4
“TARA. Tara, sweetheart, wake up.”
Tara’s frown deepened as Blake’s voice invaded her dreams, but she didn’t immediately awaken. She murmured something else he couldn’t quite understand, sounding so distressed he wanted only to hold her and make the pain go away.
He touched her face, his hand not as steady as he would have liked. “Tara. Come on, honey, open your eyes.”
She opened her eyes, saw Blake leaning over her, and frowned. “Did you just call me honey?” she asked, her voice still hoarse from sleep.
His mouth tilted into a smile. “You were having a bad dream.”
She winced. “Did I say anything?” she asked, looking prepared to be mortified.
“Nothing coherent,” he assured her. “You just seemed restless.”
She ran a hand through her tousled hair and made a serious effort to wake up. “What time is it?”
He glanced at his watch. “Almost five.”
“Have you had any sleep?”
“Enough.” He studied her face, noting the lingering signs of strain. “Are you all right?”
She didn’t meet his eyes. “Yes, I’m fine. It was just a stupid dream.”
“Certainly understandable, after everything that has happened tonight. Would you like to talk about it?”
“No.” She answered a bit too quickly.
He nodded. “Fine.”
“I told you, it was stupid.”
“It’s okay, Tara. You don’t have to tell me if you’d rather not.”
She struggled to sit upright. Blake gave her a hand, scooting over to give her room to sit on the edge of the bed beside him.
“Have you come up with any theories about why this is happening to us?” she asked, her tone more brusque now. He could almost see her concealing her insecurities behind that tough-lawyer mask she’d perfected.
“Actually, I’ve been sitting here sort of recapping the evening,” he admitted. “From the beginning.”
“Sounds like a good idea. Maybe you could recap your recap for me.”
He hadn’t released her hand after helping her sit upright. He found himself unwilling to do so now. He laced his fingers with hers, letting their linked hands rest on the bed between them. And then he tried to concentrate on their conversation, rather than the feel of her soft palm pressed against his roughened one.
“Okay,” he said briskly. “We went to the art gallery following a call I received from someone who knew the names of my usual contacts at the insurance company, as well as the procedures the company usually follows to contact me.”
“Blake, have you ever considered getting counseling for this James Bond complex?” Tara asked with a dryness that amused him.
The corner of his mouth tilted up in a half grin. “I have to entertain myself somehow.”
She frowned at him, though he thought he saw an answering smile in her eyes. “Go on.”
“Right.” His cleared his throat and went on. “We arrived at the art gallery and we were approached at the McCauley painting by a man in a bad toupee, who seemed to be watching us very closely.”
He had suspected then that Botkin was the one who’d asked for the meeting, but he’d honestly had no sense that the man was in danger. Nor that Tara would be drawn into it, either, he thought grimly.
“At the time I’d been given,” he continued, “I waited in the men’s room for someone who never showed up. After a few minutes, I checked the hallway, then stepped into the main showroom to look around. When I came back, there was still no one in the hallway, but I heard a noise from the open door at the end of the hall. I had just looked into that office before I went into the showroom,” he added. “No one was in there then.”
“Which meant,” Tara mused, “that the man in the toupee appeared right after you left. And that the other man, the one who shot him and grabbed me, was right behind him.”
Blake nodded grimly. “I should have waited,” he muttered, disgusted with himself. “I should never have allowed myself to be distracted by—”
You. He bit off the rest of the sentence, making Tara look at him questioningly.
“Anyway, I shouldn’t have been so impatient to leave the gallery,” he substituted.
“Everyone makes mistakes, Blake,” Tara reassured him.
“That’s something you should keep in mind, as well,” he murmured. “But at least the mistake you made at the law firm—if, in fact, you made a mistake at all—didn’t get anyone killed.”
“And if you had waited in that hallway as you were supposed to, you might have been the one killed,” Tara reminded him. “It’s obvious that someone didn’t want you to have whatever information the man was going to give you.”
Blake rubbed his slightly bristly chin with his free hand. “All I was told was that it had something to do with the Willfort robbery.”
“And it was so important that Botkin was killed before he could give it to you.”
“That’s only a guess,” he cautioned her. “For all we know, he was killed by a jealous husband. Or someone who actually was trying to rob the gallery. It might only have been coincidence that you and I were there.”
“Do you believe that?”
He hesitated only a fraction of a second before shaking his head. “No. I’m not a big believer in coincidence.”
“Neither am I. So, apparently, I walked in just after the man was shot. The killer—whoever he was—grabbed me. He asked what the hell I was doing there.” Tara shivered a bit, obviously replaying the moment in her head.
Blake’s hand tightened comfortingly around hers.
“And then he asked what Botkin told me when I was kneeling down beside him. Not that I could have answered if I’d wanted to. The guy had his hand over my mouth.”
Blake’s hand jerked around hers. He twisted on the bed to look at her with a frown. “When you knelt beside him? But I thought you were grabbed the moment you walked into the office.”
She shook her head. “I didn’t see the other man at first. Maybe he hid when he heard me in the hallway.”
“Tell me everything that happened in that office.”
Tara didn’t look as though she wanted to relive those terrifying moments, but she nodded. “I saw the man on the floor. I knelt beside him. And then he said...he said...”
“What?” Blake asked urgently.
“They knew,‘” she recalled slowly. “‘The paintings were...’”
Blake frowned. “The paintings were what?”
“I don’t know. That’s all he said, at least I think those were his words. It was difficult to understand him.”
“Nothing else?”
She shook her head. “That was it. The next thing I knew, I was being grabbed from behind. I got one good look at the man who grabbed me, the one who must have shot Botkin, but I didn’t say anything to him. He didn’t give me a chance. And then you came in.”
“‘They knew,’” Blake repeated in a murmur. “Who knew what? And the paintings he mentioned—was he talking about the paintings that were stolen from Jackson Willfort’s apartment? The ones scheduled to be put on display?”
Since Tara had no answers for him, she remained silent.
Blake stared thoughtfully at the wall in front of him, musing aloud. “Willfort originally purchased the stolen paintings from the Pryce Gallery. He buys most of the art for his private collection from Liz Pryce.”
“Liz Pryce?”
“Hmm. Liz Pryce owns the Pryce Gallery. She’s the wife of Avery Pryce.”
“Avery Pryce, the attorney?”
Blake nodded. “Right. The Avery Pryce, Atlanta’s premier barrister. He’s years older than his third wife. They’ve been married almost ten years. He set her up in the gallery almost immediately after they married. With his money and influence, she’s been very successful. Jackson Willfort is one of her most loyal patrons, which has gone a long way toward establishing her with the rest of the art-buying community.”
“How do you know all of this?”
He shrugged. “Someone called and said they had information about the Willfort burglary. I made a point to find out everything I could about the players before I got involved.”
“So Jackson Willfort bought a couple of paintings from the Pryce Gallery that he intended to put on public display. The paintings were stolen. Someone from the gallery knew something about that robbery that he intended to share with you, but, presumably, he was murdered first. What could he have known? Who is now in possession of my name and address, and what do they think I know that could be dangerous to them?”
“I don’t know what Botkin was trying to tell you, but we’re going to try to find out. Our ‘friends’ are now after you because they think he told you too much. And they don’t want you telling anyone. As for me—they aren’t sure who I am or how much I know, but they’re probably hoping the cops will lead them to me, and then they’ll be able to take care of both of us at once.”
“Do you think they’re still in my apartment?”
That seemed to bother Tara almost as much as everything else. He wrapped her hand in both of his. “I don’t know,” he said gently. “But we can assume it isn’t safe for us to go there for now.”
She took a deep breath and again spoke firmly. “So what do we do now?”
He smiled and lifted her hand to his lips, brushing a kiss across her knuckles. “Looks like we’re about to be partners in an investigation, Tara McBride,” he said in the Texas drawl he sometimes affected. “Think you can handle it?”
SHE COULD handle it, Tara told herself dazedly. She could deal with the knowledge that someone wanted to find her—for deadly reasons she didn’t understand.
But she wasn’t at all sure she could handle Blake. Not if he kept smiling at her that way. Holding her hand. Kissing her.
In his own way, Blake was as dangerous to her peace of mind as the man who might even now be pawing through her things in the apartment.
“You didn’t get much sleep,” Blake said, finally releasing her hand. “Would you like to crash for a while longer?”
Feeling oddly bereft without the comfort of his touch, she ran her hand through her hair and shook her head. “I couldn’t sleep now. What I’d really like is a shower.”
He nodded, then frowned. “You don’t have any clean clothes to put on.”
“I don’t have anything,” she said simply. “Shampoo, hairbrush, toothbrush, underwear.”
Blake stood. “Okay,” he said, reaching for his duffel bag. He tossed her a plastic bottle and a man’s denim shirt. “Here’s some shampoo. You take a shower and use that shirt for a bathrobe. I’ll go out and find a twenty-four-hour discount store, pick up a few basic supplies, as well as a change of clothes and a pair of sneakers for you. What are your sizes?”
Surely he wasn’t thinking of buying her underwear, she thought, biting her lips as she stared at him.
“Tara,” Blake said patiently, “we’re in a difficult situation here. We’re going to have to be practical. Until we get this resolved, we’ll be spending a lot of time together. It’s the only way I can protect you. You’ve trusted me this far. Don’t stop now.”
Annoyed with herself for acting like a schoolgirl, Tara nodded. “I do trust you. I’m sorry, I just don’t quite know what to do. I’m completely out of my element.”
“Believe me, sweetheart, I know the feeling.” There was an ironic twist to his words that she didn’t quite understand. “What are your sizes?”
She reached for the pad and pen that sat on the nightstand. Without hesitating again, she scribbled sizes—bra, panties, shirt, jeans, shoes. She then ripped the sheet off and handed it to him.
Blake turned and headed for the door. “I won’t be long,” he said. “Put the chain on behind me and don’t open this door for anyone but me.”
She nodded. “Be careful, Blake.”
The grin he shot her could only be described as cocky. “Worried about me, are you?”
“No. I just really need a toothbrush.”
“Any color preference?”
“Pink,” she shot back without hesitation.
He wrinkled his nose. “You’re going to make me go out there and buy a pink toothbrush?”
She smiled. He hadn’t blinked at buying lingerie, but he complained about the pink toothbrush. “Don’t come back without it,” she ordered imperiously.
He laughed and let himself out. Then tapped on the door. “Chain,” he said quietly through the wood.
She didn’t hear him walk away until she’d secured the locks and the chain. Moments later, she heard the muted roar of his truck engine as he drove away from the motel in the early-morning silence.
But he would be back, she thought, and all her nerve endings seemed to tingle in anticipation.
JUGGLING BAGS, Blake tapped on the motel-room door a little over half an hour later. “It’s me,” he said, hearing Tara on the other side. “And I have your pink toothbrush,” he added, just in case she had any doubt of his identity.
The door opened. She stood there with wet hair and clean-scrubbed face, wearing his oversize denim shirt, which covered her to her knees. Beneath the shirt, her legs and feet were bare.
And, despite his promise that she could trust him, and his own private vow that he would not take advantage of her temporary dependence on him, Blake was hit with a wave of hunger so intense that he had to clear his throat. He’d wanted Tara McBride since the first time he’d seen her. He wanted her even more now.
He told himself not to even think along those lines until he’d gotten her out of the mess he’d dragged her into. But, damn, she looked good fresh out of the shower, wearing nothing but his shirt.
Her expression self-conscious, she stood back and let him enter, then closed and locked the door behind her. Trying to put her at ease, Blake hid his reaction to her and tossed all but one bag on the bed she’d slept in.
“The selection was rather limited, but this stuff should do for now. I’ve brought breakfast, too,” he added, tapping the fast-food bag in his hand. “I’ll set it out while you get dressed.”
Tara dug into the well-stuffed blue plastic bags on the bed, pulling out jeans and two T-shirts—one aquaand-white striped, the other white with red piping—a package of white sport socks, white canvas sneakers, a deodorant stick “for ladies only,” a travel-size hairdryer, and a hairbrush. Blake had bought everything he could think of that a woman might need when she was stranded with nothing.
She blushed rosily when she found the undergarments he’d selected—white lace bikini panties and a lacy white bra.
He liked it when she blushed. He got the feeling it wasn’t something she did very often.
And then she found the things in the bottom of the bag. A powder compact. Blush, mascara and lipstick. He’d had to ask for help with those selections, but it was worth it, judging by Tara’s reaction. Blake’s sister had once told him that a woman couldn’t help but feel better about herself if she was wearing a little makeup.
Blake had hoped Tara would like the stuff, but he hadn’t expected her to look up at him with tears in her beautiful sky-blue eyes.
“I—er—know it’s not the good stuff you probably buy at Saks or Neiman’s, but it’s the best I could find at this hour.”
“Blake, thank you.”
The tears, the slight tremor in her lower lip, the little break in her voice shook him. “Tara, it’s only makeup.”
She gave him an unsteady smile and made a quick swipe at her cheek. “I know. I guess I’m still a little tired.”
“You need food,” he said awkwardly, willing to do just about anything to dry those tears. “I brought muffins. I hope you like blueberry.”
Her smile deepened. “I love blueberry.”
Relieved that she seemed to have her emotions under control again, he nodded. “There are two foam cups of coffee getting cold in the bottom of the bag. You might want to hurry and get dressed.”
She gathered her new clothes into her arms. “I’ll just be a minute,” she promised.
She paused as she passed him on the way to the bathroom. After only a momentary hesitation, she rose on tiptoe and pressed a quick kiss to his unshaven cheek. “It was a very sweet gesture, Blake,” she murmured, drawing away. “Thank you.”
Without even stopping to think about it, he snagged a hand behind her wet head, pulled her toward him and planted a long, firm kiss against her mouth. This was the third time he’d kissed her, and each time she tasted sweeter, more inviting. If he wasn’t careful, if he kept indulging in those addictive kisses, he was going to do something monumentally stupid.
Blake’s pulse was racing when he pulled away, and Tara’s eyes were huge. He took a quick step back, out of the danger zone.
“You’re welcome,” he said, his voice husky. “Now go get dressed before I forget all those promises about how trustworthy I am.”
She wasted no time closing herself into the bathroom.
Blake ran an unsteady hand through his hair and wasted a few minutes calling himself every synonym he could think of for fool. And then he turned to set out blueberry muffins and rapidly cooling coffee.
They had a long day ahead of them, with no time for distractions. Once he’d figured out what the hell was going on, and had got everything under control...well, then he would see whether Tara McBride still considered him “sweet.”
TARA AVOIDED Blake’s eyes while they ate their hasty breakfast. He probably thought she was an idiot. She couldn’t believe she’d made such a fuss over a few inexpensive cosmetics. She wasn’t one to burst into tears that way. She must have been more tired than she’d thought.
As for that kiss...well, she simply couldn’t think about that right now.
After they’d eaten, Blake took a shower while Tara dried her hair and applied a touch of the makeup. She told herself it was merely a measure of her stress and exhaustion that she almost sniffled again when she opened her bright pink toothbrush.
She tried to block out the sound of the water running in the shower. Tried to push away the mental images of Blake standing naked beneath it. But it was impossible to forget the feeling of his mouth pressed hard to hers.
Don’t do this, Tara.
She was in no position to get involved with anyone, much less an enigmatic, unpredictable, adventure-seeking private investigator. Even before she’d lost her job, when she’d seen Blake occasionally and had felt the tug of attraction every time, she’d known it was foolish. A dashing P.I., she’d told herself, couldn’t possibly be interested in a serious, routine-bound tax attorney.
She had never learned to flirt, something Blake did with a skill and enthusiasm that indicated years of successful practice. Tara hadn’t even had a steady boyfriend in high school. Her cousin Savannah, who’d been the captain of the cheerleader squad and extremely popular with the boys, had accused Tara of intimidating the guys with her brains and ambition.
Not that flirting had paid off for Savannah, who’d ended up pregnant and ignominiously dumped by her boyfriend at seventeen. Witnessing her cousin’s humiliation, Tara had told herself that she wasn’t interested in dating—and then had tried to believe it.
College had been a blur of studying and exams. Tara had finished in three years and had then been accepted into Harvard Law School. After that had come the offer from the law firm in Atlanta.
She’d dated now and then, of course. She’d even tried to have a meaningful relationship with a suitable young attorney whose ambition matched her own—a bit too closely, actually, since it had been his jealousy over her success that had driven them apart.
But no way was she prepared to indulge in a fling with Blake. As far as she could see, nothing could come of it but a broken heart and another devastating blow to her already battered ego. Maybe if she had learned to flirt somewhere along the way...if she could trust herself to enjoy Blake’s attentions without reading too much into them, or wanting too much from him...
If only she was as reckless and adventurous as Blake... But she wasn’t.
So, no more kissing Blake, no matter how sweet he was, she told herself sternly. From now on, she was keeping her lips strictly to herself.
Lacking a case, she scooped the cosmetics into the same blue plastic bag Blake had brought them in. She wondered if she should wash her worn lingerie out by hand and let it dry over the shower rod. She didn’t know how long Blake intended to remain in this room. Not long, she hoped. The walls were already beginning to close in on her.
She heard the bathroom door open, and automatically glanced around. Blake emerged wearing a pair of jeans and the denim shirt she’d had on earlier. His hair was wet, and he hadn’t yet buttoned the shirt. It hung loose over his jeans, revealing a sleek, firm chest glistening with a sheen of moisture. And Tara felt her knees start to melt.
There were parts of her, she thought in despair, that hadn’t yet gotten the message that this man was out of her league.
“I’ve been thinking,” he said, apparently oblivious to her stunned reaction to his appearance. “The stolen paintings may be the key to finding out what’s going on. If we can find them, maybe we can find our answers.”
Tara cleared her throat. “And how would you suggest we go about that?”
“I have this friend...” He rubbed his clean-shaven chin and frowned, looking thoughtfully at Tara. “Maybe you’d better stay here. You’ll be safe here.”
No way was she staying in this claustrophobic little room while Blake went off looking for clues. She shook her head. “No.”
“Tara...”
“No, Blake. I’d go crazy sitting here alone, wondering where you were and when you’d be back. Wondering if the next knock on the door would be you...or a man with a gun. Wherever you’re going, I want to go with you.”
He sighed. “I can’t blame you, really. I wouldn’t want to be left behind, either.”
Relieved, she nodded. “So, what next?”
He glanced at his watch. “It’s still early. Maybe we can catch the Spider before he gets busy.”
“The...Spider?” she repeated, hoping she hadn’t heard him correctly.
He gave her a wry smile. “That’s what they call him.”
“And what’s his real name?”
“I’m not sure anyone knows that...including him.”
“Oh.” She swallowed, then firmed her chin. “All right. Let’s go find this Spider person.”
He chuckled. “Let me finish getting dressed. Spider’s pad is one place I definitely wouldn’t want to go into barefoot.”
She pictured a dark, deadly web and almost shuddered, then chided herself for letting her imagination get away from her. She sat on the end of her bed and watched from the corner of her eye while Blake dried his hair, brushed his teeth, buttoned and tucked in his shirt. It was a small room, she reminded herself. She had no choice but to watch him.
He sat on the edge of his own bed, and opened the drawer to the tiny nightstand. He pulled out an oddlooking leather sheath with straps. And then he rolled up the right leg of his jeans.
Tara watched in open curiosity as Blake strapped the thin leather sheath to his leg. “Is that a...knife?” she asked, staring at the black handle nestled into the holder.
Without immediately answering, Blake pulled on his boots, making sure the knife handle was still accessible above the right one, then smoothed his loose, straight-cut jeans down over them, completely concealing the sheath. And then he looked at Tara.
“It never hurts to be prepared,” he said, confirming her guess.
Tara had to remind herself that she’d insisted he take her along.
Blake carefully gathered every article they’d brought into the motel with them and shoved them into the duffel bag. Everything that didn’t fit went into the plastic bags he’d carried in earlier. By the time he’d loaded everything into the truck, there was no evidence that they’d been there except for the trash in the wastebaskets.
“We won’t be coming back here?” Tara asked.
He shook his head. “No. Even if we have to spend another night in a motel, I’d rather be in a different one.”
She glanced somewhat wistfully around the tiny room as she followed Blake out. Maybe it had been small and dingy, but it had been safe. And all of a sudden, she wasn’t in such a hurry to leave.