Never Trust A Lady

”

“I don’t remember any sticker. Here. Take this.” He thrust the light into her hands and began to turn the painting over, turning it upside down and around, even though he’d already been over the damn thing with a fine- tooth comb and knew perfectly well there’d been no sticker on it, large or small.

“It was there last night.” Her voice was breathless, as if his agitation was contagious. “I’m sure of it. Maybe it fell off. Check the wrappings.” The light beam danced, alighting like a butterfly on the brown paper he’d folded and set to one side.

And a moment later came a satisfied, “There it is.” Her hand darted into the light to pluck from the sea of brown a white rectangle of paper half the size of a postage stamp. “See? I knew it had to be here.” She handed it to him, saying, “No wonder it fell off. It’s not sticky at all. That’s probably what happened, don’t you think? Maybe it happened to more than one item, and the auction employees just stuck them back on as best they could, figuring no one would notice.”

Hawk grunted. “Yeah, right.” He was squinting at the sticker, holding it between the nails of his thumb and forefinger. “Hey, let me see that pistol you bought-you did mean it when you said you have it with you?”

“Right here.”

He could hear her scuffing around in the dark. A moment later, the silver Colt revolver poked into the puddle of light. He gave her a look as he took it from her, wondering if she knew she’d handed it to him butt-first and carefully, as if it was a real gun, and loaded. Strange woman.

The lot-number sticker was still on the butt end of the pistol, right where he remembered seeing it when he’d picked it up from the floor in her hotel room last night. It was stuck on good, so good he had to scratch with his fingernail to peel up one corner. So good there was no way in hell one could have come unstuck by accident.

Wishing to God he had a pair of tweezers, he tore off a piece of the brown wrapping paper and dropped the numbered sticker onto the middle of it, then folded it into a credit card-size packet and tucked it carefully away in his wallet. If he ever got out of this damn truck, he’d see that the boys at Quantico got a look at it. Who knows, maybe they’d get lucky, turn up a print, although in reality the chances of that were pretty slim.

No, his best bet was going to be to backtrack to that auction house, try to pick up the buyer of the other painting. The original number 187. Unless the guy had pulled a multiple switch, in which case he’d have to track down every one of those damn paintings. He was going to have to call in help, of course, but even so, the odds were, by the time they got to it, the key to Jarek Singh’s computer files would be long gone on its way to the highest bidder, in another sort of auction altogether. The thought of that happening chilled him to his very bones.

“Any chance of you remembering that other number?” he asked without much hope. He felt very tired.

Jane made a small sound, either a sigh or a stifled yawn. “Probably not. I have a terrible memory for numbers. But I could look it up in my catalog for you, if you like.”

Hawk, whose last remaining hopes had collapsed with her first sentence, didn’t know whether to strangle or kiss her. Well, to be truthful, he did know. And it was surprising the hell out of him, the way that notion kept popping into his mind.

“That would be nice,” he said with polite irony. Then he added, as she instantly began digging in her tote bag again, “I didn’t mean now. No point in it. Why don’t you wait until we’ve got some light?”

“Oh-okay.” She paused, her hands and the flashlight draped over her tote bag, to say thoughtfully, “So, I guess whoever bought the other painting, the one with my number on it…must have this disk, or whatever. Is that what you think?”

“Looks like it.”

Jane was silent, chewing her lip, her shadowed, unreadable gaze directed away from him, staring at nothing. But something about her seemed to radiate tension; Hawk’s own heightened senses picked it up, like the subtle vibrations of electricity near power lines. A tiny chill of warning crept across his skin, the way it always did when he knew someone was lying to him. But he thought, No, not Jane. And ignored the sensation, putting it down to nerves, frustration, his own general antsyness.

“If we could just get out of this damn truck!” The vehemence in her voice as she spoke his own desire out loud surprised him; she’d seemed so unflappable up till now.

“Yeah, well, nothing we can do until they stop,” he reminded her. “Meanwhile, why don’t you turn that thing off, save the batteries? Try and get some sleep.”

She made a funny, high sound, like a laugh-as in, “Are you kidding?” But she didn’t say a word about being hungry, or thirsty, or wanting to use a bathroom, or any number of other things she must have been in need of. He knew he sure was-all of the above.

The light went out. A few moments of silence ticked by, filled with the rhythmic thrumming of the truck’s tires on pavement. And then she began to sing softly, huskily, “‘Hello, darkness. my old friend…”’

It had been one of Jen’s favorite songs. She’d loved Simon and Garfunkel.

What the hell’s going on? Hawk’s heart was pounding. Who the hell was this Carlysle woman, anyway? And why was it every time she opened her mouth, one way or another she seemed to say something that made him feel as if he’d been punched in the gut?

I sure didn’t count on this, he thought as he stared into the blackness above his head.

And then he wasn’t certain what he meant by that. Because he hadn’t counted on a lot of things. He hadn’t counted on Jane Carlysle, for one, and the way he kept seeing her face in his mind, and thinking about how good it would feel to touch her. To make love to her, yes, but also, and much more incomprehensibly, just to hold her, and go to sleep with her wrapped in his arms.

He also hadn’t counted on running into memories of Jen every time he turned around. It couldn’t help but occur to him to wonder if the two were somehow connected.

For almost seven years he’d kept those memories locked away in the deepest, darkest dungeons of his soul, ruthlessly squelching every attempt they’d made to break free. Now, suddenly, ever since the moment this woman had entered his life, somehow or another things kept reminding him of Jen.

He didn’t know why, either, she didn’t look at all like Jenny…well, except maybe in a superficial way. Both had dark hair worn short and curly, and were on the tall side of medium height. But Jen’s eyes had been golden brown, warm and intriguing, the color of brandy, not the sea. And where Jane had a certain quietness about her that seemed to invite confidences, Jenny had been feisty, with that arrogance he’d fallen for the very first time he’d laid eyes on her.

He found himself smiling even now, in the darkness, thinking of the way she’d pranced out on that diving board…

Smiling? How was it that a memory of Jenny could make him smile? But hurt, too, way down deep inside. What was happening to him?

Whatever it was, he wasn’t ready for it. The timing couldn’t be worse.

“Carlysle?” There was no answer. But even though he thought she was probably asleep, he went ahead, in a voice he didn’t know. “Just wanted to say thanks.”

There was more he’d meant to say, more he should have said, but hell, she wasn’t going to hear it anyway. Just as well. Evidently she’d been tired enough to override all her discomforts, after all. Let her sleep, he thought. He’d take the first watch-he didn’t want to risk being asleep when the damn truck finally did stop.

Chapter 9

Jane was very tired but too keyed up to sleep. It had been a long time since she’d experienced so many emotions, a roller coaster of emotions, in such a short span of time. Right now she didn’t know what to feel. She didn’t know what to think.

And she didn’t want to think. The notion that had come to her was so…unthinkable. And so persistent. It kept tapping her on the shoulder, trying to get her attention, and she kept pushing it away, telling herself, No…it can’t be. It’s ridiculous. I won’t believe it.

But how else to explain everything? It all fit.