Icy Control (2 page)

Rob picked up the phone. He began dialing but then stopped.

There was a small, privately owned bakery between the office and Sal’s that made a fresh chive bread she adored. He could pick some up for her and surprise her with it. He knew she’d love that and he wanted to see the grin it would bring to her face. If he called her he’d talk her—or himself—out of the visit. And really, he
did
need her help.

Decided, he shuffled the reports into his leather-bound folder. Rob moved swiftly and refused to think. He switched his computer off and checked he had everything he’d need. Before he could debate further with himself and really risk his sanity, he left the office.

* * * *

“Oh, Bobby, you’re an angel, that’s exactly what I need.”

Rob grinned and held the still steaming loaf out to Sally. Deep inside he was pleased to see her sniff the fresh bread, her eyes closed with ecstasy. His heart gave a quickening
pitter patter
and he had to swallow to bring moisture back into his mouth.

She was the only person he allowed to call him Bobby—just as he was the only one allowed call her Sal. It was a small intimacy they’d shared for more than two decades now, though neither of them had ever acknowledged just how special it was.

“I figured it was the least I could do if I was going to turn up unannounced on your doorstep.”

“You know good and well that you’re welcome—announced or not—any time, day or night, Robert,” she chided. Only the wicked, happy twinkle in those big, beautiful green eyes belied the severity of her words. Soft red lips parted as she gasped, seeming shocked. “My manners have fled after your thoughtful gift distracted me.”

Sally cradled the loaf in one arm and held the door to her small loft open with the other. “Please, Bobby. Come in and have a cup of tea. You seem exhausted. Overworking like always, I assume? How is El? What’s been happening out there in the real world?”

“I’m not overworking, and El is very well, thank you. I do have a confession to make, however. I’ve come with an ulterior motive, I’m afraid.”

Rob cast her a mildly sheepish look as she led the way to where a small kitchenette had been set up. She turned on the kettle and pulled two mugs from the dish draining rack.

The loft was open and airy with enormous, high ceilings and two walls made of floor-to-ceiling windows. As an artist’s studio, it was perfect with so much natural light and roomy atmosphere. As a place to live in, Rob worried it was less than ideal. Uncomfortably cold in winter and stuffy in summer, there was no ducted heating or real climate control to speak of.

Add in the temperamental electricity and a hot water supply far closer to lukewarm than ‘hot’, half of his visits were to be certain nothing had broken down. Numerous times over the last few years, Rob had taken a weekend or longer fighting with various pieces of equipment that had given up the ghost, and sometimes he spent hours with the landlord or on the phone giving a more masculine, forceful insistence to the utility companies to send someone around to fix things.

Sal, bless her, used her time and money on paints, canvasses and supplies. As long as she could climb the spiral staircase to the tiny bedroom and bathroom occupied and find a warm bed, and the sun rose the following morning for her to paint by, she had few other cares about her surroundings or circumstances. Rob had other ideas on what was classified as ‘bare essentials’. He worried when her heating broke down, or when she spent days without electricity because the company said they’d ‘fix it soon’ and never bothered to turn up.

The miniscule kitchenette held a hotplate, a small fridge and a bench with a kettle and toaster. Sally could become lost in her work for hours, days at a time and frequently subsisted on eating take-out or merely toast. It also wasn’t uncommon for Rob to arrive and whisk her away for a decent meal—after the natural light had gone, of course. Her passion for the art she created was genuine.

“You haven’t read the papers yet?” Rob asked, searching around.

Three easels were stationed in separate spots around the room. Each held works at various stages of completion. One was still only light sketches that he couldn’t make out, another was a rural landscape and the third looked like it would end up as a whimsical piece of children playing in the playground. Rob could tell this, as there was an iron swing set on what he thought might be a concrete block, but also brightly colored fairies and pixies mingled with the kids.

He recognized the front page of the newspaper sitting on the coffee table as almost a week old. A mug rested next to it. Considering there were three pieces on the go and numerous palettes, paintbrushes and murky beakers of water scattered about, he figured Sally hadn’t been keeping abreast of current events.

Guilt gnawed at him.

Did he really need to drag his friend, this woman he felt so strongly for, into the darkness that pocketed his life? The kettle boiled, switched itself off. Sally bent her head as she carefully poured the steaming water into the mugs and let the teabags steep.

Rob drank in her dark-chocolate-colored hair, admiring the pixie-style haircut she’d worn for a number of months now. The sassy, sexy style undeniably suited her, he loved how it made her sparkling, huge green eyes that much more luminous against her pale, delicate English skin. She reminded him of an impish fairy, like the ones she frequently painted into her more light-hearted pieces. Next to his six-foot-four frame, she often looked like one too, despite the fact she was five foot six in her bare feet.

Tea made, Sally handed him a mug and met his gaze. She studied him for a moment before resting her hand lightly on his arm and leading him toward the tattered couch. It sat against one of the enormous windows and overlooked the postage-stamp-sized garden. They sat and she took a sip of her tea before speaking.

“Okay, Bobby. It must be something pretty horrid to have you so quiet and reflective. I also know there must be a way I can help you—aside from being your friend and listening—or else you’d have waited to drag me out to dinner and feed me like you usually do. Tell me about it.”

Rob told himself again that Sally was a fully grown woman and perfectly capable of giving him some advice. That was as far as this needed to go. Taking a deep breath, he knew that her curiosity would be roused by now and she’d end up getting the story out of him one way or the other.

“A small group of people nearly decimated the front of the National Gallery and stole a painting. They’re in custody—there were a pair of agents from Dublin who’d been working undercover to break this ring—but the thieves managed to ditch the painting before we got our hands on them. El and I have been brought in to mainly find the Cezanne, but also answer what it is about this particular piece that has everyone so adamant they possess it.”

“Ah, I’d wondered where El was but hadn’t wanted to pry when you just said she was fine.”

Rob couldn’t keep the smile off his face. Trust Sal to latch onto the one personal thing he’d said and restrain her curiosity about the rest. He drank some of his tea, trying to control his pride. Maybe it was just Sally knew him far too well. She’d know for a certainty now he’d started that he’d tell her everything he possibly could without breaking the strict Agency privacy guidelines.

She waited patiently, her green gaze resting on him. When Rob thought of his matchmaking skills between El and James, his smile turned smug.

“I might have talked El into coming with me to see James Waters.” He grinned, unable to help himself. He was pleased by his success in forcing what he hoped would turn into a reconciliation between his partner and the man she so clearly loved. “She’s been miserable without him these last few months and wasn’t keen to face him again. But I pointed out few people know the art world like a semi-reformed thief, and she couldn’t argue with that.”

“And then you left her to it when you’d got her to his doorstep?” Sally chortled.

Rob nodded. “I might have discovered something far more pressing once we’d knocked on his door. They need time to get their feet under them again.”

“I’m amazed. Not that you pulled it off, mind, but that she didn’t try and perform a similar trick on us before you could do that.”

“She tried,” he admitted. “Practically her first thought was that you might have some information, or insight into rumors or maybe folklore or superstition surrounding the piece. We’re drawing a big blank and pressure is mounting for answers.”

“I hear all kinds of things. It’s sorting out the stuff you should pay attention to from the gibberish you need to ignore that I struggle with. I’d feel terribly guilty if I set you off on a chase after a pot of gold that turned out to be brass.”

Rob drank more of his tea. An easy silence fell between them. After a minute, he carefully placed his mug on the floor beside the couch where he wouldn’t kick it accidently. He moved on the cushion then lifted a leg up to more comfortably face her.

“Art and painting is your passion, not just some passing hobby. You’ve studied the alchemy of it and practically every form it can take. It’s no secret you’re happily obsessed, and people respond to that and your inherent nature. They confide in you.” Rob reached out and took her hands, turning them to show off the smears of paint and smaller stains she’d not been able to fully remove from the previous day. “You’re an amazing woman and I’m not concerned if you send me off on a dozen dead ends. I can use all the help I can get.”

“Well, heaven knows I owe you more favors than I could ever repay,” Sally teased him, turning her hands in his to clasp him then squeezing lightly. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten all I owe you, going right back to tenth form when I followed you down behind the sheds and found you smoking with a bunch of the boys. I was so keen to impress you, I beat you to it the following day and nearly coughed up a lung for my troubles. Not only did you quit immediately but gave me such a scolding I’ve not picked up a smoke since.”

“Neither have I.” Rob laughed, recalling the time well.

He’d seen Sally there, far shorter, only half grown and appearing so delicate amongst the rough crowd he’d hung out with in those days. She’d been determinedly puffing away, her eyes shining brightly with mingled fear and excitement to be in with the ‘cool’ guys. The others had leered at her, teasing her despite the fact she clearly wasn’t used to smoking and didn’t enjoy it in the least. It was the first time he’d felt the hot surge of protectiveness for her and he’d gotten into a fight with his so-called friends when he’d tried to ferry her away.

Rob also recalled later that year they’d shared a few sweet, stolen kisses. Glancing at her red lips, he wondered if she still tasted the same.

Sally smiled and her soft mouth parted. “Do you know which painting was stolen?” she asked after a moment. “Or have a copy of it for me to look at? I’ll help you however I can, Bobby, you know that.”

“Oh, right,” he mumbled, still distracted by her mouth. He scooted to the edge of the couch, unzipped his leather folder and thumbed through the mound of papers until he came to a blurry but legible copy of the painting he’d downloaded earlier from the Gallery’s website.

Sally took a final sip of her tea then placed the mug on the table before taking the paper from him.

“Oh, oh yes, I know this piece,” she murmured, devouring the picture hungrily with her eyes.

Even upside down, Rob could see the appeal of the painting. With strong, bold strokes the artist had created a vivid piece. Dark blues and greens showed what Rob took to be a night-time scene in a park or forest, the garden and trees in the vicinity heavily shadowed. Indistinct couples were scattered here and there, part of the background and clearly unimportant to its creator.

Front and center was a naked couple, locked together in a desperate, passionate embrace. The woman reared back as if in ecstasy—or pain—her pale skin luminous, almost glowing. Her long blonde hair flowed as if in a breeze. Clasping her was an olive-skinned, dark-haired man. Their embrace was volatile, intimate. Rob had the distinct impression both the man and woman were on the verge of losing control—for right or wrong.

It made him nervous and excited simultaneously.

Wanting her reaction untainted by his own thoughts and questions, he waited as Sally looked her fill. It was impossible to tell, in his opinion, whether the scene was one of devout lovemaking or something much darker. This could be a passionate, stolen moment between a pair of lovers, or a dark moment. The heavier colors could easily indicate something not meant to be viewed, a scene of a woman being raped in the most brutal and desperate of ways.

It was all in the eye of the beholder.

“It’s strongly painted,” Sally said without lifting her gaze from the piece of paper. “It’s bold. I’d think he wanted people to stare at it and whisper in awe, discuss the meanings and ramifications of his work.

“This isn’t meant to be a sweet picture, made for the dining room or a lady’s parlor. I mean look at it. This isn’t a romantic portrait or perfectly executed bowl of fruit. This is meant to inspire passion and arguments. People would debate about the meaning and hold strong opinions on it. I bet if you showed it to a dozen people, some would be outraged, others offended and perhaps even a few titillated. And the arguments about whether it’s a passionate lover’s clench or something murkier, depraved, would keep people interested for hours. It’s meant to garner a response not leave the viewer unmoved. I think the fact they’re both in the grip of strong passion, on the edge of desire—or perhaps about to lose control of themselves—is clear for anyone to see.

“But even that is subjective,” Sally remained focused on the paper. “This is an intense piece, yes, but all paintings that arouse strong feelings are. Something sexual and unfulfilled like this is always going to raise debate and conversation. I can easily think of a dozen different interpretations of this man and woman, and if I put my mind to it, I could probably triple that number with more esoteric or philosophical questions.”