She checked her watch.
He opened his mouth.
She interrupted him before he could get a single word out. “Never mind. I know you too well.”
“I’ll give up when I see you’re sure.”
He was pretty good at needling her with the truth, too. “We’ve got nothing in common,” she burst out. “We come from different parts of the country. Our backgrounds couldn’t be more dissimilar. You’re in a cutthroat business with suits and wrecking balls. You read construction magazines, and I read—”
“The Secret Garden.”
“Yes! I’m an artist to the very roots of my soul.”
“And yet we love each other.”
“A shark may love a bumblebee, but where do they build a house?” she asked tartly.
“I would build my house anywhere you want if you would live in it with me.” In a voice that enticed and beckoned, he said, “We could even live in Majorca.”
“Really? I’ve always wanted to go there.” Focus, Meadow. “I don’t know if we can find a middle ground.”
“We don’t have to find a middle ground. If you want to live in a commune, I’ll live there with you. I can’t promise I won’t improve the place. . . .” He searched her face. “This concern is so practical. So un-Meadow-who-dances-in-the-moonlight.”
“I remember my grandmother very well.” She looked at the painting, touched it again. The paint felt dried-up, bloodless. “She made her life. She painted. She raised Sharon. She walked. She took lovers. She was happy. But underneath . . . something was missing. She never loved another man after Bradley. She wanted him, and they couldn’t live together. They were too different.”
“The circumstances are similar, but not the same, because I’m not Bradley Benjamin, and you’re not your grandmother. Look, Meadow, all I can promise is that you’re the best thing that ever happened to me, and I’ll love you forever. But if it makes you feel any better”—he pulled a paperback out of his jacket pocket and placed it on the floor between them—“things in common is a bridge that can be built.”
38
The Secret Garden.
Meadow picked up the book.
It had been read. The spine was bent and a corner of the cover frayed.
“While you were in the hospital, I went to the gift shop—and found this. They’d received one copy that day. Now, I’m not a man who believes in signs”—Devlin had a talent for understatement—“but I couldn’t ignore this one. So I bought it.”
“And?”
“Read it in the waiting room.” Her incredulous stare made him add hastily, “Not all of it. But I finished it before I went to sleep this morning.”
“Weren’t you afraid the other guys would think it was mushy?” She sounded snotty even to herself.
“When have I ever indicated I cared what the other guys thought?”
“All right.” She couldn’t stand to wait. She had to know. “What did you think?”
“Do you remember the miracle at the end, when Archie’s dead wife called him back to the garden?” Devlin leaned toward her, and his eyes glowed. “It sent chills up my spine.”
She told herself she was inured to his charms, but she couldn’t help herself. She had to respond with enthusiasm. “Wasn’t that cool?”
“And proof that love never dies, but sometimes goes astray.”
She should have known every word he said was to make his point.
But apparently he was finished talking, because he reached out and took her in his lap.
She tucked her head down to avoid his kiss.
He nipped at her ear.
With a gasp, she lifted her head to admonish him.
And the kiss he gave her made her forget how to scold, how to speak, how to breathe. Or perhaps he made her forget any reason to do anything except kiss him back.
When he lifted his head, she lay sprawled across his lap, eyes closed, a smile on her face. But she wanted him to know, without a doubt, that she hadn’t been swayed by his kiss. Or at least . . . not only by his kiss. “I’m marrying you because of Mia,” she informed him.
“Who?”
Her eyes popped open. “In Jordan’s kitchen. Mia. The saucier.”
He still appeared bewildered.
Yet she would bet he remembered. He recalled every person in his employ. “If you had never done a single noble thing before in your life, I’d know you were a hopeless case, but you helped that woman.”
“I did?”
“You hired her when she desperately needed a job.”
He stopped pretending he didn’t know what she was talking about and gave her a cool, pragmatic response. “I needed someone local in the kitchen. I gave her the position because she fit the bill.”
“You gave her a position and a decent wage. That’s more than anyone else in this town was willing to do.”
“She’s doing a good job or I’d toss her out the door, divorce or no divorce, family or no family.” The glint in his chocolate brown eyes was frosty, as if she’d accused him of nepotism.
“You gave her a chance, and then you gave her another chance. When most employers would have fired her, you helped her with her son.” Meadow tapped his nose. “She worships you.”
“Good God.” His mouth, his wonderful mouth, turned down in dismay. “I can deal with only one woman who worships me at a time.”
“Who do you have now?” She innocently blinked at him.
He kissed her again.
“Oh, yeah. I remember.” She sat up and pushed her hair out of her eyes.
“So we’ll get married right away.” He was never a man to rest on his laurels. “In Majorca. On the beach where we first took our vows, with the breeze blowing softly over our flushed faces and—”
She interrupted before he could tempt her. “Nice try. We’ll get married in Washington at my folks’ place. Grandmother would like that.” She glanced at Isabelle’s portrait and saw a chunk of paint in the corner of the canvas that had crumbled. Leaning closer, she frowned. “Grandmother must not have known what she was doing. This is the wrong kind of paint. Look.” She touched the chip—and a two-inch patch of pigment crumbled to dust.
She caught her breath in dismay. “Oh, no!” All around the hole the paint peeled back, begging to be removed. The canvas beneath glistened with golden light.
She stared at it, snared by an absurd thought. Excitement caught her by the throat. Was it possible . . . ? Could her grandmother have been so devious? With her middle finger she thumped the bare spot. More paint crumbled.
“What are you doing?” He caught her wrist. “Be careful. This is the art you’ve been searching for!”
“I think you’re right. I think it might just be.” In that corner, the other corner, her grandmother’s forehead, all over, the paint was flaking off. Meadow leaned close, so close her nose was almost touching the canvas. “There’s an oil painting underneath.”
“An oil painting. Why would she paint over oil with water-based paints? That doesn’t make sense.”
“It does if she was trying to hide something very valuable . . . in plain sight.” Gently Meadow removed his fingers from her wrist. As she picked at the chips, she revealed bits and pieces of the domestic scene—a Dutch mother holding a child, a father reading to his sons, a fire in the hearth, and steam rising from a kettle.
“But . . . Isabelle’s self-portrait.” He sounded appalled.
“She painted other self-portraits, and I promise they’re better. She didn’t waste time on this one. This one was not for posterity.” Meadow held out her hand. “Give me your handkerchief.”
Pulling it out of his pocket, he handed it over.
She used it to scrub at the painting until all of the overlay crumbled onto the floor.
Now every part of the scene shone. The oils looked as fresh and glorious as the day they’d been painted by a master hand.
“The Rembrandt,” she whispered in awe.
“Rembrandt? It can’t b
e a—” He stopped. Stared. Imitated her by leaning so close to the painting his nose almost touched.
She grinned as she watched amazement dawn on his face. He looked up at her. “It’s a Rembrandt!”
“The lost Rembrandt. There have been rumors about it for years. My grandmother found it hanging in one of the guest bedrooms here at Waldemar. She tried to tell Bradley, but he laughed at her. She tried to tell Bjorn, but he laughed at her. She was on her way to fame in the art world, but this was the fifties. No one believed a mere woman could find the lost Rembrandt.”
“Surely she could have convinced someone!”
“When she found it, she was in the last stages of pregnancy.”
“Ladies don’t put themselves forward while they’re expecting.” He understood.
She had thought he would, son of the South that he was.
“After my mother was born, Isabelle’s unhappiness intensified. Her mother-in-law held sway in her house. Bradley didn’t want her to paint anymore. They installed a horror of a nurse who barely let her near the baby.” Suddenly nervous, Meadow rubbed her palms on her jeans.
“My mother wouldn’t dream of interfering with our baby. We’ll be lucky if she deigns to speak to it until it’s eighteen.” He put his arm around Meadow. “And I’ll let you hold the baby when I’m not.”
Meadow laughed and relaxed. Leaning her head against him again, she examined the painting once more. It was beautiful. It was a miracle. For the first time since she’d received her mother’s call, she believed her mother would be cured, that Bradley Benjamin’s bone marrow would match, that once again Sharon Szarvas would be healthy and vibrant.
Returning to the story, she said, “Grandmother knew she was going to leave Bradley. She couldn’t stand to take anything of his, but she didn’t want the painting to be thrown away, either. She considered it her daughter’s heritage. When I was old enough she told me all about it. I was thrilled. I wanted to go and get it right away. But when I told my mother, she said no. She wanted nothing to do with her father, and considered that taking a painting out of his house would be stealing.”
“Ah. That’s why you didn’t tell your mother where you were going.”
“That’s why.”
“I wonder how she’s going to greet Bradley Benjamin.”
The answer was easy. “The universe sent me here, now, to get him for her. Why else would all this have happened?”
“That’s coincidence. Actually, the universe sent you here, now, so I could get you.” He kissed the top of her head, and when she looked up at him, he kissed her mouth. “What do you think the painting is worth?”
“At least twenty-five million,” a strange woman’s voice said.
They looked up, startled.
Judith stood beside a tall wardrobe near the entrance.
“Judith!” Meadow half stood. “I’ve been worried about you. I haven’t heard from you since . . .” A recent memory, truly forgotten and now recalled, stirred in her mind, and horror chilled her.
Devlin put his hand on her thigh. “Meadow. Who is that?”
She didn’t look down at him. Didn’t take her gaze off Judith. “That’s the woman who’s an old family friend. That’s the woman who’s supposed to be with my mother.” She locked eyes with Judith. “That’s the woman who pushed me down the stairs.”
39
When Devlin looked at the woman by the door, he saw a threat to be eliminated. He also saw the broad expanse of floor between them, the clutter of antique trunks, warped cabinets, and a myriad of broken appliances, vases—the clutter of bygone days—as well as Judith’s cold, steady, calculating eyes.
He wasn’t at all surprised when she pulled a pistol from the holster under her black jacket.
His gaze flicked around the huge room, seeing the chest, close to him but not much protection.
In a tone that mocked Meadow’s chagrin, Judith said, “And I’m the woman who wants you to bring me the painting.” She leveled the black eye of a pistol at Meadow. “Now.”
Devlin remembered Judith’s face. He’d seen her before. But where?
“Has my mother been alone the whole time I’ve been gone?”
As always, Meadow surprised him. This woman with the cold, flat eyes of a snake held a pistol on them, and Meadow asked questions about her mother.
Judith shrugged irritably.
Devlin diagnosed her reaction with surprise. She felt guilty.
“Your father was with her.” Her husky, New York-accented voice tipped him off.
“You’re a security guard here,” he said. He’d seen her shadowed face on the tiny screen of his walkie-talkie. Now he could assess her. She was short and stout, and she wore the uniform all female security guards wore—a straight dark skirt, a plain white shirt, dark jacket, and sensible heels. She resembled a fifties housewife, if fifties housewives carried a Glock 26 made of superlight plastic polymer with a steel slide and sixteen rounds.
She wanted that painting, and she would kill Meadow and him, walk away, and never glance back.
Her gaze flicked to him. “I had the best references—from Mr. Hopkins.”
“He just went to the hospital with a heart attack.” And Devlin had done Four an injustice.
“So I’ll get the credit and the painting.” Judith smiled like a warped Mona Lisa.
He glanced again at the furniture. At the windows in their dormers. The night table with the cracked marble top. The tall antique wardrobe that staggered under the influence of a broken leg. The wardrobe held potential as a weapon. . . .
“Be quiet, Devlin!” Meadow said fiercely. She turned back to Judith. “My father can throw clay and blow glass, but he can’t balance a checkbook, and you know it!” In an exasperated gesture, she pushed her hair off her forehead. “How could you leave them alone?”
“When you came out with the painting, I needed to be here to take it off your hands.” Judith’s voice was soft, emotionless. Her pupils swallowed the color from her eyes, giving them all the compassion of a snake’s.
“You were going to steal the painting from me? The painting that would save my mother’s life? Why? Why?” Meadow was almost stammering. “You have money. Why?”
“It’s a Rembrandt,” Judith said fiercely. “Do you know how much prestige goes to the person who discovers a lost Rembrandt? By God, I may not be able to throw clay or blow glass like you or your father, or paint like your mother or your grandmother. But I’ll go down in history as the woman who discovered the Rembrandt.” She glanced at the painting, and her eyes gleamed avariciously. “Mr. Fitzwilliam, bring me the Rembrandt”—the gun focused on Meadow—“or I’ll shoot her.”
She’d been watching him, or listening to rumors, or both, for she knew exactly how to force his hand.
And he would give her the Rembrandt. The painting didn’t matter to him—except that it was his, and what was his remained his—but he knew very well that once she had the painting, she could escape only if she killed him, and Meadow, and his child. That he would not allow. “Get behind the wardrobe,” he said to Meadow.
He wasn’t at all surprised to see her lift her chin at him. “What am I supposed to do, let her shoot you?”
“I can run and dodge.” He used his eyes to reassure and command. “You . . . you are carrying my child.” He waited until she nodded, reluctant but acknowledging. “Now . . . get behind the chest of drawers.”
“It’s not the chest of drawers that will protect me.” She turned the large painting long side up and pulled it in front of her.
“What are you doing?” Judith’s steady hand suddenly shook. “Meadow, what the hell are you doing?”
Genius. His little darling was a genius. Judith wouldn’t shoot the painting, and Meadow had provided a distraction—for him.
He hit the floor and rolled behind a trunk.
A spray of bullets followed him. Splinters flew.
But he wasn’t hit yet.
With the three-legged wardrobe a
s his goal, he dodged from the trunk to a cabinet.
The shooting stopped. Judith wasn’t sure which way he’d gone.
“Judith, this isn’t what we do.” Meadow was moving.
Damn it. He could hear her shuffling to the side. Why couldn’t she do as she was told? Why couldn’t she just stay put?
But she used her words like poison darts. “I can’t believe you’re willing to kill for a thing. Possessions aren’t art. It’s the soul that matters—”
If she said, What goes around, comes around, he was going to kill her.
“—And you know what goes around, comes around.”
“Shut up.” Judith had probably never meant anything as sincerely in her life.
He heard her footsteps moving into the center of the room, away from obstructions . . . looking for him.
She shot as he dashed toward the entrance. Toward the three-legged wardrobe.
Bullets followed him, spraying wood chips in a path . . . toward his ass.
Agony ripped his calf.
He was hit. He was hit.
Goddamn it. Judith had put a bullet in his leg.
He stumbled. Made it to the buffet. The mirror shattered as the ammo smacked it. Glass pierced him. Shards pierced him. He didn’t care. His leg hurt so fucking bad . . . in football, some big, stupid defensive tackle had broken his tibia, but the pain was nothing compared to this. This was agony. This was hell.
He glanced down. Saw the splash of crimson on his jeans, the shredded denim, the broken flesh.
He measured the distance to the wardrobe.
He wasn’t going to have the speed he needed to knock over the wardrobe. Not and walk away alive.
Well.
So be it. He had experienced the greatest love a man could know, all in the space of three weeks. He had created a child . . . with Meadow. If he didn’t survive . . . She would. She must.
If he threw himself across the open space, even if Judith shot him, his body would smack the wardrobe as a projectile.
He planned that it would strike Judith. He trusted Meadow to get out alive.