Never Trust A Lady

“What? Oh, okay, sure…” She obliged him by holding it while he tore the tape that crisscrossed the back and peeled aside the layers of brown packing paper. A moment later, he had it in his hands. The prize. Game, set…match.

“It’s nice,” he said, surprised to discover that he meant it. Funny, he wouldn’t have expected that little weasel Jarek Singh to have such good taste in art. Not that it mattered; it could be Elvis on black velvet, for all he cared. What he wanted was hidden somewhere in, on or behind this damn painting, and all he had to do now was get it out of the woman’s clutches long enough to find it.

An idea came to him, based on something he’d overheard earlier, in the parking garage. Keeping his voice carefully neutral, he said, “I take it it’s not supposed to be valuable?”

“No.” She rose, gingerly at first, then with more confidence, and moved over beside him so she could look at the painting with him.

He found himself bracing automatically for her nearness. Apparently not at all affected by his, she was silent for a while, gazing down at the painting as if she’d never seen it before. Then she caught a quick breath and said in a puzzled tone, “I was told it isn’t. I just bought it because I like it. The style reminds me of Renoir-I’ve always liked Renoir.” She gave a short laugh. “Of course, this isn’t. I’m certain of that. But it’s more than that. It just…” Her voice trailed off, but she went on staring at the dancers in the painting. There was something about the tilt of her head that made her seem…wistful.

“Maybe,” Hawk said, releasing the painting into her keeping with a casual shrug, “somebody knows something you don’t.”

Her eyes flew to his, not guiltily, but with a little lift of surprise and gladness, in the way of one human being discovering another of like mind. “That’s just what I thought! You don’t think it’s silly, do you? Things like that do happen.” Again she gave that ripple of laughter he was beginning to recognize as a signature of hers. “Not to me, of course. But suppose…”

“If you’d asked me this morning, I’d have said not a chance,” said Hawk dryly. “But after what just happened, I’d have to wonder. Somebody obviously wants that painting pretty badly.” He paused a beat before adding, “Maybe you should have it appraised.”

She nodded, her face thoughtful. “Oh, I plan to. I’d already planned to, after that man Campbell offered me so much money for it. And after this…”

“I might be able to help you there.” He said it with just enough diffidence, not too eager. “I have a friend at the Smithsonian-he could probably recommend somebody. I’ll give him a call, if you want. You could take the painting in tomorrow morning.”

That ought to give Devore plenty of time to get somebody in place, he thought.

She laughed and said faintly, “My goodness, the Smithsonian.”

But Hawk knew he was losing her. He was an experienced enough hunter to know when his quarry had sensed the trap. Her smile was strained, now, her body tense, and her eyes slid sideways, reluctant to meet his.

Or maybe, he told himself, it was just that she was feeling better now, more her usual self, and her natural self-preservation instinct was kicking in. He was well aware that an animal suffering from trauma will tolerate invasions of its comfort zone that a hale and healthy one never would. Human beings were no different.

Or, it could be that Jane Carlysle was simply experiencing the normal edginess of a woman-a nice woman-becoming aware that she was alone in a hotel room with a strange man. Small wonder if she was feeling leery, after that near slip of his. He’d have to be a lot more careful about that in the future. And he would be. It had just snuck up on him, that’s all. It had been a long time since he’d felt that kind of attraction to a woman. A long, long time.

But, either way, his moment had come and gone. Time to drop back and punt, he thought. Let her get her confidence back, and wait for another chance.

“Just an idea,” he said with a shrug.

“I appreciate the offer.” She leaned forward to prop the painting against the pillows at the head of the bed, and shot him a quick smile over her shoulder before she straightened-not seductively, more like a peace offering, he thought, but felt the sudden lurch in his belly anyway, like a plane hitting an air pocket. “I really do-it’s very kind of you. But I already have the name of an appraiser-I believe he has a gallery in Georgetown. I’m going in to Washington first thing in the morning anyway. I’ll just take the painting with me then.”

“Oh-okay, well, that’s good.” Nothing more to be done now, he told himself. Time to go. And yet he felt a curious reluctance. He told himself it was the painting he hated to leave behind. “That’s good…sounds like you’ve got it covered.” He edged toward the door. “I guess if you’re sure you’re okay…”

“I am-really.” She followed him, moving in that fidgety way people do when they don’t know quite what to do with their hands. “And thank you. For saving my-” She broke off, gave that little embarrassed laugh of hers and amended it to, “My painting. I don’t know what I’d have done if you hadn’t…”

“My pleasure,” Hawk said, and reminded himself to smile. “Glad I happened to be in the right place at the right time.” He stopped suddenly, as if the thought had just come to him, and made one last try. “Listen, maybe you should get somebody to go with you when you take that painting in tomorrow. You know, if somebody’s crazy enough to try this…”

“Oh, no, that’s okay, I’ll be fine.” She said it hurriedly, automatically, the usual polite demurral. Then, as she thought about it, he saw her smile slip a little. “Anyway,” she added staunchly, “I’m prepared now. Forewarned is forearmed, right?”

His thought exactly. This time he didn’t give her the smile she wanted. Instead, frowning, he said, “Are you sure? I have a couple of appointments, but I can probably-”

“Oh, no-no, really.” It was firm, final. He heard it in her voice, saw it in the set of her mouth.

“Well, okay then. Be careful.” His hand was on the doorknob. He turned it and pulled. “Lock your door.”

Instead of a reply, he heard a soft, stifled sound, and turning, found that she’d crisscrossed her body with her arms and covered her mouth with one hand. Above it, the eyes that clung to his were suddenly troubled, frightened, confused. He’d never seen such tattletale eyes.

“Oh, I will” Her words came muffled through her fingers. “And I did. That’s just it. I know I locked my door when I went out. How on earth did he get in here?” She shivered.

Hawk tapped the small sign that was mounted on the door near the security bar. “Ma’am. I could tell you about six different ways. That’s why they tell you to put the bar on when you’re in here, and not to keep valuables in your room.”

“But what I don’t understand,” she persisted, her voice low and still shaken, “is how he knew this was my room. It’s not even registered in my name, and anyway, the hotel wouldn’t give out that information. How did he know?” It was hitting her now, he could see that-the sense of violation that every victim of violence experiences. It would probably take some time before she felt safe again.

The door was open now. Hawk held it while they both stood in silence, looking down at the arrangement of spring flowers on the floor.

“Looks like somebody’s sent you a present,” he said in a neutral voice.

She bent slowly and picked up the flowers. “It’s a mistake-it has to be,” she said in a frightened voice. “I don’t know anybody who’d send me flowers. The only ones who even know I’m here are my kids, and I can’t think why-” She broke off as he reached over and turned the little white card on its plastic stake so she could see “Jane Carlysle” plainly written there. Just the name, and nothing else. She whispered, “I don’t understand.”

“Don’t you?” Hawk’s mouth twisted as he touched a sprig of lilac with one finger. “This…is probably how he knew. It’s one of the tricks-call and order something to be delivered to a particular person, then watch and see which room it goes to.” He let the hand drop to his side.

She whispered, “My God.”

He felt grimy, uncomfortable in his own skin. Ashamed. Her stricken eyes clung to his, framed in daffodils and tulips. The smell of lilacs hung in the air between them, making his nose burn and his eyes ache. He hadn’t been prepared for this. Desperately, he hardened himself against the memories, the guilt, and her.

He said thickly, “Well, now you know,” and turned.

He’d taken only a few steps when she called to him. “Mr. Hawkins…”

She’d never know what it cost him to pause and look back, when he knew she’d be standing where he’d left her, with her arms full of those damn flowers.

“Mr. Hawkins,” she asked, her voice steady, her face pale but resolute, “are you with the police?”