The Art Of Deception, Book Two, Stolen Hearts series, Romantic Suspense (4 page)

Then she noticed his badge clipped to the waistband of his faded jeans. “You’re working?” What else? Had she thought he found her irresistible and couldn’t stay away? She smiled at the absurd thought.

He leaned against the doorframe. “It’s my day off, but I thought...." He narrowed his eyes as he sniffed the air. “Maybe I should have phoned first.”

“Most people do." Damn it, why did Ciro have to stop by today and smoke a joint? “I’m kind of busy." She nodded over her shoulder toward the painting propped up on her easel.

She eased back half a step as Gage pushed away from the doorframe and towered over her. From the crooked smile on his face, she didn’t think he was trying to intimidate her, but, gosh, he was so big.

“That’s why I’m here. I was hoping to catch you at work. I don’t know anything about art restoration. Maybe you could show me some of the stuff you do?”

Either Gage was an excellent liar or he really did want to know more about her work. Or, she watched his smile turn into a self-deprecating grin, he was a wizard at seduction and had years of practice talking his way into women’s homes.

“Fifteen minutes,” she snapped and held the door open wider. She didn’t care what the heck he was up to, not even that he could smell Ciro’s smoke.

She marched over to her easel. “This is the painting I’m working on at present. It’s a family heirloom, painted by an amateur. As you can see, I’ve cleaned approximately one-third of the painting so far. Down here in the corner,” she picked up a paintbrush and pointed to the far left corner, “you can see what we refer to as craquelure. The painting needs to be retouched, but only if the owners value it enough to spend more money." She chucked the paintbrush on the table beside her. “Any questions?”

She stared at the painting, feeling the warmth from his body as he stood close behind her. Over the smell of the cleaning solvent she’d been using, over the turpentine and oils that always permeated the air in her studio, even over the still pungent odor of marijuana, she could smell Gage’s clean soap scent tinged with spicy aftershave.

“You do know smoking marijuana is illegal, don’t you?”

“It shouldn’t be." She couldn’t defend herself without ratting on Ciro. What did it matter anyway? Gage could think what he wished about her.

“Lots of people would agree with you. But until the law is changed, it’s still illegal.”

She turned and met his stern look. “I don’t...I mean I....”

“Chickie, dear. I can’t find the paint you want." Ciro burst from the storage room, a cloud of smoke billowing out behind him.

Sophie rolled her eyes at him. “You’re such a help. Don’t you have to leave now?”

“Ah, it’s the big, bad cop." Ciro placed his hand over his heart and widened his eyes. “On your way to Gramma’s, Officer?”

“Ciro." She curled her hand around his forearm. “Don’t. Okay?”

“Dear Sophie." He yanked his arm away. “Always so eager to defend. Are you concerned about me or the cop?”

Ciro could be charming and unbelievably kind at times. But in the last six months, he’d been down more than he’d been up. She’d tried talking to him about his sudden mood swings, but he laughed her off, told her she was bored with her life and looking for trouble anywhere she could find it. There was enough truth in his declaration to make her back off.

“Between the two of you, I imagine Agent Gage is the most capable of taking care of himself." The heck with him. If he wanted to poke a stick at Gage, let him deal with the consequences.

“I do love a man who can take care of himself." Ciro batted his eyelashes at Gage.

Embarrassed, Sophie studied her bare toes. Gage probably thought her as big an idiot as Ciro.

Gage cleared his throat. “I have a few more questions to ask Ms. Pascotto. If you’re finished here, I think you should leave.”

Sophie jerked her head up. “Now hang on just a minute." She faltered as Gage settled his cold, blue stare on her, but angry indignation overrode her hesitation. “Ciro’s a friend. You can’t walk in here and toss him out.”

“You want him to stay?” Gage had taken on a fighter’s stance, legs planted wide apart, fists on hips.

“Not particularly, but if anyone’s going to tell him to leave, it should be me." She folded her arms tight across her chest and thrust her chin out, hoping she looked as aggressive as he did

“They’re fighting over me. I love it,” Ciro trilled.

“Shut up, Ciro." Sophie glared at her friend. “Go home. I have work to do.”

“Fine." He dragged himself in a dramatic shuffle over to the back staircase. “Old Sophie’s grouchy,” he said, as though speaking to himself. “Must be the big, bad cop who’s got her all worked up. Can’t say I blame her. He’s got me all worked up, too." He flashed a wicked grin over his shoulder. “Later." He disappeared down the stairs.

Gage followed Sophie’s gaze down to her bare feet as an embarrassed silence hung over the room. Her toenails were painted a light seashell pink, making her dainty feet look good enough to eat.

He stuck his hands in his pockets. Okay, so he was upset about Ciro flirting with him. He didn’t have to use Sophie’s attractiveness to offset the weirdness he felt.

He liked to know where he stood with people, what to expect, but the artsy types never seemed to fall into nice, neat categories. He’d thought Ciro had a thing for Sophie, and maybe he did. Maybe he swung both ways.

Sophie would know Ciro’s sexual preferences, and yet, she’d sat on his knee at the bar last night and kissed him. Did that mean it didn’t bother her? Did she swing both ways, too?

His neck muscles corded into tight knots, and he rolled his shoulders to release the sudden tension. Geez, he’d come here to ask about her work and check out her studio, not to find out if she liked going to bed with both.... He swallowed hard. Hell, he didn’t know if he was upset or turned on.

“Is that his real name? Ciro?” He glanced at Sophie who had wandered over to the windows and stood looking at the street below.

“His name is Walter. Walter Collins. He hates it, of course.”

“So who’s Ciro?” He moved across the room and stood three feet away from her.

God, she was so small, so delicate. The harsh north light accentuated her slender shoulders and arms–and shone right through the sheer material of her skirt. He tore his gaze away from the shadowy suggestion of slender thighs and graceful legs.

“No one really." She turned to face him. “It’s Cicero. A Roman orator and author. People kept stumbling over the name, so he shortened it to Ciro.”

Ciro. Walter. What was wrong with being exactly who you were and making the best of it? Gage studied Sophie. How many idiosyncrasies did she have packed away inside her tiny frame? Why did he keep harping on her diminutive stature?  Tall, slender ladies with miles of legs attracted him, not lilliputian women who looked so fragile a man would be afraid of hurting if he....

Sweat dampened his forehead, and he looked away from her soft brown eyes. What the hell was he doing?

He cleared his throat. “Is Ciro an artist?”

“In a manner of speaking." Sophie stepped around him and walked over to the counter on the other side of the room. A worn green velvet sofa and two matching easy chairs were grouped to the right of the counter. Shelves crammed with large, hard covered books stood behind the sofa. “Would you like a cup of tea?”

“What the hell does that mean?” Angry because he couldn’t stop himself from checking to see if her skirt was still diaphanous–it wasn’t--he spoke more harshly than he intended.

“Tea. This is a hot, soothing liquid people drink." She smiled over her shoulder as she filled the kettle. “I have black tea, but maybe I should make an herbal one. It’s called Tension Tamer. You look like you could use a cup.”

“Is it legal?”

Sophie laughed a small crystal sound that sent a spurt of heat through him. Holy hell. As soon as he got home, he had to unearth his old black book and call every lady listed there until he got lucky. The strain of not having sex was finally taking a toll on him.

“Would you rather have coffee? I have some instant up here."

“Tea’s fine. Thanks." He perched on the arm of the overstuffed chair. “What exactly does Ciro do for a living?”

She dropped two tea bags into the hand-painted pot. “As far as I know he’s independently wealthy. You’d never know it from the old clothes he wears and the people he hangs out with. Most of our gang just gets by, but Ciro...." When she turned to face him, her smile had disappeared. “You’re FBI. I imagine you can find out what you need to about him."

“That’s what I’m doing,” he said, as much to remind himself as her.

“I don’t talk about my friends behind their backs." She swung back to the whistling kettle and splashed boiling water into the pot.

From the stubborn set of her jaw, Gage knew he wouldn’t get another word out of her about Ciro. He nodded toward the painting she’d been working on. “I’d like to know more about your work. That one doesn’t look like it falls into the Impressionist era.”

“No, it’s more the crazy-uncle-in-the-attic era I’m afraid. Unless it was painted by someone the owners love, they’re going to be disappointed.”

“Do you get a lot of work from individuals?”

“About half and half. The other half comes from museums." She leaned back against the counter.

“What about security? Do you work here when you have an expensive painting or at the museum?”

“Here, but I won’t accept a painting unless it’s insured. I keep that door locked when I’m not working. The other door,” she nodded toward the staircase Ciro had used, “goes down to my apartment. I like having my studio here. If I get inspired in the middle of the night, I don’t even have to get dressed.”

Gage forced his mind away from the image of moonlight washing over her naked body as she worked by the large windows. “Inspired? Do certain paintings inspire you or do you paint as well?”

Her smile disappeared. She picked up the teapot and poured the tea.

Interesting. Had he asked an inappropriate question or a dangerous one? Before he could figure out her reaction, she carried two mugs of tea back to him and offered him the blue chipped mug.

“I used to paint, but don’t have much time for that any more." Avoiding his gaze, she stared at the light gold tea in her white mug.

Her statement had been matter of fact, but the quiet way she held herself, as if prepared to bolt if he said the wrong thing, made him wonder what she wasn’t telling him.

He waited, hoping his silence would encourage further confidences, but apparently Sophie was one of those people who felt comfortable not talking. She sipped her tea, then moved in front of the painting and studied it.

He followed her, wondering if she saw the painting the same way he did. “Looks like you take a pretty organized approach to cleaning this.”

“An inch at a time." She put her cup on the cluttered table, picked up a cloth and dipped a corner of it into a can. The sharp, stinging smell of a cleaning agent filled the air.

Now this he could understand, taking small, methodical steps until the bigger picture emerged. He smiled at the analogy between their work. “So that’s the basis of art restoration? A disciplined approach?”

“That will only get you so far." She leaned forward and carefully swapped a section of the painting. “To be really good, you have to get into the artist’s head, understand what he or she was trying to do with that particular painting. Use your intuition, you know?”

Wasn’t there anyone left who believed black was black and white was white? What was it with all this new age crap?

The sound of someone clattering up the back staircase interrupted his next question about matching paints and colors.

The second Sophie caught sight of the tall young man with eyes the same deep brown as hers, she tossed her cloth down and rushed to the door.

“Raphael." She threw herself with abandon into her brother’s arms. “I thought you were supposed to arrive last night.”

With abandon.
Gage looked away from the reunion. Only Andy launched himself at Gage like that.

“I made the mistake of stopping at mother’s first." Raphael laughed a rich, deep laugh. “You know how she carries on."

He smiled at Gage above Sophie’s head. “Who’s this?  Finally got yourself a beau, Soph?”