The Art Of Deception, Book Two, Stolen Hearts series, Romantic Suspense (27 page)

Gage stood. He straightened his tie and buttoned his suit jacket. Luck had nothing to do with it. It was about making choices, the right choices. And he’d chose Sophie’s safety over his job or his reputation.

“Gage, you’re late,” Parker barked behind him.

Gage turned around. The Super looked like he was about to pop a vein. The guy should be grateful he finally had a legitimate reason to vent his frustration. “I got called out last night."

“So I heard–-from a suspect. Raphael Pascotto seems to know more about what’s going on with this case than I do. Let’s take this to my office, unless you want to talk out here.”

“After you." Gage followed Parker to his office. The back of his neck burned as he felt everyone’s eyes follow his progress across the room. Not in a million years had he imagined that his career could get so screwed up.

Remember Sophie. Certainty washed over him. Whatever hand Parker dealt him, he could play it. Because he had Sophie, and she was more important than anything else.

“Your paint, sir?”

The clerk’s voice pulled Gage out his reverie. “Thanks." He took the can of paint and headed for the check out. Great move, bucko. Get suspended from your job and go out and buy a can of paint to celebrate. You are now certifiable.

Or in shock. He thrust some bills at the cashier, waited for his change, then went out to his truck. He placed the can on the floor of the passenger side and leaned his head back against the head rest.

He’d told himself he could take whatever Parker dished out, but he hadn’t been prepared to be suspended. After Parker had ripped a few layers off his hide, his boss had almost sounded apologetic. He wanted to keep the whole deal in-house. In other words, Parker hoped Spencer could clean up the mess before it went to the Office of Professional Responsibility. If they couldn’t prove Raphael was innocent, Gage could be charged with aiding and abetting.

His heart stopped, then started thudding overtime. Either way, his career was pretty much screwed. First the air hostess incident, now this. Everyone knew once an agent went rogue there was no pulling him back into the fold.

Rogue. Christ. He started the truck and pulled out of the parking lot. His colleagues used to tease him about how straitlaced he was, how he never took chances. He still wasn’t taking chances. Everything hinged on Sophie being innocent, because if she was–not if, she was innocent–-then someone really was trying to take her and her brother down. The person setting them up was the culprit. If only he had a few facts to hang that theory on.

He turned on to his home street and slowed down. He’d convinced Spencer to let Raphael out of jail and keep a tail on him. With Sophie out of the picture, maybe the culprit would take another swipe at her brother. They’d be waiting for him if he did.

And Sophie would be safe at home with him. He pulled into his driveway, turned the motor off and looked at the can of paint. Sage green, just like she’d mentioned. He swallowed and picked the can up. Maybe he’d completely lost it. Most guys bought flowers for a woman or jewelry, something pretty. He’d bought Sophie paint for the bedroom. Shaken after his session with Parker, the idea that Sophie was home waiting for him had been the one solid thing in his chaotic world. Somehow he’d gotten it into his head if she helped paint the bedroom or left her mark on his home in some small way, she’d stay. Forever.

He slid out of the truck and slammed the door. Okay, so he hadn’t thought the idea through. They had a long way to go from where they were to forever–didn’t they? What the hell difference did it make? She was right when she said the damned room was too bright anyway.

“Hi." Sophie opened the patio door as he crossed the patio.

He stopped, the thought that Sophie was here felt so right the tension that had bound his muscles into knots dissipated. “Brought you some paint." He passed the can to her. “Sage green. Just like the lady ordered.”

“Thanks." She followed him into the kitchen. “Aren’t you supposed to be working?”

“I’m suspended. Spencer caught the case.”

“Spencer?”

He kept his back to her not, wanting to see the expression that matched her horrified tone. “Yeah, Chance Spencer. It was his case to start with." He shrugged out of his jacket and slung it over the kitchen chair.

“Vince. I’m so sorry." She put her hand on his arm. “This is my fault. There must be something I can do. Let me go talk to them.”

“And say what? That you didn’t mean to lead the poor dumb bastard astray?” A pain stabbed his chest as he turned and watched her face crumple. “Sorry. I’m strung a little tight right now.”

“I should never have asked for your help.”

He reached out and ran his fingers through her hair. It felt as soft as the rest of her. “Why did you?”

“Because I trusted you, and I didn’t know who else to turn to.”

“Same here. I had a feeling you were telling the truth. Everything is going to work out, buttercup. Trust me on this one.”

She looked at him hesitantly. “Maybe you could hug me? It might make us both feel better.”

“I can do better than that." He grinned, scooped her up into his arms and headed for the stairs. “How about I start at your toes and kiss my way all the way up to the tip of your head?”

“Can we do this in the middle of the morning?”

“We can do it all day long if you want to.”

“Vince?” She wound her arms around his neck and brought her face close to his.

“Yeah?”

“You’re okay, right? I mean about your job and everything.”

“As long as I have you, babe, I’ll be fine.”

Sex, Sophie realized, was the greatest distraction ever invented. For the last hour both she and Vince had sought refuge from the world in each other’s arms. If she had a choice, they’d spend the rest of the day in bed, but problems didn’t solve themselves. Certainly not the magnitude of problems they both faced. She glanced over at Vince. He lay on his back, his arms tucked up under his head, staring, once again, at the ceiling.

With the tip of her finger, she traced the bulge of muscles in his arm. “What are you thinking?”

“About Maisie. I said I’d look into getting a second mortgage so I could help her buy a house.”

She jerked upright. “They’re not paying you while you’re suspended?”

“Don’t worry about it. Maisie didn’t seem all that hot on the idea anyway.”

“But you wouldn’t be suspended if you hadn’t gotten involved with me.”

Vince rolled off the bed and grabbed his jeans. “It was my decision, and it’s my responsibility.”

“I have some money. Let me help. I can borrow against my trust fund.”

“I’m not taking money from you." He pulled on his jeans and dragged a T-shirt over his head.

She bounded off the bed and grabbed her own shirt and pulled it on. No way was she going to argue this without any clothes on. “This is stupid. I’m going to go talk to Raphael.”

“Don’t start. We’ve been over this already.”

“But that’s when you were busy. You have time to drive me to the jail now.”

“He’s out.”

“He is? Why didn’t you tell me?”

Gage looked away. “I forgot. Sorry.”

“Then you can drive me to his apartment.”

She watched his gaze move from one corner of the room to the other as if considering her proposal. “I’m not supposed to get involved,” he said carefully.

“So drop me off, drive around the block and wait for me. This is great. Why didn’t I think of this when you first came back?”

“It might work.”

“Of course it will. Come on, we can talk on the way to his place. I can even go see Ciro and my mother. I can’t believe what Raphael said about them having an affair. It doesn’t make sense. I mean, Ciro used to make fun of my mother all the time. I want to see what he says when I ask him point blank if he’s involved with my mother or not.”

She started out of the door, but poked her head back in the room. Vince stood in the middle of the room, staring at the bed. “Vince? You coming?”

He glanced at her with a vacant look in his eyes, then pushed passed her out of the room. “I have to phone Spencer."

“What about?” She followed him down the stairs, a tiny spark of hope springing to life.

“About Ciro and your mother. Where’s my cell phone?”

“I don’t know." She glanced around the kitchen. “Your jacket, maybe? You’ve figured something out, haven’t you?”

“Maybe. Let me talk to Spence first." He pulled his phone out of his jacket and turned his back to her as he punched in a number.

“Spencer?” He listened for a second, then nodded. “Yeah, well, I’ve got something to talk to you about, too.”

“Sophie? She’s right here. Why?”

As if he had strings attached to his shoulders, Sophie watched his body slowly draw upward until he stood stiffly at attention. Her stomach shrunk into a tight ball. What now?

Vince wiped a hand over his brow. “Who told you that?” The quiet monotone of his voice chilled her.

A dreadful silence filled the kitchen as he listened again. “Does he have proof?” He jerked around and glared at her.

“No, I’m okay. It’s not important now. Yeah. Catch you later." He snapped his phone shut, his narrowed gaze pinned to her face.

She grabbed the back of the chair in front of her. She suddenly felt as if everything inside had dried up, that the faintest breeze would blow her away.

Vince crossed his arms. “Spencer has proof that you painted the forgeries.”

“No." The word ripped out of her soul.

“They found more preliminary sketches of both forgeries in Raphael’s apartment. Ciro was there when they found them. He told Spencer he remembered you dropping them off about a month ago.”

“It’s not true." She watched the animation drain from his face until the man who stood in front of her was the cold, stern FBI agent she’d first met.

“Prove it."

“I can’t."

Pain flashed in his eyes. He turned away. “I didn’t think you could. That was one hell of a ride you took me on, Sophie. My hat’s off to you and your brother. What the hell was I thinking?” Suddenly, he struck out and put his fist through the wall.

She could barely hear above the roaring in her ears. “Ciro lied,” she whispered.

Gage swung back to her. Gage. Her beloved Vince was gone. “I suppose he put those other sketches in your studio, planted drugs in your refrigerator, slashed your paintings and sent you those death threats. Why, Sophie? Why would he do that?”

She shrank away from his towering rage. “I don’t know who did all those things, but I’m innocent. I didn’t paint the forgeries.”

“And your brother didn’t transport one back into the country and try to get the second one out. For God’s sake, your mother sold the first forgery. The whole lot of you played me for everything I’m worth." He dragged in a breath. “I want you to leave. I imagine someone will show up at your apartment later today to search it. They’re getting a warrant now.”

His words were strung together as if they made sense, but they didn’t. They couldn’t. “Gage, please, you have to listen to me.”

“That’s what I’ve been doing for the last month, listening to you. Look where it got me. Go. Now." He grabbed his jacket and stalked out of the house. A minute later, she heard his truck roar to life and peel out of the driveway.

She stood perfectly still and looked at the kitchen. It was a beautiful room. This house was Gage’s masterpiece. He was creating a home as lovingly as she created a painting. He’d been right. They had so much in common, and now she’d never get the chance to tell him.

With leaden feet, she went upstairs to gather her belongings. Dull, cloudy thoughts drifted through her head as she stuffed her clothes into her bag. She granted a moment’s admiration for whoever was behind the whole set up. They’d done a thorough job of destroying her life. And Raphael’s. And consequentially, Gage’s. She still had no idea why they had wrought this havoc, but she no longer cared. The damage was done. She didn’t care about going to jail or about her lose of reputation in the art world. But Gage.... She sank further down into her protective layer of shock. She couldn’t think of all she’d lost just yet. She didn’t even know where to go. There was no safe place left.