Novels 03 After Twilight, page 9
“Kacy, are you all right?” His deep voice washed over her, warm like brandy, a mellow fire.
“Is there something wrong with the signora?” Professor Baucomo stood in the doorway, looking dapper in a pinstripe suit.
Kacy sighed. Evidently Braedon had issued invitations. She looked down at her frumpy robe. It was heading for the parish rummage sale as soon as she got it off. And for the foreseeable future, she was dressing for breakfast.
Braedon was already back at the Aga, filling yet another plate, this one for the professor. Evidently, when he cooked, he cooked for the masses. She bit back a smile. Maybe she should hang out a sign. Breakfast by Braedon.
“Tell me what has happened.” The little Italian sat in an empty chair, his hand indicating the gash on her head.
“Somebody ran Kacy off the road last night,” Fin said between mouthfuls.
“Santa Maria. Do you know who it was?”
“No.” Braedon handed the professor a plate, his voice grim. “Whoever the bastard was, he didn’t bother to stop.”
“Maybe he didn’t see me.” Kacy was getting the distinct feeling she was invisible to more than just the driver of the black sedan. Which was good and bad. It solved the robe problem, but made it difficult to participate in a conversation that was primarily about her.
“Didn’t see her?” the professor mimicked. “How could someone run a woman off the road and not see her?” His face was red and his eyes shot fire.
Fin frowned. “I don’t know, but I do know what I’d like to do to him.”
The professor focused on Fin. “And you are?”
“Finnegan O’Brien, at your service.” Fin inclined his head in something approaching a bow.
“Ah, Finnegan’s Folly.” The little man smiled, and Fin broke into a grin.
“I see that my reputation precedes me.”
“Let’s just say that I’ve heard only the best.” The professor turned his attention back to Kacy. “But you are all right?”
“A little banged up, but basically no worse for wear.”
“’Twas a rough night. Someone drugged Mac, too.” Fin leaned forward, his heavy red brows drawn into a frown.
“The two things are related?” The little man sipped his tea, his expression concerned.
“I hope not,” Kacy said, hating the tremble in her voice.
“There doesn’t seem to be a connection, but the thought has crossed my mind.” Braedon reached down and scratched Mac between the ears. “There wasn’t any sign that someone had been in the house.”
“Ah, but that, in and of itself, doesn’t mean anything.” The professor stroked his moustache thoughtfully.
“Fin said that there had been some pranks in the area. Something to do with sheep, right?” She looked at her friend hopefully. The discussion was turning serious and it scared her. She’d had the same thoughts herself, but hadn’t wanted to face the fact that there might be a connection.
“Right. Old man Riley lost about fourteen ewes. Someone …” He paused. “Well, let’s just say parts were removed that were not meant to be taken from a live animal.”
Kacy shivered. “I’m sure whoever did this won’t be back again.” She looked to Braedon for support, surprised to see him frowning.
“Well, the main thing is that you’re all right.” The professor patted her hand. “I hear there’s a fiddle festival at the pub in the summer.” He turned to Fin, obviously trying to change the subject.
“Aye, that there is. In fact, most any night there’s someone picking out a tune. County Clare is known for its music and Lindoon is no exception.” Fin laid his fork on his plate with a satisfied smile. “Speaking of the pub, I’d best be getting back. Caitlin can handle the opening, but once Tolly Macnamara arrives, it’s best that I be there.” He pushed back his chair. “I’ll just be getting the painting, then, and be on my way.”
Kacy gestured to the studio door. “It’s in there, leaning against the far wall.”
“You’re sure you won’t be missing it?”
“No. I’m glad for you to have it.” She’d be relieved, actually. She’d never really liked the Martin. Alex had been obsessed with the original. That’s why she’d painted the copy. She’d wanted to please him. Not that it had done any good. There had been no pleasing her husband.
Fin disappeared into the studio. Kacy looked at the two remaining men sitting at the table. The professor was lost in thought, absently eating his breakfast. Braedon was watching her, his face expressionless.
“Kacy, I still think you should call the Garda.”
“We’ve been down this road before, Braedon. There’s nothing to report. All’s well that ends well and all that.” The last thing she needed was to bring the officials down here. One thing would invariably lead to another, and Millicent would no doubt be over on the next plane, threatening her very existence.
She shivered, hearing her father’s voice, a recording she couldn’t short-circuit: “Keep to the shadows, Kirstin, or you’ll lose me forever. Millicent will see to it.”
He was gone now, but the recording kept right on, echoing through her mind, brainwashing her, his voice changing to his wife’s rasping tones. She choked on a sip of tea, managing to pour some down her face, pulling her back to the present.
Oh, she was a picture of grace today.
“It’s your decision.” Braedon watched as she dried her chin, his gaze colliding with hers.
“It is.” She smiled to take the edge off her words.
The professor coughed discreetly. “I don’t think we’ve been formally introduced.”
Kacy pulled herself together. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking. You saw each other yesterday, but I guess I forgot to introduce you. Professor Baucomo, this is Braedon Roche.”
“Professor.” Braedon held out a hand.
“Signore Roche, it is a pleasure.” The two men eyed each other and Kacy had the fleeting feeling that she was missing something.
“I’ll just be on my way, then.” Fin came back into the kitchen, the paper-wrapped painting under one arm. “Ta.” He waved and ambled out the back door.
The intrusion broke the moment. Kacy smiled at the professor. “Braedon is interested in Irish history.”
“It’s a hobby.” Braedon poured some milk into his tea.
The professor smiled and nodded. “A man must have many interests, no?”
Braedon inclined his head in agreement.
“The professor is the art historian I told you about. He’s brought some miniatures for me to look at.”
“Kacy’s expertise has preceded her. A colleague of mine remembered working with her a few years ago and suggested that she might be able to help me.” The professor smiled fondly at Kacy, and then turned his gaze back to Braedon.
“Where do you teach, Professor?” Braedon’s question was casual, but Kacy thought she detected a hint of something more.
“In Milan.”
“Did you study there, as well?”
“No. In fact what little I know is mostly self taught. My title is honorary, I’m afraid. The misguided enthusiasm of my students.” He lifted his shoulders in a Teutonic shrug.
“Well, hopefully Kacy will be able to help you.”
The professor nodded, smiling at her again. “I am certain of it. With her talent we will be quite the team, no?”
Kacy nodded, already catching the little man’s enthusiasm.
“Well, then I guess I’ll leave you in her capable hands.” Braedon turned to Kacy, his blue eyes meeting hers, the expression hinting of intimacy. “And now, if you’re sure you’re all right, I really ought to be going, too. You and Baucomo have work to do.”
Kacy nodded, unable to speak. His eyes were telling her far more than his words and she felt light-headed, almost dizzy.
“Professor.” He nodded at the little man and crossed to Kacy’s side, bending to brush a kiss against her lips. “Take care of yourself,” he whispered, and she shivered with something she couldn’t quite identify. Something warm and wonderful.
He squeezed her hand and strode into the hall. In a few minutes, the door slammed shut. Mac whined and Kacy understood. Suddenly the house seemed quite empty.
“He’s quite a man, your Braedon Roche.”
“He’s not mine,” she answered automatically, but she wished he was.
Oh, God, she wished he was.
Chapter 9
“THIS IS MAGNIFICO.”
Kacy looked up from the little miniature she was examining. Professor Baucomo was studying one of her canvases. A watercolor of Dunbeg. “It’s just a landscape of the fort on my land.”
“But you’ve captured the light beautifully. I can almost feel the dampness, smell the threat of rain.”
She dimpled, flattered by his compliment. She’d never thought much of her own work. Technically inept, her father had said. “Do you really like it?” She pushed aside the magnifying lamp and stood up, stretching. Her muscles were sore, protesting at the movement.
“But of course. I would not say it if I didn’t.” He actually looked a little hurt.
“It’s not that I don’t trust your judgment, Professor. It’s just that I’ve always thought I was better working on other people’s work.”
He nodded, his eyes radiating sympathy. “I know just what you mean. I never felt that my work was of true artistic caliber. That’s why I am an art historian.” He shrugged. “But this,” he said, gesturing to her painting, “this has imagination. There is a spark here.” He moved the canvas, exposing another watercolor—this one of Finnegan’s Folly. “It is here in this one, too. In the way you capture the light and shadows. It draws the viewer into the work. Stimulates his other senses. It is very good, Kacy. Very good.”
“You’re very kind.”
A shadow passed over his face. “No, not kind. Honest. I was impressed when I saw your Monet, but I am even more impressed with these.” Again he gestured to the canvases. “I have friends in the art world. If you let me, I would like to arrange a showing.”
“Gosh, I don’t know what to say. I’ve always painted for myself. I never even thought of showing them publicly.”
He thumbed through several other paintings, stopping when he came to an oil. He lifted it up, leaning it against an easel. “When did you paint this?” His voice was low, almost a reverent whisper.
Kacy moved to look at the painting, her stomach knotting when she recognized which one he had chosen. Angry green seas bashed at a line of cool gray sand. The skies were black, illuminated by a single flash of lightning. “I … I painted it two years ago.”
“It is a tragic painting.”
“Yes, it is.” Memory flashed through her head, resurrecting deeply buried emotion. She’d forgotten the painting was in here.
The professor watched her silently for a moment, and then quietly placed the painting back against the wall. “Sometimes we paint from our pain, no? It is often our best work.”
Kacy nodded, grateful that he was letting the subject drop.
“So, can you repair the damage done to Madame de Fornio?”
Kacy slid back into her chair and switched on the magnifier, positioning it so that the professor could see. “I think so. We’ll start with her hat.”
Braedon paced the common room of the pub, waiting for the switchboard operator to put his call through. It was one o’clock here, seven o’clock in New York. Early, but Matt should be in. It had taken all his self control not to call the man at home in the wee hours of the morning.
“I’m connecting you now, sir.” The receptionist sounded solicitous. He smiled. He had to admit there were certain perks to being the boss.
“This is Matt.” His friend’s voice was crisp. Cautious. Matt was always cautious. Not too many people knew exactly what it was Matthew did for Roche Industries.
“Matt, how the hell are you?”
“Braedon? I should be asking you the same question. Or more accurately, where the hell are you?”
“Taking a holiday—in Ireland.”
“Vacationing. Right, and I’ve got a hot date with Sandra Bullock tonight.” His friend laughed into the receiver.
“All right then, call it business and pleasure.”
“More business, I suspect. Something to do with the Madison woman?”
“Something like that.” It had everything to do with her, but in ways he’d never imagined. And now wasn’t the time to explore his conflicting feelings about Kacy Macgrath.
“Hey, whatever you say,” Matt sighed. “You sign the paychecks.”
“And don’t you forget it, my friend.” It was a long-standing joke between them. Matt was a trust fund baby. He’d left home to escape his family and had never looked back. What Matt did, he did for the pure pleasure of it. First for the CIA, and now for Braedon.
“I take it you’re not calling to shoot the breeze.”
“No. I need you to dig up information on a Professor Eduardo Baucomo. I think he’s from Milan. Something to do with art or maybe art restoration.”
“That all you know?”
“Yeah. There’s really nothing out of the ordinary. Just a feeling I have. And I’m pretty sure the guy recognized me.”
“You think there’s something to it?”
“Maybe not. But I keep a pretty low profile, and my only real connection to the art world is through Solais.”
“And you’re thinking he might have a connection to the forgeries?”
“It’s a possibility. A long shot probably, but I don’t want to take any chances. There’s too much at stake. And according to Kacy, he just approached her out of the blue.”
“Kacy, is it?” Matt let out a whistle. “I see the old Roche charm hasn’t lost its power.”
“Just see what you can find on Baucomo,” he said, ignoring Matt’s curiosity.
“All right. I’m on it.”
“Thanks, Matt.”
“No problem. I live for stuff like this.”
Braedon could hear the smile in his voice. “Well, for once, I think I’m actually hoping it comes to nothing.”
“I’ll call you as soon as I have something. I’ll use your cell phone.”
“Can’t. The damn thing is on the fritz again. I have no idea what’s wrong with it.”
Matt laughed. “Face it, Braedon, when it comes to mechanical devices, you’re inept.”
“I prefer technically challenged. Anyway, until I can get to Ennis and get it fixed, you’ll have to call here.”
“Fine. And, Braedon, don’t worry.”
He gave Matt the pub’s number and hung up the phone. He wasn’t certain there was anything to worry about, but he had a hunch there was more to the little professor than appearances presented.
Lost in thought, Rico walked along the road leading from Kacy’s cottage to the village. Kacy was far more than a good forger. She was an artist in the truest sense. And he’d discovered her.
His thoughts of convincing her to join him in his more legally challenged pursuits faded as he considered the endless possibilities of promoting her work. No sense in involving her in his forgery business if he could introduce her to the world on the up and up. Maybe he’d even get out of forgery altogether. He’d be her mentor. Her Svengali. The idea excited him. He felt more alive than he had in years.
But the first thing he had to do was protect her from Braedon Roche.
Roche was obviously being less than honest with Kacy. And Rico had no doubt that his motives were less than honorable. The man was definitely romancing her. And from what little Rico had observed, it was working.
And that’s what worried him.
Kacy was a woman of deep emotion, and Braedon Roche was certainly not the right man for her—even if he were truly interested. And Rico was fairly certain it was all an act. An act designed to lead Roche to answers.
He frowned, trying to think of an easy way to handle the problem, and then smiled. All he had to do was be certain Kacy discovered the connection Roche had with Alex and Solais. The rest would take care of itself. He didn’t know his protégé well, but he knew enough to know that she would not tolerate a liar.
And, at the very least, Braedon Roche was a liar.
There was still another problem, though.
Max Madison.
Even if he took care of Roche, he’d still need to convince Max to leave Kacy alone—permanently. There was no question in his mind now that Max was wrong. She’d had nothing to do with Alex’s death.
He’d known it from the moment he’d met her, but if he’d had any doubts at all, the painting would have erased them. No one could paint with that kind of agony, that kind of passion, if it weren’t real. There was pain in that seascape.
Real pain.
She’d seen her husband die, and based on the painting, the memory still haunted her.
A black Mercedes pulled up beside him, the back window rolling down as it slowed. “Good afternoon, Professor. Won’t you join me?”
Rico shuddered. Max Madison was not a man to be trifled with. He fought the instinctive reaction to run. He had nothing to hide. And Max had no reason to threaten him.
Except that he knew everything. And he wanted to protect the woman Max believed was responsible for his twin’s death.
Rico sighed and slid into the automobile.
“So you’ve spent the day with my brother’s charming widow?” Max spit out the last word as if it tasted of arsenic.
“If you mean Kacy, yes. I’ve been working with her. My cover, remember?”
“Ah, yes, your cover. Quite the subversive, aren’t you, Rico?”
“I get by. To what do I owe the pleasure of this meeting? It wouldn’t have to do with a certain hit and run, would it?”
“How did you know about that?” Max glared at him, eyes narrowed.
Rico lifted an eyebrow. “So it was you. I take it you had no idea the woman was Kacy.”
Max smiled, an oily sort of grimace that made Rico cringe inside. “How delightful. If only we’d known. She came out of nowhere. Anson couldn’t avoid her. Could you, Anson?”
“No, sir.” Rico could see the man’s smiling reflection in the rearview mirror.
