Dangerous Ladies (44 page)

And for a while, she’d thought she’d found it. She created the best paintings of her life while living there and breathing that rarified air. For a while, she’d forgotten the stupid lost masterpiece and painted at a fever pitch, sure she’d at last tapped her inner genius.

Then, when she had shown them to an art critic, he gave her the name of a restaurant willing to hang and sell paintings for a commission.

She wanted to put poison in
his
coffee.

Instead, she’d crawled back to the Szarvases’, listened without interest to Sharon’s pep talk, and volunteered to transcribe Isabelle’s diaries into the computer. Sharon felt sorry enough for her to let Judith do it, and while Judith discovered eye-popping gossip and fascinating insights into the female artist’s life, she’d found nothing about the masterpiece.

She had tactfully probed Sharon’s memory, trying desperately to become the kind of confidante Sharon would trust in all things.

But Sharon had held back; her acute eyes had made Judith think that . . . well, they had made Judith think Sharon saw through her.

At last Judith took an interest in Isabelle’s granddaughter, and hit gold.

Isabelle had told the child everything.
Everything.

A quick trip to Amelia Shores had revealed that the painting was no longer hanging above the fireplace.

Of course not.

That would be too easy.

And she couldn’t figure out how to stay there and search. Old man Benjamin was still alive. The police still had the description of her. She got in and out of town in a hurry.

Right about then, her money had run out. She put her father, the meanest son of a bitch who had ever lived, in an asylum, sold his home, and cashed in his assets. That gave her another two years.

Then she needed funding.

Mr. Hopkins made his offer so promptly, it was as if he had been observing her. Of course, knowing what she knew now, he had been.

She could have the fame.

He wanted the painting.

She’d never seen him. He’d been a voice on the phone, counseling her to be patient. She’d thought
she’d
been patient all the long years, but he defined staying power, and in the end . . . he was right. With his help, her moment had come.

The painting—and the glory—was within her grip. She would allow nothing to stand in her way.

Nothing—and nobody.

G
abriel Prescott stepped into Devlin’s office.

“Hey, Gabe.” Devlin didn’t glance up. He didn’t have to. He sat before the banks of video screens set into the handsome, old-fashioned bookshelves. He’d been watching, so he’d seen Gabriel come through the front door. He’d seen every step Gabriel made all the way to the office.

But he was still viewing the screens, a slight smile on his face.

“What are we doing?” Gabriel shut the door behind him.

“We’re watching her.”

Always interested in a
her
that put that tone in Devlin’s voice, Gabriel came to stand behind his shoulder. The monitor showed a woman wandering down one of the corridors—and she was gorgeous. Her red hair glowed like a candle flame about her pale skin. She had long legs and curvy hips and small, high breasts, all lovingly arranged by a master hand. She wore a pair of white shorts, a yellow tube top, some silly-ass flip-flops decorated with rhinestones, and over it all, a man’s large white starched shirt with a knot tied in each front corner. She wore a yellow Band-Aid on her forehead—from here it looked as if it was decorated with happy faces—and she moseyed down the corridor, stopping at every other painting and staring.

Gabriel pulled up a chair and seated himself so he could see the screen, too. “Anytime you need help looking at her, I’m your man. Who is she?”

Devlin shot him an enigmatic look. “My wife.”

“Your wife?”
Misstep!

“Meadow.”

It took Gabriel a moment to realize Devlin meant that was her name. “Really.” He’d known Fitzwilliam for a long time, ever since his firm had first started installing the security on Devlin’s projects, and never had Devlin mentioned a wife.

But then, they weren’t friends. Devlin was a grim, secretive son of a bitch with no sense of humor and an adversarial way of making conversation. He was also damned possessive about his properties, and watching him watch Meadow made Gabriel feel sorry for the girl. She was in for a bumpy ride.

“What’s she doing?” Gabriel asked.

“She’s searching for something.”

“A painting?”

“She could very well be.” Devlin sounded satisfied.

Okay, fine.
Devlin was feeling enigmatic today. Might as well get to business. “I hear there was a break-in last night.”

“There was.”

“And you caught him.”

“Her.” Devlin nodded at the screen as Meadow turned a corner and moved to a different monitor.

“Her?” Gabriel was getting confused. “Your wife broke into your hotel.”

“Right.”

“Why don’t you tell me about it?” Because Gabriel sure as hell couldn’t think of any reasonable explanation.

“No,
you
tell
me.
How’d she get in without setting off the alarm on the front door?”

Gabriel’s people had done their work before he got here, so he knew the answer. “She opened the door with a key.”

Devlin swiveled to face Gabriel. “A key? Why wouldn’t a key set off the alarm?”

“People still use keys, so as standard operating procedure we make sure a key will open a lock without setting off the alarm. That’s been changed.” And the guy who didn’t ask what the owner preferred was kicking shit down the road right now. Gabriel operated the biggest security firm on the East Coast. He’d built it from the ground up. He didn’t accept mistakes like that.

“So any key would have opened the door?” Devlin asked.

“Any key that fits that lock, and there aren’t many that will. It’s a Sargent and Greenleaf lock. They’ve been a solid, innovative firm for a hundred and fifty years. That lock was fitted on the door when it was put in place, the work of master craftsmen.” Sargent and Greenleaf constructed the kind of lock that made work like Gabriel’s easier. “It’s never easy to pick, and it wasn’t picked this time. There weren’t scratches inside or outside the lock. It wasn’t forced. We found fresh metal residue inside a very old lock that had not been used for months, probably not since the former owner moved out.” He sat forward, his arms on his knees. “More interesting, the metal was silver. That’s an antique key, and even then it’s rare—and it fit the lock.”

Devlin stared at Gabriel long enough and with enough concentration to make the hairs stand up on the back of Gabriel’s neck. Getting up, Devlin walked to the large desk and opened the belly drawer. He pulled out a key, a large, ornate silver key, and held it up. “Like this?”

“I would guess just like that.” Gabriel examined it. “Fascinating. Does it open the front door?”

“No. Old Bradley Benjamin didn’t give me the key to the front door. Claimed it was lost. But this was stuck in the back of this desk, so we went looking for the lock. Had a dickens of a time finding it—it opens a gate in the yard.”

“What’s on the other side of that gate that’s worth a silver key?”

“A garden.” Devlin’s tone was flat and uninterested.

“A garden.” Gabriel turned the key over in his hand. The silver glinted in the light. “Somebody must have loved that garden.”

“Probably. The Benjamins are notorious for wasting their time with foolishness.” Devlin dismissed both the Benjamins and their foolishness with a wave. “Where do you suppose Meadow got a rare silver key that fit the front door?”

“She’s your wife. Why don’t you ask her?” That seemed only logical, but the whole situation—a wife breaking into her own husband’s house with a mysterious key—wasn’t logical.

“I will.” Devlin stood and clapped his hand on Gabriel’s shoulder. “Thanks for coming in.”

“I had to. It’s not often someone breaches our security.”

“I’d swear she didn’t realize it when she did it.” Devlin started for the door, then returned and shut off the monitor for the corridor where Meadow still wandered.

Yep.
Possessive of his property.

“Have a cup of coffee,” Devlin said. “Stay for dinner. The chef is trying out his new dishes in preparation for the grand opening. I’ve been eating like a king for two weeks.”

“I’d love to, but I’ve got to catch a plane. There’s a family gathering in Texas I want to attend. My youngest sister just had a baby, and we’re getting together for the christening.”

Devlin didn’t understand how happy it made Gabriel to say that.

“Sure. Next time.”

Gabriel sobered and got back to business. “I’ll be here for the grand opening. I intend to see that nothing goes wrong with security. I hired someone new, a female with great references.”

“Where’d she work before?”

“A guy in Atlanta by the name of Hopkins. Do you know him?”

“I’ve heard of him. Runs an import/export business.” Devlin recalled another tidbit. “And lives on the shady side of the law?”

“A polite way of putting it.” Gabe’s mouth curled with distaste. “
Mr.
Hopkins, as he is always referred to, is never seen. No one knows where he lives. No police reports are ever made about him.
Yet there are a lot of rumors circulating—that he rewards betrayal with a single gunshot to the back of the head. That he enforces his will with threats and torture. That he always keeps a few of Atlanta’s politicians and judges in his pocket.”

“Good God. Do we
want
his security?”

“Absolutely. Who has better security than a man who is never seen?”

“Right.”

“Besides, female personnel are necessary for surveillance—guys can’t watch the ladies’ rooms in the public areas—yet damned hard to find. The weekend of the grand opening, there’ll be no trouble at all.” Gabe was a handsome guy, one of those blends of Hispanic and Anglo who had taken the best from both. He was tall, muscular, with black hair and green eyes that made women take a step back, then a step forward.

Devlin knew; he’d seen it happen. He liked Gabe. More important, he trusted him. “I know.” His computer chimed. He had e-mail.

“I’m off to talk to my people.” Gabe gave a wave and went out the door.

With anticipation, Devlin opened the e-mail—and frowned.

The report was short and decisive.
At the age of four, while in the company of her stepfather, Bjorn Kelly, Sharon Benjamin was killed in a car accident in Ireland. Isabelle Benjamin had no other children.

Bullshit,
Devlin typed back.
Dig deeper.

M
eadow needed a floor plan. She’d left her room thinking she would look the hotel over, retrieve the house key from the couch, check out the paintings and find the one she came for.

Hey, she believed in positive thinking.

Besides, this time she had a lie ready—if caught, she’d claim she was lost.

But she became fascinated by the renovations that had turned a house called Waldemar into a hotel called the Secret Garden. The grand old house her grandmother had so carefully described had been changed.

Walls had been rearranged to create rooms where none had existed before. The long corridors were rabbit warrens bounded by closed and locked doors, and without windows of any kind. On the third floor, Meadow met a crew of a dozen maids pushing linen carts, running vacuum cleaners, and making beds. One guy was installing a Coca-Cola machine next to an ice maker.

She said hello to them.

They said hello to her.

She briefly considered asking if they’d seen the painting, but as soon as they spoke, they returned to work with a frenetic energy
that told her more clearly than words how tight their schedule must be.