Treasure Me (6 page)

Birdie started toward the portrait with her breath catching on her lips.

Hugh awoke on a gargled snort.

Where am I?
He peered through the darkness of a bedroom that sure as hell wasn’t his condo in Akron.

Christ—I’m in Liberty
. He groaned, remembering: he’d lost his job at the
Akron Register
yesterday and was stuck in the boondocks seeking redemption. He needed to write a stellar exposé on Anthony Perini, the thieving bastard who was AWOL on his honeymoon.

In a best-case scenario, Anthony had thousands in ill-gotten loot. He was soaking up cash from the people sending money to the websites for the nonexistent medical expenses of his now-healthy kid.

Scratching his belly and considering the possibilities, Hugh wandered through the apartment’s cramped living room and into the even smaller kitchen. If he was trapped here for a few weeks he might as well make the best of it. He’d been furious when he’d stormed out of the
Register
. He’d fled back to his condo to throw stuff into suitcases as if he’d show the City Editor, Bud Kresnick, who was boss by packing up and leaving for good.

Hugh scrubbed his palms across his cheeks. He was a pathetic bastard, a journalist skidding toward oblivion. Too many years had been spent chasing tail instead of doing his job. He’d been a real human being once—he’d even been engaged twice. Now he was nothing more than a self-pitying, unemployed writer.

Flicking on the lights, he studied the kitchen. He liked an orderly environment, so he wiped down the counters then found the dishwashing soap beneath the sink. Within minutes he’d washed the few plates and glasses growing dusty in the cupboards.

Through it all he worked in a state of sexual frustration that brought back memories of his pining adolescence. Irritated, he stalked into the hallway to grab his luggage. What was his problem? It wasn’t as if he hadn’t had sex lately. Melissa had been in one of her jungle moods before everything went sour and she dumped him. So why was he mired in illicit thoughts?

Then he remembered.

He wasn’t flying solo in Liberty. He was sharing his digs with the sullen commando angel, Birdie-with-no-last-name. Maybe his brainpan had shorted out on the information, but his body sure hadn’t. Sharing digs with a sun goddess, even one outfitted like a guy in the army, was sure to test his self-control.

Was this his punishment for all the years he’d put women before work? If so, he’d take his lumps like a man. He’d write the Perini exposé and get the hell out of Liberty with his newfound chastity intact. Resuming work at the
Akron Register
took precedence over his gonads, hands down.

The living room couch was a twining mess of blankets. He checked his watch; it was after midnight. His inner antenna went on alert. He doubted Birdie had friends in town and there wasn’t any nightlife to speak of. So where was she?

* * *

Through the picture window the streetlights threw bands of silver across the dining room. A feathery snow was falling in Liberty Square, dusting fir trees and cobblestone walks. The bell atop the county courthouse glinted in the moonlight. Turning away, Birdie padded through the shadows toward the portrait of Justice. Her heart thumped beneath her ribcage.

It had been a hassle waiting to check out the portrait. After they’d closed the restaurant, common sense warned her to stay in the apartment a reasonable amount of time before coming back downstairs. Surely the cops patrolled the Square until midnight and people might still be out on the street. Resigned to testing the boundaries of her patience, Birdie had dozed on the couch with the timer on her wristwatch set. When her watch gave out a series of rings she’d hurried downstairs and broken in through the back door.

She stared up at the portrait of the proud black woman with a sense of awe. So many stories surrounded the freedwoman. Supposedly she’d loved Birdie’s ancestor, the plantation owner Lucas Postell. Had Justice gone north with a bag of gold Lucas insisted she take? With jewelry? Was the treasure gone, sold long ago, or still hidden away somewhere? Birdie’s mother, convinced the world was out to screw her over, worried the treasure was lost and she’d never profit from it.

Birdie’s grandfather, before he’d whittled out the end of his life in the New Jersey state penitentiary, believed Justice was pregnant when she undertook the dangerous journey to freedom. In a desperate act of love, Lucas gave her something of great worth. The way Birdie’s grandfather told it, Justice never cashed out because she was generous and pure. She’d considered the treasure a legacy belonging equally to her unborn child and the white branch of the Postell family tree.

Hard to believe, since most people were driven by greed. Certainly everyone in Birdie’s family was. Yet she preferred her grandfather’s theory not simply because something of worth might be found. She liked to think of Justice as someone who’d risen above her base desires. Secretly she imagined the freedwoman as a paradigm of virtue.

Maybe the stories were true and Justice bore a child with Birdie’s ancestor. Which meant Birdie had more family than she knew of, black relatives who might have done better with their lives than their avaricious white relations.

Hungry for the truth, she grabbed the sides of the frame to remove it from the wall. The portrait was heavy. Stumbling, she managed to lug it to the counter and set it down.

Family lore agreed on one fact: the portrait hid a clue to the location of the hidden treasure. Examining it would take time. Trying to see in the darkened room was impossible. Risk turning on a light? If Hugh woke upstairs he might notice the glow knifing across the snow. Or a cop might investigate. Finally she noticed a pewter sconce on the wall that held a candle.

Wiggling the candle free, she lit it and returned to the portrait. She dropped the candle into a juice glass and stared hard at the swirls of burnt umber and deep rose comprising the image of Justice. She half expected to find writing hidden in the deft strokes of paint but nothing looked like a clue. Frustrated, she ran her fingers across the frame’s heavy scrollwork. The ornate curls were feathered with gilt paint, and she wondered if something was etched in the wood. No dice. Was the clue hidden inside the backing paper?

Turning the portrait over, she drew out her switchblade. Carefully she peeled off the tan backing paper. And felt gravity shift when a small rectangle of yellowed parchment dropped out onto the counter.

Nearly faint with excitement, she blew out the candle and returned the portrait to the wall. Stumbling through the kitchen, she nicked the corner of the stove before managing to stuff the clue in her bra. It wasn’t safe to examine the contents until she’d locked herself inside the bathroom upstairs.

“Hey, there.”

Her heart slammed against her ribs. Beneath the reddish glow of the kitchen’s Exit sign, Hugh lounged against the wall.

“How did you get in here? I locked the door behind me!” she demanded without thinking.

He shrugged. “Fatman Berelli.”

“What?”

“Fatman.” Hugh strolled through the shadows toward her. “He’s one of my contacts in Youngstown. Union guy, big as a Sumo wrestler. He’s branched out—now he’s a private investigator. Fatman taught me all of the dark arts including how to pick a lock.”

Speechless, she tried to get her bearings. Did Hugh mean he knew she’d broken in too? It was unlikely he’d buy a story about Finney leaving the door ajar after closing up for the night. The cook was as territorial as a Rottweiler.

She stumbled toward the massive steel refrigerator. “I was hungry.” She wrestled the door open. “Do you want something to eat? How do eggs sound?”

“That’s a freezer. Are you planning to thaw the eggs, assuming you find some? Everything in there is frozen solid.”

So it was. The shelves were packed with frigid bricks in white paper. Maybe she’d grab one and hit him on the head. When he came to his senses, he’d find the aggressive Finney standing over him. It would be his problem.

He came up behind her, too close. The nerve endings on the back of her neck crackled. “Do you mind?” She nailed him with a nasty look. Which must have been faulty ammunition because delight sparked his inky gaze. “Back up, Hugh. You’re standing too close.”

“I’m trying to see your eyes. It’s dark in here.”

“Stop staring at me.”

“Are they really violet?” He took hold of her chin, angling her face toward the Exit sign’s glow. She froze. “Wow—they are. And I’m worried your light blonde hair didn’t come out of a bottle.”

“Why are you worried?”

“Because if it’s real, you’re blonde all over. I’m having a heart attack thinking about it.”

“My hair is natural.” She tried to jerk free but her feet had a mind of its own. Or minds of their own, since she had two.
Think your way out of this!
“Are your eyes really black?” she asked. Obviously her brain wasn’t under her powers of persuasion either.

“Dark brown, actually. Do you like them?”

“No.”

What she’d like was a taste of his lips. Hugh’s mouth was incredible—full lower lip, with pearly white teeth hiding underneath. She’d gone stupid all right, but it
had
been a long time between relationships.

He drew his fingers down her waist. “Do you want to have sex? A short détente before resuming hostilities?”

“Not right now. I’m making eggs.” Did he get any action with lines like that?

Putting her self-control into a fist hold, she rammed into the door to the walk-in cooler, swore at it then pulled the damn thing open. “Hey, I found the eggs and some veggies. How do you feel about a spinach and Swiss omelet?”

“I’m on the fence. Am I the one cooking?”

“No.”

“Then I’m off the fence. Should I find a skillet?”

“Sure.”

He also found a light switch beside the massive sink. The glow wasn’t much but it surely wasn’t visible from out front. They’d be safe.

“So will you tell me why you broke in here?” he asked while she whisked eggs. “I’m not prying. I’m curious.”

“You’re more than curious.”

That didn’t come out quite how she’d intended, and Hugh grimaced. “You got me.” He handed over the spinach. “I’m sure we’d be great in bed together. But you’re right—we should skip the fireworks.”

“So you’re easy even when it’s not the Fourth of July?” She connected with his gaze and flushed. She began chopping up the spinach with gusto. Her self-control was already mincemeat. “Listen, I wouldn’t mind having a fling with you. But it wouldn’t stop there. You’d talk.”

He looked offended. “I would not.”

“I mean you’d talk in bed and expect me to share. My business is private. I’m not stupid enough to chat beneath the covers with a newspaper reporter. All I need is to find my life story in the
Akron Register.
”

“Meaning your life
is
a story? I’m intrigued.” He leaned against the stove as she poured the frothy eggs into the skillet. “Which is why I’d love to know why you broke into the restaurant. What were you hoping to find?”

Turning on the heat beneath the skillet, she was aware that her private thermostat was already rising. “I thought I left something down here. I didn’t want to wait until morning to get it.”

“Lies, foul lies.” He smirked. “Thinking of making off with the cash in the till? I wouldn’t if I were you. Finney has a temper. Think Pompeii, with people fleeing.”

“I’ll take it under advisement.”

She split the omelet in half and slid the pieces onto plates. Handing one over, she took a moment to look at him closely. Apparently the man was hungry—his attention hung on his meal, giving her the chance to appraise him carefully. He looked tired in some indefinable yet soul-killing way.

“What are you doing up this late?” she asked suddenly. “Did bad dreams wake you?”

He surprised her when he nodded. “The same dream, actually. Only it’s more like a play-by-play.” He held up his plate. “Should we dine upstairs?”

“Good idea.” She snapped off the light and followed him to the stairwell. “What do you mean, play-by-play?”

From over his shoulder, he gave her a long look. Nothing casual in his eyes—she was asking questions he didn’t want to answer.
Touché
. But something touched her heart, a fleeting emotion. Hugh wasn’t like any man she’d ever met—he seemed stable, grounded in ways she didn’t understand. He might even be likeable.

Was the flirtatious and fast-talking reporter plagued by nightmares?

If so, she wanted to know why.

Meade peered out the window with misgiving as Finney barreled across the porch of Anthony Perini’s house.

Calling Finney hadn’t been easy. The woman didn’t talk. She stampeded through conversations. Yet at half past midnight Meade couldn’t think of anyone else to call.

The cook stomped into the circular foyer without knocking.

“Are you nuts?” The words came out in a hiss, presumably to avoid waking Blossom. “Where are you going this late at night? I was asleep when you called.”

“Doze on the couch until I get back.” When the cook glared, Meade added, “It
is
an emergency.”

Finney gave her the once-over, taking in the turquoise knit top Meade had thrown on after she’d hung up with her father. “You’re dressed awfully nice for an emergency. If you’re meeting someone, I’ll kill you for messing with my sleep cycle.”

Did Finney think she had a
date?
“I’m not seeing a man,” Meade snapped, and then reconsidered. “Actually, I
am
seeing a man, but not like you think. Not that it’s your affair.”

“Don’t use a high-and-mighty tone with me. Women like you draw men like flies to a manure heap. If you think I’ll watch Blossom while you’re out at all hours—”

The tirade came to an abrupt halt at the sound of the tinkling bells on Melbourne’s collar. The poodle trotted into the foyer and the cook stared at him with palpable distaste.