Novels 03 After Twilight, page 5
“It wasn’t anything like that, really.”
He watched as a slow pink flush crept across her cheeks. So rare to see innocence in young people these days. Despite his preconceived notions, he found that he liked Kacy Macgrath. “I see.” He let the words trail off provocatively, unable to resist the urge to tease her.
“Professor Baucomo, I’ve only just met Mr. Roche.”
His jovial mood evaporated instantly. He knew he’d recognized the man. Braedon Roche. If he was here, that spelled trouble. La Madre di Dio. Things were always so complicated. He pushed the thought aside. “Well, perhaps something will develop?”
Again she blushed. So, Roche was romancing her. If he were twenty years younger he’d probably romance her, too, but right now his objective was far more simple. He just needed to know what she knew. And to do that, he needed her trust. “I was admiring your painting. It’s marvelous, an exceptional copy.”
A tiny dimple flickered at the corner of her mouth. “Thank you.”
It couldn’t be. Wasn’t possible. He forced himself to speak. “May I ask who did it?” He held his breath, almost afraid to hear the answer.
She was grinning, and suddenly he felt like he’d heard a joke but missed the punch line. She sobered and laid a hand on his shoulder. “The painting is mine, Professor Baucomo.”
His admiration for her grew a notch. “Please, it’s just Professor,” he mumbled, climbing onto the sofa for a closer look. “This is fabulous. I cannot believe you have let a talent like this languish here in this backwater.” He pulled his attention away from the painting to look at her.
“I like my home.” She shrugged.
“But with talent like this, you should be working.” He eyed her closely, looking for something beyond the guileless enthusiasm he saw reflected in the green of her eyes.
“Well, now, I thought maybe you could help me with that.” Her lips curved into a shy smile, and his old heart actually turned a flip-flop.
He turned back to the Monet, examining it more closely, amazed at her expertise. “How did you manage the paint?”
“A technique I developed for restoring.” She joined him on the sofa, her enthusiasm matching his.
“On your own?”
She nodded. “My professors said it couldn’t be done.” The smile changed to an impish grin. “I wanted to prove them wrong.”
He touched the paint carefully with an index finger; even the texture felt right. His admiration ratcheted right off the charts. She was good. Really good. Whatever her sins, they’d work around them. He rarely found anyone who understood his passion for copying another man’s work, and the idea that perhaps he’d found a kindred spirit was beyond excitement.
It was bliss.
* * *
Braedon knelt beside the muddy entrance to the souterrain. The footprint was gone, obscured by the rain. He’d expected as much, but he was disappointed nevertheless. His rational mind told him he was making mountains out of molehills, but his intuition told him otherwise. Something here wasn’t as it seemed.
Hell, who was he kidding, nothing in Lindoon was as it seemed. And Kacy Macgrath was at the top of the list. He’d come here to prove she was more than she claimed to be. That she, along with her dearly departed husband, was responsible for the problems that were plaguing his gallery. But now that he was here, he found himself doubting the instincts that had brought him back to Ireland.
He blew out a breath and stood up, still studying the rubble at his feet. Kacy was probably right. It was just a cave-in caused by the rain.
And she was exactly what he’d thought she was. She’d all but admitted she was a forger. A really good forger, at that. But then that was part of the problem. Most criminals didn’t display their handiwork in their living rooms and then brag about their accomplishments to a stranger.
So maybe she wasn’t most criminals.
He ran a hand through his hair in frustration. She certainly wasn’t hurting for money. Maybe she wasn’t even Kirstin Madison. Maybe his sources were wrong. He knew he was grasping at straws. The truth was he wanted her to be innocent.
He watched as the gulls darted in and around the stone walls of the fort. He glanced back at the souterrain, frowning. Something was definitely off here. He just couldn’t put a finger on it. But he would. Oh, yes, he would. He hadn’t made a fortune by letting details slide. Sooner or later, he’d find answers.
And in the meantime, he intended to get to know Kirstin Kacy Macgrath, or whoever she really was, a little bit better. He grinned, remembering the way her lips had quivered under his kiss. Hell, if he had his way, he planned to get to know her a whole lot better.
Enrico Gienelli whistled to himself as he walked down the hall of Mrs. Macnamara’s bed and breakfast. The elderly lady was as deaf as a doorpost, but otherwise unremarkable. Which is exactly what he wanted.
He’d been a little concerned that Braedon Roche might be staying here as well. Lindoon wasn’t a very big place, but Mrs. Macnamara had informed him that the nice American fellow was staying in the room above Finnegan’s Folly.
Nice American fellow, his Aunt Rosa. Braedon Roche was a shark. A cold-blooded, bottom-feeding shark. And Kacy Macgrath had best be careful of him.
Rico was surprised at the strength of his feelings. He wasn’t one to risk his carefully constructed life blithely. In fact, he’d come here to protect it. He smiled, thinking of the two hours he’d spent happily discussing—no, arguing about—art with Kacy Macgrath. Then they’d examined the miniatures he’d brought with him. His sources hadn’t exaggerated. She had true talent.
And then there was the Monet. The Macgrath, he should say.
Whatever Kacy Macgrath was hiding, his gut told him it didn’t have anything to do with Alex. He’d bet his reputation on it. And he damn sure wasn’t going to let a predator like Braedon Roche get his teeth into her.
He twisted the key in the lock on his door and went inside, already removing his jacket and loosening his tie. He’d brought a bottle of Chianti with him from Milan. He couldn’t wait to open it, to celebrate his marvelous new find. Why, with proper training, she’d be better than he was.
“Good evening, old friend. Fancy meeting you here.”
Rico froze, hand in the air, tie dangling uselessly from limp fingers. The lamplight from beside the bed cast long shadows across the room, its pale gold light illuminating the harsh, handsome features of Max Madison.
Chapter 5
“I THOUGHT YOU were—”
“Incarcerated?” Max smiled, the lamplight making his features appear almost demonic. “I was, but the parole board seemed to think I had paid my debt to society, as it were.”
“Alex’s debt.”
Max shrugged. “Whatever.”
“So, what are you doing here?” Rico played for time, knowing full well why Max was in Lindoon. The same reason he was. To find out how much Kacy Macgrath knew. With Alex dead, the only way the forgeries could be linked to them was through Kacy. She was the weak link.
“I could ask you the same thing.” Max sipped wine from one of Rico’s crystal glasses.
Evidently he’d found the Chianti. Pity. Rico dropped the tie on the bed and reached for a second glass, pouring himself some of the wine. “I came to tie up loose ends. With my paintings popping up all over Europe, it seemed best to check all the angles.”
Max raised his eyebrows. “I thought you had people to handle these things for you.”
Rico shrugged. “I do. But sometimes it pays to check on things yourself.” He’d severed most of his connections to organized crime years ago. There were no “people” unless he called in favors, but he saw no point in enlightening Max. One thing prison life had taught him was that a person had to keep his cards close to the vest. And he didn’t trust Max Madison any more than he trusted the other men he’d met in Rikers. In fact, in many ways he trusted him less.
“So …” Max paused, eyebrows raised.
Projecting a calm he didn’t feel, Rico savored the wine in his glass, turning it in the light, examining the color. Then with false bravado, he sniffed it, letting the Chianti linger in his nostrils, tantalizing his palate. “So, nothing. She doesn’t know a thing.”
“The hell she doesn’t,” Max exploded, literally coming out of his chair, rage marring his handsome face. “The bitch killed my brother.”
Rico felt a chill run down his spine. He forced his voice to stay calm. “What in the world would make you think that?”
“She came out of nowhere. Married him overnight. And then suddenly he quits coming to see me. Three months of nothing. No calls. No letters. Nothing.”
“And that makes her a murderer, how?”
Max tightened his grip on the wineglass. “In all the years I was in the joint, my brother never missed a visit—until he met her. She lured him away from me, and then she killed him.”
“That’s ridiculous, Max. Just because the girl married your brother doesn’t mean she murdered him. There’s no connection at all.”
Max’s jaw started working, a red flush staining his face. “There’s the money.”
“What money?” Rico stared at his old cellmate.
“Mine. And Alex’s. There was a bank account. Offshore. Alex deposited my share of our little endeavor there.”
“I know. I have an account there, too, remember?” Rico took a sip from his glass.
“Have being the operative word.” Max slammed the crystal down on the table, and Rico winced. Baccarat was not meant to be manhandled. “My account has been liquidated.”
“And you think Ms. Macgrath is responsible?”
“Who the hell else could it have been?” His face had gone from cerise to crimson.
“Alex.”
“No.” The single word echoed through the room. Max took a menacing step forward, and despite himself, Rico flinched. “Alex would never have betrayed me. He’s my brother. He would have been nothing without me. We were a team.”
A fairly lopsided team when one considered the fact that Max had just spent a number of years locked in Rikers Island for something his sainted brother had done. But Rico knew better than to mention the fact to Max.
“It had to have been Kirstin. I think she knew about the forgeries. That’s why she married Alex.”
“And then killed him?” Rico narrowed his eyes, considering the proposition, then rejecting it. He’d bet all his ill-gotten gains on the fact that Kacy Macgrath wasn’t capable of killing anyone.
“Yes. She poisoned Alex against me, and then murdered him for the money. My money.”
“You have any proof?”
“No, but I’ll get it. And then I’ll make her pay.” He tightened his fingers, the stem of his glass snapping under the pressure, wine splashing against the brocade of the chair, the spreading stain bloodred.
Rico shivered. If he wanted to keep his new friend alive, he needed to think of something fast. Something to stall Max. “Even if you find the proof, you don’t want Ms. Macgrath coming to any harm. At least not yet.”
Max sat back down, normal color returning to his face. “All right, I’ll play. Why don’t I want her to come to immediate and irreparable harm?”
Rico bit back a smile, knowing he had the upper hand, for the moment at least. “Because she might know where your money is.”
Max pursed his lips thoughtfully. “I wouldn’t mind finding the money. It is mine after all.”
“Right. So all we have to do is find out where it is, and then—”
“Then I can have my fun with that murdering whore.”
“Well, that’s one way to put it.” Rico sipped the rich wine, wondering why in the world he’d ever allowed himself to get involved with the brothers Madison. They were poison. He should have known better.
He sighed, already knowing the answer. Vanity. It was his major shortcoming and no doubt would be his ultimate downfall, but he’d be damned if he’d let a man like Max Madison be the one to bring him down. “There’s more you should know.” He watched the younger man’s eyes narrow. “Braedon Roche is here.”
“In Lindoon?” Max slammed a fist on the table and Rico winced.
“Yes. And it gets worse.”
Max leaned forward menacingly. “How much worse?”
Rico shrugged. “He’s romancing your dear brother’s widow.”
“Son of a bitch.” Max jumped to his feet and strode to the window, fists clenched. “That means he knows about the forgeries.”
“Oh, he knows. I told you, they’ve been popping out of the woodwork everywhere. I’m surprised you haven’t heard.”
“You forget, I’ve been out of circulation.” A muscle in Max’s jaw was twitching, one fist clenching and unclenching.
Rico smirked. “Could it be the infallible Anson is slipping? I thought he could ferret out anything.”
“Leave Anson out of this. Just tell me what’s been happening.”
“Fine. It’s simple, really. A month or so ago, there was an appraisal. For insurance purposes. And surprise, surprise, the painting was a forgery.”
“Why now?”
“You mean as opposed to two years ago?” He shrugged. “It was a fluke. But once the first was discovered, every painting sold at a Solais gallery was suspect. I seem to remember telling you we were taking a chance, reproducing so many.”
Max waved a hand in the air. “Quantity is not the issue anymore. What matters is that Roche has linked it to Alex. Or at least he suspects something. Otherwise he wouldn’t have gone to the trouble to track down my brother’s widow.”
“True.” Rico stroked the thin line of his moustache, watching the wheels turn in Max’s head. “Why don’t you let me see what I can find out? I’ve already got an in with Ms. Macgrath. All I have to do is gain her trust.”
Max frowned.
“If it doesn’t work, then we can try it your way.”
“And what if Roche figures things out?”
“He can’t. The trail stops with Kacy. If she’s innocent, she’ll have nothing to tell him. And if she did kill your brother, it’s doubtful she knows we’re involved or she’d have already done something about it—about us. So either way, we win.”
“And she loses.” Max looked eager. Too eager.
“And—” Rico pointed a finger at him. “—if you wait, maybe you can retire a rich man.”
“I am a rich man.”
“All right then, a richer man. One can never be too rich, my friend.”
“Fine.” There was a grudging note of agreement and Rico accepted that it was the most he’d get.
“Good. I’m glad we’re in accord, because I think the best thing you could do now is go home. It surely won’t help matters if they see you, especially Kacy.”
Max straightened, his lips thinning with decision. “No. I’m not going anywhere. I’ll stay in the next village, and I’ll try to keep out of sight. But there’s no way I’m taking a chance on her slipping away from me. I’ll wait a little while longer, but you listen to me, Rico, sooner or later the bitch will die. And if I have my way, I’ll be standing over her when it happens.”
Rico’s wine suddenly tasted bitter. He wanted to save Kacy, but he wasn’t sure he had the power to do so. There really wasn’t room for attachments in his line of work anyway. He sighed, feeling it all the way down to his toes. At the end of the day, the only thing that really mattered was that he was clear and free of this whole nightmare.
He held up his glass. “To success.”
Whatever that might be.
“So, was your visit successful?” Anson started the car.
The strips of asphalt that passed for roads in Ireland were too narrow for a limousine, but Max had no intention of doing without a driver. He touched the leather of the little Mercedes’s seat with a loving hand. No sense in doing without the finer things either, even in this backwoods hellhole.
“More or less.” He met his chauffeur’s gaze in the rearview mirror. “The old fool believes the girl is innocent.”
“And you?”
“I haven’t changed my mind, but I’m afraid the stakes have changed.”
Anson frowned. “How?”
“Roche is here.”
“Braedon Roche is in Lindoon?”
“That’s what I said.” Max fingered the door handle with irritation. “He’s made the link to Kirstin, Anson.”
“You’re sure.”
“I’m sure. The paintings have been discovered and he suspects Alex.”
“Has he connected it to you?”
“I don’t think so, but he will. I know his type. Like a dog with a bone. He’ll chew on it until he finds all the answers.”
“So what are you going to do?”
“I don’t know yet, but maybe there’s a way to lay the whole thing at the old man’s feet.”
“And the girl?”
Max smiled, images of her begging for mercy filling his mind. “Well, I predict the little professor will help us with that, too.”
“I don’t get it.”
“You don’t have to. Just know that when the dust settles, we’ll be in the clear and Kacy Macgrath and her friends will be dead.” He leaned back and closed his eyes. Revenge was tiring. “And, Anson, do hurry. I find that I’m famished.”
The night was moonless and overcast. Dark enough that the lights at Mrs. Macnamara’s bed and breakfast looked like a beacon, promising warmth and protection from the evils of the night. She had to get a car. This was getting ridiculous.
The road was slick and she had to fight the bicycle to maintain traction. She stared at the yellow glow from the windows and suddenly wished she was visiting Irene instead of heading for Fin’s—and Braedon.
Which said a lot. Irene Macnamara was a talker. And since she couldn’t hear the answers, it made for long and often confusing conversations.
