shadows. A small table was set with white linen and fine bone china. Candles in polished silver holders glistened, their light casting pools of yellow on the table. He’d opened a bottle of Silvio Nardi Brunello, poured it into a flat- bottomed crystal decanter to breathe. There was a box of chocolates on the table, divinely rich truffles he had imported especially for this evening. He had one of his favorite operas playing, Turandot.
Gavin unsnapped the locks on the Plexiglas box. His love lay still. He was overcome for a moment, then gathered himself and lifted her body, setting her gently in the chair closest to the fire. The chair was high-backed; a quick loop of thirty-test line and she was upright. He set her hand on the chocolate, arranged her face in a smile. There, that was better. In the flickering light, the hollows of her cheekbones were like gorges, her mouth appropriately slack. Her eyes, deepest chocolate, like the truffles, watched him wherever he went in the room.
He settled across from her and poured the wine. Raised his glass in a respectful toast, took a sip. He cleared his throat, and began singing an aria from Turandot, softly, under his breath. “Nessun Dorma,” Puccini’s fateful words about a lonely princess, silent in her cold room, waiting for the love of a worthy man. He was that worthy man. He had no ear for the tune, knew he couldn’t do it justice, but he whispered the phrases, and they flowed around her body, soft as a lover’s caress. He hoped she could hear him, wherever she was, hear him making love to her with sweet words.
“…Ed il mio bacio sciogliera il silenzio che ti fa mia! Il nome suo nessun sapra e noi dovrem, ahime, morir.”
He dropped to one knee and followed the words in English, whispering still, knowing she’d never fully comprehend in Italian. “On your mouth I will tell it when the light shines. And my kiss will dissolve the silence that makes you mine.”
He untied her. She leaned on his shoulder in a deathly embrace, her hands dangling down his back, touching him, holding him, and he wept with joy. Scooping her up with both arms, he crossed to the fire. A soft feather mattress with silken sheets was warmed by the flames. He laid her carefully on the bed, arranged her hair to spill over the fluffy pillow. She gazed into his eyes. When he kissed her, and her mouth parted, he nearly lost his mind. So sweet.
He took his time, making love to her gently, not wanting to hurt her. She accepted his embrace, never fighting, always willing. He took her again, and again, and again.
The night passed much too quickly. At the dawn, light creeping in through the cracks under the doors, Gavin extricated himself from between her legs, leaned up to give her a kiss. She wasn’t as stunning in the light.
“It’s time to bathe, my love. Oh, why did you have to leave me so soon?”
Friday
Seventeen
T aylor woke with the sun. She’d actually slept, at least six hours straight. Usually in the middle of a case she was up all hours, playing pool to try to calm her nerves. But when she’d gotten home last night, after twenty minutes on the computer confirming that no one in town had the Picasso books available, she climbed into the bed. Baldwin had joined her an hour later, mumbling something about the Met detective that she wasn’t awake enough to hear. She’d fallen back to sleep tangled around him like a piece of yarn.
She gave an indolent stretch, then slipped out, trying not to jostle him. No sense in waking him just yet; he’d been out terribly late.
She slipped down the stairs, turned off the alarm, went out the front door for the paper, then headed into the kitchen to start some coffee for Baldwin, tea for her. She flipped the paper over as she went, looked at the glaring headline.
No Clues in the Hunt for the Conductor
Great. Just what she needed; the media getting in the middle of her case, starting a panic among the citizens of Nashville. At least nothing about the posing or the link to Italy had gotten to the media yet. It would, but with any luck she could contain and control the information.
“Good morning,” a deep voice called out.
She screamed in surprise, the newspaper scattering all over the kitchen floor. There was a man sitting at her kitchen table, a strange man. She fumbled for her weapon but quickly realized she’d been caught at a disadvantage-she was wearing a tank top and a pair of Baldwin’s boxer shorts, the waistband folded down three times to fit. The man stood and took a step toward her. She calculated the distance to the block of knives sitting out on the granite countertop. He grinned and held out his hands.
“Whoa, there. Name’s Highsmythe. Your chap didn’t warn you that he’d brought me along last night?”
Taylor stopped short just as Baldwin came clattering down the stairs.
“Is everything okay? I thought I heard a scream.”
She turned to him, hoping her voice didn’t break when she spoke. Jesus. “It’s fine. I wasn’t aware that we had a guest.”
“Sorry about that. You were conked out when I came in. Loews messed up his reservation, offered to walk him, but it was late, so I just brought him here. Taylor Jackson, meet James Highsmythe.”
The man raised an eyebrow and looked her up and down before meeting her eyes.
Taylor was acutely aware of several sensations at once, mortification crowding out the faint zing she felt when their eyes met. The white tank top she’d slept in was thin and she wasn’t wearing a bra. She suddenly felt ice-cold, and knew her body was betraying that. She crossed her arms in front of her chest and said, “I’ll just go get something on,” then scooted out of the kitchen.
She heard Baldwin murmur something, and the Brit had the audacity to laugh.
Damn men. They could wander around barely clothed among strangers and never feel a moment’s shame.
By the time she’d managed to get herself together and back downstairs, dressed in yoga pants and a black T-shirt, Baldwin had taken care of brewing her tea and was making breakfast. She accepted a cup gratefully and sat at the table, across from the British cop.
“Memphis was just telling me about life in the Met. Sounds a lot like Metro to me.” He set a plate of eggs in front of her, another in front of Highsmythe.
“Oh?” she said. She saw that Highsmythe had gone pale, wondered if he wasn’t feeling well. Probably just tired. Time to fix her earlier inelegance. She handed him the salt and pepper, then shook his hand.
“It’s good to meet you. I’m Taylor Jackson. You must be Baldwin’s contact from Scotland Yard.”
“Please, do call me Memphis,” he said, a warm smile playing on his lips. He looked down at his cup of tea, and Taylor could have sworn she saw the briefest moment of pain cross his features.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
He started, then glanced at her briefly. “Yes. Yes, of course. Jet lag, you know.”
“It’s a killer,” Baldwin said. “Sorry for the confusion last night. We’ll get you squared away after breakfast.”
“Much appreciated.” Highsmythe picked up his fork with his left hand and delicately placed a bit of egg in his mouth. Exemplary manners, Taylor noticed. The color had returned to his face. She decided he was fine.
A good-looking man, if you liked blonds. She didn’t. But she could see how another woman might find him attractive. He looked…beautifully menacing. His fingers on the teacup seemed ridiculous-perfectly manicured yet thick enough to snap the handle from the china with a flick. He was wearing a gray button-down with a black cashmere sweater over it, tight enough to show both the shirt’s excellent tailoring and his muscled chest. His whole countenance was like granite, a block of tension and strength. Intractable, physically and emotionally. Though why she touched on his emotions escaped her.
He was different from Baldwin, whose tall, lean body made her want to reach out and stroke the length of him, to nestle in and not let go. No, Highsmythe was a bundle of violence hiding behind a sculpted facade. She made a mental note to make sure she wasn’t alone with him. He unsettled her, and there was no sense in anyone getting the wrong impression.
She finished her eggs, then excused herself. She had things to do before she left for the day. The Brit stood
