Читать книгу Immovable Objects - Marie Ferrarella, Marie Ferrarella - Страница 10

Elizabeth didn’t have to glance in the mirror. She knew. Knew that she was a certified, pull-out-all-the-stops knockout.

But a languid review of the evidence certainly didn’t hurt.

A smile curved her generous mouth as she looked at her reflection in the freestanding oval mirror that allowed her to get an overall view of herself. Satisfaction wrapped itself around her like a warm, velvety blanket as she surveyed her image.

She was loaded for bear and ready to go.

Rather than some prim hairstyle, she wore her hair loose. Coming down just past her shoulders, the midnight-black torrent of swirls and waves seductively brushed against her bare back. Her eye makeup, done to perfection, brought out her hazel-green eyes and accentuated the Gypsy blood that ran through her veins, thanks to her Romanian mother.

But it was the dress that pulled everything together. A flaming-red bit of fabric that nipped in at her small waist, highlighted her subtly rounded hips and, because the hem flirted outrageously with her thighs, allowed anyone with eyes to take in the fact that she had long, shapely legs that seemed to go on forever.

If this didn’t bring the great and near-great moneyed men milling around at the gallery opening to their collective knees, then nothing would, she thought with a toss of her head.

Upon scrutiny, Elizabeth couldn’t have been accused of having a vain bone in her body, but what she did possess was confidence: confidence in her skills, in her abilities to use them. She knew exactly what to do to stir up a reaction, be it from a crowd or an audience of one.

It didn’t take any of her special gifts to bring her to this conclusion; it was instinct, pure and simple. Survival instinct, because once upon a time those same skills had been what had helped her, Anthony and Dani survive on the street after they had run away from their last foster home.

Even after all this time, the memory still sent a shiver sliding down her spine. Living in that house had been surreal. On the outside, they all appeared to be the perfect family, being trotted out to church every Sunday, looking like a Norman Rockwell painting come to life. But once behind closed doors, it had been different, completely different.

Amanda Toliver had been little more than a mousy servant to her husband, Wayne. And Wayne, with his large, beaming smile and his even larger hands, had felt that he was entitled to do whatever he wanted within his own residence.

That had included enforcing his will on the three of them.

Taking a hairbrush from the bureau, Elizabeth ran it through her hair one final time. Toliver had been roughest on Anthony, demanding all sorts of things from him, never satisfied with anything Anthony did. She remembered being surprised that Anthony had taken being ordered around for as long as he had, but she’d been aware of her brother making an effort, a really big effort this time, to blend in. They’d wanted so much to fit in, to have a normal life after what they’d gone through, after all the homes they’d been sent to.

But then it got uglier.

Always smiling at her and her sister, Wayne was constantly reaching out and touching them, petting them, hugging them. They were thirteen and just beginning to mature, but they both felt uncomfortable with what he was doing, even though they tried to reassure each other that it was just harmless.

And then they were forced to face the truth. One night Wayne slipped into their room, the one that she and Dani shared. Sensing someone’s presence, she woke up and screamed. Wayne was in her bed.

Anthony came flying in from the next room, his beloved baseball bat in his hand. He swung it against Wayne, knocking him out. She was sure that Anthony had killed the man. Amanda never came into the room. It was as if she didn’t want to know what was happening.

Grabbing their clothes, the three of them fled into the night. To hide from the system. To hide from a society that looked the other way when they were being herded around like so much chattel.

For the next few days, they stole newspapers from people’s front steps to find out if there was any mention of Wayne. If Anthony had killed him, there would have been a story, an article, a line. But there wasn’t. Wayne Toliver obviously hadn’t been killed and the law wasn’t looking for Anthony for murder.

It was a relief.

It was also a position they were determined never to put themselves in again. So they stayed hidden, living by their wits and talents. Outcasts again.

On the outside, looking in, that was how they always felt. Even after Jeremy came into their lives and took them in.

The feeling had only intensified because Jeremy found ways for them to make use of their unique talents, talents that set them apart from the rest of the world. A client coming to Jeremy for “help” could be assured that if he’d had something stolen, it would be returned, no matter where it was or how well guarded.

That laws had to be bent in order to retrieve stolen items was something no one concerned themselves about. “Don’t ask, don’t tell” was an active motto in all of their lives. Jeremy told them more than once that he didn’t care how they did something, as long as they covered their trail and that it didn’t lead back to them. Or him.

Elizabeth had used some of her personal talents to ensure that she’d gain entrance to the gallery tonight.

The invitation sitting inside her purse on the coffee table had not arrived via mail but via her rather uncanny ability to copy whatever she saw, whether it was a work of art or an invitation to an exclusive gala.

Right now, the latter promised to be more fun.

Elizabeth set the brush down and did a slow turn before the mirror, watching her hair move. She was really looking forward to tonight. Not just because she’d be crashing a gala where the rich were rubbing elbows with one another, but because she truly loved art. In whatever spare time she had away from her duties for Jeremy, she liked to haunt art galleries and museums.

Anthony had no patience with that sort of thing, and even Dani, when she’d been around, had no interest in spending her time staring at sweeping lines and trying to discern different brush strokes, so it had been the one thing she could do on her own.

Elizabeth had gone into her hobby the way she went into everything—wholeheartedly. She’d immersed herself in every single aspect and detail of art.

Her skills ran to forgery. She was able to copy adeptly any style, any artist.

She’d used both skills in printing up her invitation. The rest had required a little research. She’d gotten a lead on the company that had printed the original invitations. Paying a visit to the store, she’d affected a Southern accent and gushed, professing utter admiration for the look of the invitation when it had arrived at her home. The printer had been in the palm of her hand within two minutes, answering her questions unconditionally. After all, what was the harm in telling someone about the kind of paper that was used to print the invitation?

Armed with that and the newspaper photograph of the invitation, the rest was easy.

She smiled to herself as she slipped her wrap around her shoulders and gave herself one last look before picking up her purse. Ready.

Cole had no idea who she was. Only that he quite possibly—despite his wide circle of friends, acquaintances and business associates—had never seen a woman quite this beautiful in his life. In the crowded gallery, he’d noticed her the moment she’d walked into the room.

Taken possession of the room was a more apt description.

He could feel his gut tightening just looking at her, and that kind of thing just didn’t happen to him. It had never happened to him, in fact, not even his first time with a woman. And these days, well, women had proven a far too accessible commodity for him to feel anything but the mildest form of fleeting excitement.

He was blessed with good looks on top of his vast fortune, and all he had to do was crook his finger and women fell at his feet, ready and willing. There was no challenge for him. The outcome was always a foregone conclusion. The only eagerness in any physical encounter was displayed on the part of the women he encountered, women who wanted nothing more than to be part of the social whirl he always moved in.

But this one, he could see even at this distance, had a fire in her eyes. The way she moved through the throng, displaying the most self-assured manner he’d ever seen, created a wrinkle in his concentration. Outside of himself, he couldn’t recall ever seeing anyone look quite so confident.

And why shouldn’t she be confident? When you were drop-dead gorgeous, a certain kind of smugness had to enter into it.

Who the hell was she? And who had invited her? He knew she couldn’t be on the list his secretary had him initial. He knew everyone on that list by sight, if not immediately by name.

A possessive squeeze rendered on his forearm brought Cole back to his immediate circumstances. There was a blonde hanging off his arm and apparently on his every word.

Except that he’d stopped talking.

“If you’ll excuse me,” he began as he ably disengaged himself from the nubile blonde in the almost-dress that kept threatening to slip off her supple body. The woman—Ellen was it?—had hung herself on his arm some fifteen minutes ago, dangling there like an expensive bracelet.

One look at the pout on her face told him that Ellen was not about to go quietly into that good night.

“But I was hoping you could show me your private collection later,” she breathed suggestively. Her surgically perfect breasts all but put in a personal appearance, thanks to the filmy white material that was doing an inadequate job of covering them.

Very deliberately, Cole moved out of range. “Perhaps some other time,” he said over his shoulder. He’d forgotten about her before the words ever reached the woman’s ears.

His mind was elsewhere.

The woman with the killer body and the Gypsy face had just moved toward the centerpiece of the gala, the bronze statue of Venus Smiling.

From her expression, the lady in red seemed oblivious to the sensation she was creating in her wake.

Bathed in cool blue lights that shone on it from three directions, Venus Smiling was hauntingly exquisite. Almost as exquisite as the woman looking at it, Cole couldn’t help thinking.

Approaching her, Cole paused for a moment to spare a glance at the so-called work of art. The work of art that almost wasn’t.

You are truly a master, Lorenzo. I have to give you that.

He made a mental note to send the man a gift of appreciation over and above the sum they had agreed on once this whole affair was over. Once he managed to lay his hands on the original and return it, he might even keep Lorenzo’s work of art as a souvenir.

As to finding out who had the original, the clock was definitely ticking. Come morning, he was going to have to turn his considerable energies to finding out just what had happened to it. For the last week, his attention had been focused on manipulating the press so that their attention was on the gala, not the piece, until it was ready.

It had been touch and go for a while. At one point, it looked as if he was going to have to postpone the opening, but then Lorenzo had come through, the way he always did. The copy was ready a full eighteen hours before the big opening.

Just enough time for the work to “cool.”

Cole had had his doubts, up until the unveiling, that they could pull it off. But when Lorenzo had placed the statue before him, undraping it with a flourish, he’d been speechless. He was by no means an expert, but he certainly couldn’t tell the difference between the statue he had been shown in MacFarland’s mansion and the one that was now taking its place. Provided with a multitude of photographs, Lorenzo had managed to nail the statue right down to the minute details.

The hunt for the missing statue was for tomorrow. Tonight Cole wanted to enjoy the fruits of his efforts. And possibly to enjoy this young woman who was looking at the sculpture with such rapt attention.

As he came up behind her, he caught a whiff of something seductive that went straight to his gut. That was twice now, he thought.

“It is beautiful, isn’t it?”

Elizabeth didn’t turn immediately to look at the man standing behind her. Her attention was completely focused on the statue, to the exclusion of everything and everyone else. Situated the way it was, on a tall pedestal within a ring of blue lights and roped off from general access, it was too far away for her to study in detail.

Even so, there was something that bothered her about the statue, something not quite right that she couldn’t put her finger on.

Granted she’d only seen the statue once, and that had been on an old VHS tape that dealt with unique pieces of art that had found their way into private collections. But still, there was something nagging her about the statue. She needed a closer look, but she knew hopping over the golden ropes that surrounded the piece would be frowned upon.

“Yes, it is beautiful,” she murmured, finally looking away and at the person who addressed her.

Space within the gallery was at a premium. Rubbing elbows was not only a euphemistic description, but an accurate one as well. It was hard to move within the vast room without brushing up against someone. Right now she found herself brushing up against a sophisticated, handsome man with sea-blue eyes, light-blond hair worn like a lion’s mane and a killer smile.

The latter seemed to burrow itself right into her very bones, bones that were currently experiencing, for lack of a better description, a startling jolt of electricity.

He was tall, very tall. At six-one or six-two he dwarfed her, despite her four-inch heels. He also filled out his deep-gray suit to perfection with shoulders that in an emergency she was certain could probably easily accommodate an aircraft landing.

He was definitely a man who deserved to be regarded as one of the beautiful people, she mused, studying him as she took a slow, languid sip from the champagne flute she was holding.

Cocking her head, she glanced back at the sculpture. “It looks as if it was done yesterday.”

Very few things threatened to make Cole’s heart stop. This, however, was one of them. Just who was she? Had she been sent by the person responsible for the statue’s disappearance? Was she here to expose him?

Cole kept his cool as he quietly asked, “I beg your pardon?”

Waves of unease reached Elizabeth. She’d startled him for some reason. Why? Her observation was harmless.

Wasn’t it?

“The timelessness,” she clarified, watching him more closely now. “The sculpture looks as if it could have been created in this century instead of 1862.”

“You’re familiar with the work, then?”

“With the artist,” she amended. “I know that Auguste Rodin was heartbroken when his sister died and this was his way of honoring her. It’s the first known piece he ever did.”

She got nothing more. The waves she’d thought she detected had faded. Her imagination? Maybe her new-found freedom was playing havoc with her perception.

“A pity,” she went on, “that it’s been hidden all this time.”

So, she was an art enthusiast. Cole felt a little relieved. Right now, he was more interested in her than in the sculpture. “Speaking of being hidden, why haven’t I seen you before at one of these openings?”

Her smile was slow, he thought, like early-morning heat in New Orleans, spreading languidly, poking invasive fingers into the shadows. “Maybe you weren’t looking.”

Her voice was like Southern Comfort being poured into a tall glass, thick, smooth. It suited her.

The undercurrent of excitement didn’t leave.

“Trust me, you’re not the type to be overlooked.” He extended his free hand to her. “Cole Williams.”

She raised her eyes to his, innocence and sin mingled in equal proportions. It went with the smile. “Yes, I know who you are. Ariel Lockwood.” She told him the name that was on the invitation. The woman had connections to the world of the rich and famous, but was currently in Europe, according to something she remembered reading. That meant she couldn’t put in a sudden appearance. “And is that your best line?”

He laughed softly, keeping his other thoughts from registering on his face.

“Does sound like a line, doesn’t it?” He subdued the urge to slip his arm around her waist and guide her to a more private corner. There was no more private corner. He didn’t need a head count to know that everyone who had gotten an invitation had shown up. “But it’s not a line,” he assured her. “It’s merely an observation. Where are you from?”

Because the din had increased, she leaned into him before answering, “Here and there.”

Magnetism, that’s what she had, he thought. The fact that he felt it intrigued him. “I’m acquainted with the life. Jet-setting on Daddy’s money, or your own?”

She raised her chin and he saw the pride in her eyes. That, too, was something he was acquainted with. “My own. Definitely my own.”

Cole paused to take a sip of his champagne. As he did so, he looked around, anticipating being the target of unveiled daggers. But there was only envy in the eyes of the men who were close enough to inhale the pricey fragrance the woman in red was wearing.

In control of every situation he’d ever been in, Cole felt the stirrings of possessiveness taking hold. It surprised him.

“Are you here with anyone?” Even as he asked, he couldn’t imagine an exquisite creature like this woman being alone.

Elizabeth smiled up into his face. “Right now I’m with you.”

Her smile was working its way under his skin. Heating his blood. He began to wonder what it would be like to make love with her. He could see those long nails of hers raking his flesh. Nails as red as the dress she was wearing. “I mean, did you come with anyone?”

Knowing the value of mystery, she said, “Not this time.”

The disappointment that reared its head was a complete surprise. “But there is someone.”

She thought of Anthony, who had always been such a part of her life. There’d never been a time when she’d been without him. He would have insisted on coming with her to the gala, even though art held no allure for him. Protecting her from the world, however, did.

“There is someone,” she told him, the words leaving her lips casually. “But we’ve come to a parting of the ways.”

He pitied the man who had lost her. “Must be my lucky day.”

Her eyes touched his. He could all but feel them making contact. She was bewitching him.

“There you go,” she said softly, the words rippling on his skin, “resorting to lines again.”

He definitely wanted to make love with this woman. Cole lowered his face so that his lips were just by her ear.

“The funny thing about lines is that they’re entrenched in the truth. Repeated too often, they become clichéd. But that doesn’t make them any less true.”

Straightening, Cole saw Harold Reiner waving a raised hand in his direction. The CEO of one of his holding companies was beckoning him over to a semicircle of some rather heavy-duty investors in the media empire he’d fashioned. A small frown crossed his lips. He was no one’s lackey, but he’d gotten where he was by keeping his ear to the ground and paying strict attention to the noises he heard, ably differentiating between the ones that required attention and the ones that were strictly noise.

Time to discover which was which.

A sigh escaped his lips. Any further exchange between him and this lovely creature was going to have to be put on hold temporarily. “If you’ll excuse me for a moment, duty calls.”

Elizabeth followed her companion’s line of vision. Starved for input, she absorbed two newspapers daily and recognized the collection of men from a photograph she’d seen on the business page just yesterday.

“Heady company,” she observed. Reiner gestured again. She looked back up at the man beside her. “You’d better jump.”

Cole’s eyes held hers for a moment. Was she putting him on or just fishing? He had no clear handle on her and that bothered him. “I never jump.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

Inexplicably, anticipation traveled through him like a bullet. Not the time, he cautioned himself.

Inclining his head, he murmured, “To be continued,” as he touched her shoulder.

The connection sent another jolt through her.

Except for the day she’d been shopping and had heard a scream echo in her head, a scream that had come from Dani’s little boy, Alex, and had been uttered countless miles away, to her knowledge she’d only connected with the other triplets. To date, she’d never detected any ability to read the minds of strangers.

She hadn’t really read Cole’s, but she’d felt something, something she couldn’t quite put into words. It was a mingling of feelings, for lack of a better description. She had no idea what was on his mind, but she’d strongly sensed his reaction to her.

Anthony’s kept you out of the game much too long, she told herself. This is nothing more than a male-female connection.

Overprotective, Anthony would jump into the fray, acting as a human shield any time any man caught her attention for more than a fleeting second or vice versa. He was part pit bull, part chaperone, bound and determined to keep every male over the age of twelve away from her.

But Anthony wasn’t here tonight and she was, Elizabeth thought with no small feeling of triumph.

Watching, she saw that Cole had found his way to the circle of men who had commandeered his attention.

For now, she turned back to the statue in order to try to figure out just what it was about the sculpture that bothered her. It was like a grain of sand embedded in her shoe, chafing her with each step she took.

As he listened to Reiner talk, Cole looked over toward the woman in red. She was frowning slightly as she regarded the sculpture.

His biggest asset, he’d found, was not his business acumen and his outgoing personality that allowed him to gain people’s confidence easily. It was his ability to recognize trouble when he saw it.

And gorgeous though she was, something told him that this woman was trouble.

With a capital T.