

“Ah yes, you think the Feds are on their way to rescue you." He smiled. “Sorry. I imagine they’re at your mother’s gallery watching it go up in flames. I wonder if they’ve realized yet she’s tied up inside.”

Sophie lunged for him. “You sick bas-–”

“Ah, ah, ah." Ciro neatly sidestepped her. “Unlike you, I know who my father is. Okay." His face hardened. “I’m not much into confession scenes, so let’s move it. Grab Cleo under the arms and pull her up.”

She tried to think past the pounding in her head. Ciro now stood between her and the closet. A lamp sat on the side table at the other end of the couch, and her old oak coat tree stood beside the door. Other than that, there wasn’t anything small enough for her to pick up and throw. The coat tree, then.