The Art Of Deception, Book Two, Stolen Hearts series, Romantic Suspense (2 page)

Halfway up the stairs, she stopped and dug into her satchel for her sunglasses. “The worst thing about happy hour in spring is it’s still daylight when you go outside. Why do you suppose they keep bars so dark?” She twisted around to face him, sunglasses in hand.

Standing on the stair above him, she stared at the perfect knot in his navy tie. Of course his tie was tied perfectly. She couldn’t imagine him looking rumpled or sweaty, or....

“Are you married?” She shoved her sunglasses on, embarrassed by her impertinence.
Stop playing your stupid games
. The man was an FBI agent, for heaven’s sake. She didn’t have to work at pushing him away, because a cop was not going to be attracted to someone like her. Thank God.

“I thought I was the one who was supposed to ask the questions." His mouth compressed into sterner lines as he wrapped his large hand around her elbow again and steered her up the stairs.

When they emerged on to the busy sidewalk she hitched her satchel further up on her shoulder and stepped to the curb, the coffee shop directly across the street from them.

Gage tugged her back. “We’ll use the crosswalk.”

“You’ve got to be kidding. The crossing is way the hel...dickens down there." Wonderful. Five minutes in his company, and she was using crosswalks and trying not to swear.

She yanked her elbow out of his firm grip. “I can manage by myself." Then turned and plowed into two businessmen hurrying in the opposite direction. The now familiar feel of Gage’s hand settled on her shoulder as he steadied her. When she shrugged his hand away, she heard him sigh.

“If you want to get yourself trampled or run over, that’s fine, but could you wait until I’ve asked you a few questions?” Still wearing his I-mean-business look, he grabbed her arm again propelled her along the crowded sidewalk.

Had the Grim Agent--cousin, she was sure, to the Grim Reaper--just made a joke? You’d never know it by the way he stalked along beside her.

“Do you dye your eyelashes and eyebrows?”

He stumbled, his hold on her elbow tightening. “What?”

“They’re dark. Not really black, but close. And your hair’s blond. I was just wondering...." Her voice trailed off as he stared at her as she’d just been beamed in from outer space. It was a reasonable question. She had friends who dyed, tattooed and be-ringed just about every part of their bodies.

He wiped his hand over his face, looked around him as if it was his first time in Boston, then squared his shoulders. “Who’s Raphael?” he asked.

“My twin brother.”

For the briefest of seconds, he closed his eyes. “I don’t dye my eyelashes,” he said after a minute. “Or my eyebrows, the hair on my head, or on any other part of my body."

She curled her tingling toes inside her sneakers and tried not to think about any part of his body, dyed or not. All she had to do was answer a few simple questions and be on her way. She could handle that–if she could keep her mouth shut long enough to let him ask the questions.

A few minutes later, Gage checked his watch as he settled into a chair by the coffee shop window. “It’s seven, and I haven’t eaten. Are you hungry?”

“No." Sophie dragged her gaze away from the window.

He frowned across the table at her. She’d clammed up at the stoplight and hadn’t said a word since, as if the effervescent energy that sparkled out of her had suddenly dried up. He’d had to work hard at not laughing out loud at some of her antics. Dye his eyelashes. Geez.

“You folks ready to order?” A slender young man in black jeans and a white shirt stood at attention by their table.

“Still serve breakfast?” Gage asked.

“Yes, sir.”

Gage winced. He’d always figured it was his suit that encouraged people to call him sir, but lately he'd begun to wonder. Maybe it wasn’t what he wore, but something in his expression. “I’ll have two eggs, scrambled, whole wheat toast and bacon. Coffee first." Gage turned to Sophie. “Are you sure you’re not hungry?”

“Just coffee will be fine."

Gage considered adding an extra helping of toast, but dismissed the waiter with a wave of his hand. After the wine she’d drunk, Sophie probably needed to eat something, but according to the scant notes Spencer had scraped together, she was twenty-seven years old. Old enough to take care of herself.

A forlorn wail rose from the table behind him, and he turned to see a small, freckled-faced boy with bright red curls kneeling up on the bench seat and yowling as he pointed straight at him.

Gage looked around, spotted a little red toy convertible on the floor beside him, leaned over and scooted it back toward the boy’s table. The yowling stopped immediately, and Gage let out a long breath. Man. He felt up-tight tonight.

Turning his attention to Sophie, he pulled out his notebook and pen from inside his pocket, then took his wire rimmed glasses out and slipped them on. “Let’s get the essentials out of the way first. Your full name is Sophia Pascotto and your address is...." He’d already checked her address, but often found it revealing to ask questions he knew the answer to.

Sophie cocked her head to one side and studied him. Again she reminded him of a bird. Not the dead one this time, but a small, startling alive one, her eyes bright with curiosity, half her hair still standing up while the other half lay plastered against her head, as if someone had ruffled her feathers.

He wanted to reach over and either smooth part of it down or run his fingers through the flat part to make it stand up. He raised his eyebrows. “Your address?”

“My guess is you already know it." She squinted at him. “Around kids a lot?”

“Never enough, it seems.”

“Are they for reading?” She nodded at his glasses.

God help him. He couldn’t even get her to answer basic questions. He tossed his pen on the table and folded his arms over his chest. “My glasses?  Yeah, they’re for reading.”

“How old are you?”

“Old enough to need reading glasses. Are you going to tell me where you live?”

“In the North End. 156 Lewis Street. The top two floors. One for living, the top one for working.”

“Good." He started to ask another question, but the waiter appeared with his meal and two cups of coffee.

Gage sipped his coffee, welcoming the shot of caffeine as he waited for the young man to finish arranging everything.

“You’re an art restorer?” he asked once they were alone again.

“Yes.”

“Tell me what an art restorer does.”

“Restores art.”

He swallowed a mouthful of eggs, feeling more tired than hungry. He’d had a long, hard week, and he didn’t need this crap on a Friday night.

“Have any idea why I’m questioning you?” He caught her gaze and held it this time. Her eyes were dark enough to be almost black. She looked sober now, maybe afraid. “A painting came in a few weeks ago, supposedly from Europe,” he continued before she could answer. “A Matisse. It’s a forgery.”

Sophie shrugged her shoulders. “So?”

“You’re right. Art forgery hardly compares to murder or acts of terrorism." He cut a piece of bacon and nodded as he chewed it. “The only person hurt is the art dealer who sold the forgery. They have to give the client’s money back and suffer the damage to their reputation. And go to jail for a while." He watched Sophie filch a piece of his toast.

“So what’s the big deal this time?”

“This time, the art dealer happens to be the wife of my boss. Special Agent Parker is the supervisor of the Boston FBI field office, and he’s mad as hell." He gulped his coffee to ease his tight throat muscles.

It was his rotten luck Spencer was taking a month off to spend time with Sarah and their new baby just as this case had opened up. After screwing up on his last case, Gage didn’t need his boss breathing fire down his neck.

Sophie now gnawed on his other piece of bacon. He pushed his plate across the table to her, his appetite gone.

“Thanks." She pulled the plate closer and dug into the eggs as if she hadn’t eaten for a week. “So, I guess your boss--what’s his name?”

“Parker.”

“Parker. Right. I guess he’ll be riding you hard until you find out who did the forgery.”

“Likely." He caught the waiter’s eye and pointed to his empty coffee cup. “Who’s Moira Pascotto?  Any relation of yours?”

“My mother. Why?”

“Just another name on my list." According to his notes, Spencer had already spoken to Sophie’s mother. That Sophie bought certain art supplies from a store called the Palette was the excuse Spencer had suggested using to ask questions about Moira Pascotto. He’d written con artist beside her name. Another one of Spencer’s intuitive guesses. Gage would do some serious fact gathering on Mrs. Pascotto come Monday.

“Would you bring me another order of toast, please?” Sophie smiled at the waiter as he refilled their coffee cups.

“The address you gave me in the North End, that's an expensive part of town. You make good money restoring paintings?”

Sophie shrugged, her sweatshirt sliding off her shoulder again. He wished she hadn’t done that. The hint of feminine allure–her delicate bones, the dusky pink tone of her skin--titillated him far more than if she’d taken her sweatshirt completely off.

On the other hand, he didn’t see a bra strap, which probably meant she wasn’t wearing one. And her T-shirt was white.

“Hey, Mr. FBI Man. Gage. You finished or what?”

“Yeah. I mean, no."

Maybe he should phone Mindy, his perky next door neighbor, and ask her out. She’d done everything to catch his attention except parade naked in his front yard. Problem was, newly divorced ladies always acted a little too desperate for his taste, and she lived right next door. He’d have to face the morning after every time he went outside.

He rolled his shoulders and stared at his blank notebook. What had he been asking Sophie? He glanced across the table, then away. Why wear the damned shirt if she wasn’t going to pull it up over her shoulder?

“Money,” he said and picked up his pen.

“You already asked me that question.”

“I didn’t hear your answer. Sorry." He glanced at his empty plate. She’d eaten everything.

“I thought you looked spaced out. Where did you go?”

He raised his gaze to meet hers, letting her see the heat he knew still lingered in his eyes.

She yanked her sweatshirt up over her shoulder and shrank down into the oversized garment, then opened her mouth as if to say something, but the waiter appeared with her second order of toast. She grabbed the plate from him and busied herself with piling spoonfuls of blueberry jam on one piece.

“I make okay money." She ripped a corner of the toast off and stuffed it in her mouth.

“You specialize in Impressionist and Post Impressionist paintings?” He wrote the words
money
,
Impressionist
and
Post Impressionist
in his notebook.

“Yes.”

“The Palette said you buy Belgian linen on occasion." He wrote linen under the other words.

“Is that why you’re questioning me?” She laughed, but it came out sounding strained, and she still hadn’t looked at him. Not since he’d let her see what he was feeling.

“I use the linen for relining,” she explained. “When a canvas is weak or torn, you have to fuse new linen to the backing. If it’s an expensive painting, the owners usually prefer you keep the material as authentic as possible.”

“Does your mother work?” He felt as though he was groping in the dark for something to hang this case on. Damn Spencer’s blind leaps of intuition. Following a hunch was no way to build a case.

“Mother owns a small art gallery.”

“And your brother, Raphael? Is that his real name?”

A ghost of a smile drifted over her face as she stared down at her covered hands. “Yeah. He hated his name when he was a kid until he heard about the Ninja.”

“What kind of work does he do?”

“He travels back and forth to Europe a lot. Sometimes he brings back a couple of paintings for Mother’s gallery.”

“That’s it?  He travels? Is he independently wealthy?”