Too Wicked to Keep (3 page)

To find Daniel Burnett, she'd had to employ several private investigators. Each one had provided tidbits of his past, disjointed and disconnected, until she'd pieced them together into an incomplete picture of his life.

His mother had turned him over to family services when he was five years old. She'd died of a drug overdose about a year later. He'd been shuttled from foster
home to foster home until he was ten, when he'd landed with the Burnett family, who'd adopted him. His juvenile record included multiple counts for petty theft and trespassing, but by the time he turned eighteen, his name disappeared from arrest records. He'd been interviewed about a few cases in his early twenties and the name Daniel Burnett had dominated watch lists for museums, collectors and auction houses worldwide since, but he had never been prosecuted, not even after a security guard was seriously injured at the site of his last job.

When she combined what she'd learned from her private investigators with what she knew from their affair, the idea that he'd nearly killed someone struck her as unlikely. Even after he'd betrayed her trust in the worst possible way, Daniel was a lover, not a fighter. She couldn't believe he'd try to kill someone.

“What happened in California?” she asked.

“I grew up in California,” he answered. “Many things happened there.”

“I mean your arrest.”

“Rethinking your decision to tap me for the honor of retrieving your stolen property?” he asked, his eyes glittering with his tease—one likely meant to divert her line of questioning.

“No,” she said. “It's just that part of your appeal as a thief is that up until a couple of months ago, you'd never seen the inside of a jail cell for more than a few hours. And you definitely never hurt anyone.”

“You've checked up on me?”

“Of course,” she replied.

“Smart girl,” he admitted. “You probably won't believe this, but I was set up for that mess in California.”

“By whom?”

He leaned back into the seat and eyed her again, this time warily. Had he not expected her to take him at his word?

“Might have been you, now that I think about it. You couldn't see me jailed for what I did to you, so maybe you arranged for me to be railroaded for something else.”

She shook her head. “There's a huge flaw in that logic.”

“Really?”

“Oh, yes. If I was going to frame you for a crime, I'd do it in Illinois, not California. We don't have the death penalty, so you'd have to suffer longer.”

He snickered at her joke and she was surprised she'd made it. She was supposed to be angry at him, or at least wary of him. But in the span of twenty minutes, she'd already started meeting his teases with her own.

“Do you think the person who set you up is still out to get you?” she asked, returning the conversation to her most serious concern.

“Nah,” he said. “But it's sweet that you're worried about me.”

This time, her laugh was a burst of genuine humor. “I'm not worried about you. I'm worried about someone getting in the way of you retrieving my painting. The collector has already sent out invitations to art lovers all around Chicago, promising to reveal an unknown work by Bastien Pierre-Louis next week. The buzz in local circles is getting louder every day. This operation needs to be quick and simple. No complications.”

Daniel laughed, retrieved two glasses from the limousine's bar and then commandeered the champagne she'd taken from the casino and poured. “Then you're out of luck, sweetheart. If you don't want complications, you picked the wrong man.”

F
ROM A SEAT IN
the back of Abigail's private jet, Danny watched her move up the aisle and marveled at how much she'd changed—and how much she had stayed the same. She was still beautiful and slim, still graceful and minimal in her movements, still sweet and charming as she spoke in hushed tones to her pilot and copilot, who nodded and smiled with deferential respect when she was facing them, but checked out her ass when she left the cockpit.

Shifting in his seat, Danny made eye contact. Their hungry grins vanished. The captain tipped his hat and then quickly shut the door.

Danny had no right to feel territorial. He had no business thinking about how smooth Abby's skin had been underneath his touch for that brief moment, or how her aversion to contact now reminded him of how skittish she'd been five years ago, how hard he'd had to work to get past her considerable defenses. Even after he'd tempted her into his bed, she would have rather bitten through her lip than make too much noise. Her idea of down-and-dirty sex was doing it standing up.

He had a hard time reconciling that shy, repressed
young woman with the vixen now sashaying up the aisle as if she meant to torture him with what he could not have.

And on this, she was succeeding.

She slid into the leather seat across from his, her skirt riding up an extra inch or two that the dress simply didn't have to give.

“Want anything before we take off?” she asked.

Oh, he wanted a lot of things—none of which he was going to get anytime soon.

Still, he made a show of glancing around the cabin. “No flight attendants?”

“Just the pilot and copilot.” She clicked her seat belt and waited for Danny to do the same. “We have a lot to talk about. I didn't want to be disturbed.”

He stretched out his legs so that they were inches from hers. “Sure that's the only reason you wanted to be alone? To talk?”

She ignored his question. “Who hired you to steal the painting five years ago?”

“Why?”

“Anatomy of a crime,” she explained. “By the time we arrive in Chicago, I want to know everything you do about what happened to my painting.”

“I thought you knew who had it.”

“I do. Or at least, I think I do,” she clarified. “His name is Harris Liebe.”

Danny shrugged. He'd never heard the name before—and this was odd. The fraternity of art collectors who purchased off the black market wasn't that extensive.

“Never heard of him.”

“Neither have a lot of people. But his little announcement has piqued the interest of the legitimate art world. Bastien Pierre-Louis's work has been experiencing a
resurgence in the last decade. Every year leading up to what would have been the man's one-hundredth birthday increases the value of his pieces, particularly the unsigned ones he gave away during his lifetime.”

“Like your grandmother's.”

“Precisely like hers. She was the daughter of a wealthy New York businessman with supposed ties to the mob. My great-grandfather, her father-in-law, had similar connections in Chicago, though his son was legitimate. The whole twisted tale makes the painting worth more than even I could afford.”

“And that's why your family never insured it?”

“I wanted to. Because I curate for so many private collectors, I have contacts with people who would have been very discreet. But my father wanted no connection to it and asked me not to do anything that would officially connect the painting to our family. And after you took it,” she said, the words shooting out of her mouth like bullets from a twenty-two, “my father asked me not to call the police. He hated that painting. I think he was glad someone took it.”

Now, this was a piece of information Danny would file away for later. He'd never met Abby's parents, but assumed they'd hate him on sight. If he were a father, he certainly would. But maybe there was a chance, even if it was a long shot, that he'd find a way into the real estate titan's good graces. Everything about this situation was doomed for failure, but he'd survived most of his life because of his inability to take no for an answer.

“How does your father feel now that the painting is going to be publicly displayed?”

She looked askance. “He doesn't exactly know.”

“How'd you pull that off?”

“I arranged for my mother to have a sudden need to
spend alone time with him in their Italian villa. They'll be gone for two more weeks.”

Danny leaned back in his seat. “Impressive.”

“I've learned to cover all my bases, which is why I need to know everything you know about the collector who paid you to seduce me.”

Danny shook his head. He'd deflect blame for a lot of his misdeeds, but not that one. “That part was entirely my idea. I mean, look at you. Can you blame a guy?”

Her sneer wasn't nearly as biting as she intended. “Tell me what you know about the first collector.”

He gave up trying to postpone this part of the conversation. He wasn't used to discussing his business practices with anyone, much less someone he'd used them against.

“The story isn't that exciting. A collector contacted me, told me about the painting and offered me a shitload of money to steal it.”

“And how does one go about contacting you?”

“Word of mouth.”

“Whose word? Whose mouth?”

That secret he wasn't sharing. “An associate who takes care of moving my merchandise to the collectors who've requested it.”

“So this person is a fence?”

He arched a brow. Abby was nothing if not thorough.

“She's also a legitimate art appraiser,” he explained, “so she runs in a lot of circles, maybe even some of yours. The collector got word to her that he was interested in hiring me for a job. I met with his representative, who paid my retainer after we negotiated a timetable and a total price. The deal was sealed with a handshake.”

She chuckled humorlessly. “Sounds so clean and professional.”

“It is what it is,” he shot back.

Danny had never defended his lifestyle to anyone before. He'd never needed to. Approval or disapproval of how he made his living had never mattered to him. And even though Abby was now hiring him for the very reasons she sneered at, he knew she'd never approve. How could she, after what he'd done?

“Does your husband know you tracked me down?” he asked, wondering why a smart guy like Marshall Chamberlain would allow his wife to seek him out, particularly while wearing that little black dream of a dress.

He watched her cheek hollow as she sucked on the inner flesh.

That would be a no.

And yet, she replied, “I'd like to think so.”

He glanced at her hand.

She wasn't wearing a ring.

“Wait a minute.”

Since she'd shown up at the casino, she hadn't answered a single question about her husband. Until now, he'd figured she was on a secret mission, hoping to keep Marshall from having to relive the incident that almost waylaid their wedding.

But she hadn't mentioned Marshall at all. In fact, the only time the man had come up in conversation was when Danny had asked.

He leaned forward and gazed purposefully into her eyes, his chest tightening as she tried to keep her face impassive and cool. She was biting the inside of her mouth again, but instead of making her mouth look pinched or prissy, her lips puckered in a way that tugged at his heart.

“What aren't you telling me?” he asked.

“About a gazillion things that are none of your business,” she snapped.

“I mean about Marshall.”

When Abby had thrown him out of her room on the night before her wedding, Danny had taken the rejection hard. He always spent the weeks after a job underground, but after Chicago, he'd gone completely off the grid in Mexico. After a few cases of tequila and more beer than a man should drink in a lifetime, he'd finally decided that Abby was better off without him. If Marshall Chamberlain loved her enough to forgive her indiscretion, then he must have loved her more than Danny could even comprehend.

So how the hell could he have left her a short five years later?

“I can't believe he dumped you.”

“He didn't,” she said, her eyes flaring.

“Then where the hell is he? Or is thievery just beneath him, so he's left it all to you?”

“There isn't anything much beneath him anymore except dirt,” she choked out. “He's dead.”

She made the callous statement, then instantly turned away. She flattened her left palm on the window, as if she needed contact with the glass to cool her emotions. Or maybe she was mourning the absence of her ring. A slight shadow encircled her fourth finger, a reminder of where the band had been. She'd taken it off, but only recently.

“I'm sorry. When?”

She gave a tiny shrug, as if she hadn't been counting the days, when he guessed she could probably calculate the man's last breath to the minute.

“A little over a year ago. He was on his way to his
office and a semi lost control on the highway and he was gone.”

The crack in the foundation of her voice tore at his insides, but Danny had no right to share her grief. No right to try and comfort her.

But he still had to say something.

“I really am sorry.”

“So am I. But if there was one thing I knew about Marshall, and I knew everything about him,” she said, skewering him with a glare that dared him to challenge her, “it was that he'd want me to move forward. Put the past behind me, once and for all. That was the entire basis for our marriage. He never once threw our affair in my face. He didn't make me pay for how I betrayed him with you, even though he probably should have.”

Danny couldn't believe how easily she talked about this. The Abby he'd known had always shied away from discussing anything painful or unpleasant. Despite his offers to meet her out of town, even a suggestion they fly up to Toronto for a rendezvous, their liaisons had only taken place at night, in locked rooms or shadowed corners.

Even when they were alone, she'd been conditioned to keep her deepest thoughts to herself. He'd had to pull out all the stops to sneak behind her private walls. But he'd succeeded, or at least, he'd thought he had. By the time he'd finally learned how to retrieve the painting without triggering her security system, he'd discovered all sorts of things about her that he hadn't really wanted to know.

Her secret passions.

Her most erotic fantasies.

Her deepest, most desperate dreams.

She'd also confessed how desperately she wanted
a man who understood the real her. Not the cool, controlled young lady of wealth that she'd been trained to be, but the innately curious, impassioned lover of sensual beauty that she kept so well hidden.

Before him, she hadn't revealed that woman to anyone, not even to her fiancé. She'd been too embarrassed, too self-conscious, too afraid that Marshall would run in the other direction quicker than he could say
scandal
.

David Brandon, on the other hand, knew precisely how to coax that side of her out of hiding. He'd cultivated her need for freedom with honeyed words and wicked suggestions spoken to burn through the layers of her fears. David Brandon did not judge her. How could he, when his whole persona was one big fat lie?

The plane began to move, so they were quiet while the pilot taxied down the runway, gained speed and then altitude. When a ding indicated they'd reached their cruising height, Danny caught Abby staring at him, her eyebrows scrunched tightly together.

“I don't understand you,” she declared.

“Welcome to the club. I can't figure me out, and I am, hands down, the smartest guy I know.”

She didn't crack a smile.

“I mean, I get that you're all complicated and tragic. Charming on the outside and brooding and miserable on the inside.” She waved her hand, as if her gesture could dismiss the very core of him, which he'd never heard so succinctly summarized. “But why would you come with me so easily? Is it just because you might be exposed?”

“Nope,” he said breezily. “I'm in it for the cash.”

“I didn't offer you any money. And even if I did, you don't need it. You have a very wealthy brother who paid
a king's ransom for the criminal attorney who got you out of jail. And you and I both know that you have to have a boatload of cash stashed somewhere. International art thieves don't come cheap.”

“You've certainly learned a lot over the last five years.”

“To say the least,” she replied.

“Care to share some of your wisdom?”

He didn't know why he was asking. In his entire life, he'd never once asked for anyone's advice. Sure, he'd watched people he admired and listened carefully whenever they spoke to glean whatever nugget of information he could mine for a greater take, but he'd never out-and-out asked anyone to share their insight about…well, about anything.

Unfortunately, from Abby's frown, she didn't look anxious to share.

“I'm sure the things I've learned you committed to memory by the age of eight.”

“That everyone is a liar and a thief, you mean. In one way or another?”

“Yeah,” she acknowledged. “That.”

“You're not,” he argued.

“Not what? A liar? Please, Daniel. Don't sugarcoat on my account.”

“I'm not,” he insisted. “You told Marshall the truth about us, didn't you?”

“Only after lying to him for weeks. And I colluded with my mother to get my father out of the country. And I expect that by this time next week, I'll have lied enough to match your level of expertise.”

She unbuckled her seat belt and retreated to the galley at the back of the plane. She tugged open the built-in wine cooler and extracted a bottle without giving the
label a second glance. When her hunt for a corkscrew escalated from frustrated to frantic, he joined her.