At that point, the Cambridge police and FBI were called in.
Rembrandt’s The Tempest on the Ocean, painted in the early 1600s, was among the stolen works, as she’d correctly recalled.
To date, none of the paintings had been recovered, despite the museum and authorities continuing to actively investigate all leads.
How could it be that no one had come forward in all these years? The stolen paintings had to be in a private collection, with highly selective viewing.
And if she had found one of them... Oh, my God!
Best to sleep on it and she’d talk to Sam in the morning. That was the only rational thing to do.
He’d help her decide what to do next.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
DURING A MOSTLY sleepless night, Chelsea convinced herself that she hadn’t been wrong about what she’d seen at the warehouse. The only question was whether the painting was the original or a replica.
She had to tell Sam.
“I need to see you!” she exclaimed as soon as he answered his cell phone when she called him from the gallery.
“That’s a terrific way to start off my morning. Miss me?” he asked in a teasing tone of voice.
“Yes. No. I mean, yes, I miss you, but that’s not why I have to see you.” He could fluster her so easily.
“Okay, then why?”
“I’d rather tell you in person. Can I come see you during my lunch break?”
“Sorry, but I have a meeting late morning. Then I’ll be in the field for the afternoon. How about after work?”
Chelsea supposed she didn’t have much choice and had to trust that all would remain as she’d found it at the warehouse. “Okay. Would you like to come to my place for dinner?”
“Dinner? At your place? How could I say no?”
She smiled. “Great! How’s seven?”
“Perfect. I’ll see you then.”
The instant she hung up the phone, she collapsed back in her chair. What had she been thinking? Her mouth had been faster than her brain. The words had tumbled out before she realized what she was saying.
Well, she couldn’t take them back. And she had to admit, she wanted to do something special for him.
She’d work hard, skip lunch and leave early. That way, she’d maximize her time to...to throw something together.
Despite working nonstop and missing lunch, by the time she’d finished everything she had to do that day, it was after four. That gave her less than three hours before Sam showed up on her doorstep expecting to be fed. As she lived mostly on fast food and frozen meals, there was nothing in her fridge that would suffice. She had two choices.
She could pick up takeout on the way home, or she could call Paige and see what she recommended for a quick, no-fail meal.
She tried Paige first.
Chelsea tapped her pen on the desktop as she waited for Paige to answer her phone. When she finally did, Chelsea relaxed marginally. “I hope I’m not taking you away from something urgent,” she said. “I need your help.”
“What I’m doing can wait. What’s up?”
“I invited Sam to dinner.”
“You’re seeing him again?”
“Oh, yes. Yes. I’m sorry I forgot to tell you, but it just happened.” And he’d been hit by a car, but she didn’t have time to get into that now.
“So, about dinner...”
Chelsea heard a quiet snicker. “Knowing you and your aversion to cooking, that tells me things are good and you’re really serious about him.”
Chelsea twirled the pen in her hand. “Yes, and yes.” She was in love with him, but that discussion would have to wait, too. “Um, there’s something I need to discuss with him.”
“Oh?” Chelsea could hear the smile in Paige’s voice. “It’s sounding more interesting by the minute.”
“No, no. Never mind about that for now. I’ll fill you in when I see you. Right now, I need a recipe. Some kind of dish I can manage.”
“How about if I come over tomorrow and help you prepare a meal you can simply put together and heat up?”
“That would be great. There’s just one problem.”
“What’s that?”
“Sam’s coming over tonight.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah.” Chelsea felt the dejection creeping in. She’d been impulsive, as usual, and was bound to disappoint him.
“I’m sorry, Chels, but I can’t do it this afternoon. Jason has a school recital. Daniel and I promised we’d be there, and we can’t let him down.”
“Of course. I understand.” She bolstered herself with the thought that hands-on assistance wasn’t what she’d expected when she called.
“Chels, hold on a sec, please.”
Chelsea heard murmuring while she waited.
“I’m sorry, but I have to go. I’ll help you prepare a dish next time. For tonight, why don’t you pick up takeout on your way home? I’m sure Sam won’t mind. It’s about spending time with him, isn’t it?”
“Yes. You’re right. Thanks, Paige.”
“Good luck, and I look forward to hearing how it went.”
Chelsea packed up her briefcase while she contemplated her options for takeout. The Italian restaurant where she got her pizzas was convenient, so she settled on some sort of pasta dish. She’d stop by the grocery store on her drive home and pick up garlic bread, a salad and dessert to go with it. If she was lucky, she’d have time to straighten up her apartment, shower and change.
She glanced up when someone tapped on her closed door. “Come in,” she called.
Tina pushed the door open and stuck her head in. “Chelsea, I’m sorry to bother you, but Mrs. Dixon is here and she refuses to deal with anyone except you. She has her eye on the Hampton sculpture. I tried to tell her you were busy, but she wouldn’t take no for an answer.”
Chelsea got out of her chair. “Not to worry. I’ll see her.” She considered how chatty Mrs. Dixon, a sweet but lonely widow, could get and hoped it wouldn’t take too long.
“Not long” turned into an hour. By the time Chelsea rushed back into her office, she knew she’d be cutting it close. She made a call to the Italian restaurant, then grabbed her briefcase and handbag and dashed out of her office.
* * *
SAM WAS PUNCTUAL. The knock on Chelsea’s door came precisely at seven.
Had he been standing outside waiting for the seconds to tick down? She smiled as she straightened a setting on her dining-room table, lit the candles she’d placed there, then hurried to the door to let him in.
Sam was holding a bottle of wine and a bouquet of flowers.
“Hi. You look...” His gaze swept over Chelsea, causing a warm sensation in her belly. “You look wonderful!”
She was glad she’d chosen primping over straightening up her apartment.
“Great dress, too.”
The short, electric-blue jersey dress with the cowl neckline seemed to have done the trick, she thought with satisfaction.
He handed her the bottle and the flowers. Then he placed his hands lightly on her waist and tugged her toward him. She saw the sparkle in his eyes before her lids drifted closed as he touched his lips to hers.
The kiss was gentle. Soft.
But it sent shivers up her spine. When he stepped back, she missed his warmth. “Um. Hi” was the best she could manage. “Thank you for these,” she added, lowering her nose to the flowers and inhaling their spicy, sweet scent. “They’re beautiful. I’d take your coat, but I don’t have a free hand,” she said with a wide smile.
“That’s okay.” He gestured toward the closet and she nodded. “Something smells terrific,” he said as he hung up his coat. Chelsea felt a flush on her cheeks, and was glad he wasn’t watching her. “Um, w
hy don’t we start with some wine first?”
“Sounds good. And who’s this?” he asked as Mindy sauntered toward them, pretending indifference.
“That’s Mindy. She’s a cross between a cat and probably a Great Dane, if you go by her size.”
Sam squatted down as Mindy came closer. “You’re a big gal, aren’t you?”
Mindy rubbed against Sam’s hand as he scratched her and then wove between his legs.
Chelsea noticed the trail of gray-and-white fur Mindy left on Sam’s black pants. “I’m sorry. I should have warned you. She’s a shedder.” She glanced around, wondering where she’d left the fur brush.
Sam straightened, brushed at his pant legs. “It’s not a problem,” he said with an easy smile.
Relieved that Sam was so relaxed about it, Chelsea watched Mindy continue to thread her way through Sam’s legs. It normally took Mindy a while to warm up to people—if at all. “Looks like you’ve got Mindy’s approval, and that’s no small accomplishment.”
Sam bent down to give the cat another scratch. “Really? She seems friendly.”
“Ha! Spoken by someone who doesn’t know this cat!” She motioned with the hand holding the bottle, inviting him to follow her. “Mindy generally likes to keep to herself. It’s unusual for her to be so outgoing with strangers.”
“Maybe she’s selective and a good judge of character,” he said as he walked down the hall with her.
Chelsea laughed. “Maybe. You don’t have a pet?” she asked.
“I wish I could have a dog, but with the time I spend at work and my unpredictable schedule, it’s not possible.”
As Chelsea stepped into the kitchen, she remembered the pasta she’d put in the oven to keep warm. “Would you mind pouring the wine?” she asked as she arranged the flowers in a vase, then moved over to the stove to yank open the door. Delicious aromas wafted out, and she was relieved to see that neither the pasta nor the garlic bread had burned.
“What are we having?” he asked, filling the two glasses she’d placed on the counter.
Chelsea wished she’d put the salad in a glass bowl rather than just sticking it in the fridge in its plastic take-out container. “Caesar salad to start,” she replied, trying to block his view of the container. “Pasta with garlic bread.”
He sniffed the air. “Wonderful! I love lasagna.”
“It’s not lasagna,” she said, managing to empty the salad into a bowl and disposing of the container without the sharp-eyed detective noticing. “It’s fettuccine alfredo.”
He was about to take a sip of his wine, but paused. “You make fettuccine alfredo in the oven?”
She held back a laugh. Might as well come clean, she decided. “No. I don’t make it in the oven.” She accepted the glass he held out for her, then took a slow sip. Lowering her head, she glanced up through her eyelashes. “Truth be told, I didn’t make it at all. I was keeping it and the bread warm until you got here.” She gestured toward the salad bowl. “Oh, and keeping the salad cool. I didn’t make that, either.”
She didn’t know if she should laugh or be embarrassed when he nearly choked on his wine.
He waved his free hand until he could swallow and was able to speak again. “Sorry, sorry. I didn’t mean to do that.”
He looked endearing and she decided to go with the laughter. She took another sip and gave him a flirtatious look over the top of her glass. “We all have our strengths. Cooking happens not to be one of mine.”
“Lucky for us, it is one of mine!”
She gaped at him, considering the muscular build, the all-around tough-guy appearance. “You cook?” she asked, her brows raised.
“Uh-huh. And quite well, I’ve been told. I enjoy it. Sort of a hobby.”
A grin spread across her face. “Well, what do you know? How perfect is that?” she added under her breath.
“Excuse me?”
“Oh, nothing.” She set her glass on the counter and turned back to the oven. “Would you take the salad out to the dining room while I finish preparing—” she said with playful emphasis “—our dinner.”
“Sure. But I need a minute first.”
She glanced over her shoulder, just as he moved closer, cupped the back of her head and gave her a kiss. “Sorry. I couldn’t resist,” he said before grabbing the salad bowl and walking out of the kitchen.
“How about that...” she breathed. A man who looked the way he did, could affect her with a simple kiss and knew how to cook. A keeper, she thought as she arranged the pasta in a serving bowl, the bread on a platter, and went to join him.
Mindy was winding around his legs again when she entered the dining room.
“Not friendly, you said?”
“What can I say, she likes you.” As they sat down and she watched him stroke Mindy’s back, her heart started to thud. Darn it all. She was falling deeper and deeper in love with him. Belatedly, she realized he’d said something she’d missed entirely while she’d been in her own little world. “Sorry, what did you say?”
“I asked what you wanted to discuss,” Sam said after he took his first taste of the salad. “Great salad, by the way, and the pasta smells wonderful. Well worth the effort,” he added with a grin.
“Thanks. I slaved over a hot oven for...oh, all of about ten minutes!” She returned the grin. Then her smile dimmed as she remembered why she’d invited him over in the first place. “I want to talk to you about the warehouse.”
“I thought that’s what it might be.”
“Sam,” she said earnestly. “Please listen. And trust me on this. I know art.”
She proceeded to tell him everything as they finished their salads and started on the fettuccine.
Halfway through his main course, he rose and began pacing.
When she’d finished, he turned back to her. “What were you thinking, going to the warehouse?” he demanded.
Chelsea felt her heart sink. “That’s it? That’s what you have to say about what I just told you? If I’m right,” she rushed on, before he had a chance to respond, “and this is a counterfeit or black-market operation, the paintings involved could be worth millions of dollars. And what about The Tempest on the Ocean? What if it is the original? Do you have any idea how significant a find that would be?”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
SAM DIDN’T KNOW if he should be more incredulous over Chelsea’s belief that she’d found one of the stolen Thompson Museum masterpieces or the fact that she’d gone back to the warehouse on her own after he’d nearly been run over there! The thought of her being injured sent an electric jolt through his system. “Chelsea, why did you go back to the warehouse? Without even telling me?”
“But—”
“No buts. First, I could charge you with interfering with a police investigation.”
Her mouth dropped open. “The...the warehouse is rented by the gallery and I work for the gallery...” she stammered.
“Oh, really? And were you there on gallery business?” he challenged her.
She gulped audibly, and Sam regretted his vehemence.
But with the disbelief and anger had come an overwhelming fear of what might have happened to her. His hip was healing, although it wasn’t 100 percent yet, and the ache drove home the risk she could have faced.
He spun away from her, the sudden movement causing a sharp stab of pain. He dragged his fingers through his hair. Wrestling his temper into submission, he turned to her again. “Chelsea, you shouldn’t have gone in there. Not only is it a matter of interfering with a police investigation, but if you’re correct about what you saw—” He held up one hand to silence her when she was about to object. “If you’re correct,” he repeated, “you could have compromised important evidence. Since you were already there, you should’ve called me right away...and not touch
ed anything.” He took a deep breath, then addressed the part that worried him the most. “If I scared someone off yesterday before he had an opportunity to secure the warehouse again...he’d be worried about the safety of what’s inside. If he didn’t go back the night he’d hit me, probably because he expected police presence, I’d say chances are good that he planned to do it last night.” From the expression on her face, he could tell he didn’t have to state the obvious—what could have happened to her, if she’d been caught in the warehouse.
Chelsea exhaled heavily. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking. Then...well, the excitement of it all...” She stared down at her hands and frowned.
He was tempted to take her in his arms and kiss that frown right off her face.
He shook his head. What was he thinking?
Sitting down, he waited until she looked at him again. The shimmer of tears in her eyes left an ache in his heart.
“I’m sorry. I...I do stupid, reckless things sometimes.”
He reached for her hand. “I apologize, too, for being hard on you. What’s done is done. Now, are you sure it was jewelry in one of the crates?” Sam asked.
Chelsea rolled her eyes in response.
“Okay. Sorry.” He hadn’t really doubted her. It just got him thinking again about the possible connection between the jewelry store robbery and what was going on at the gallery. He leaned back. “Let’s put aside the prospect of a stolen Rembrandt for the moment.” That was the part of her story he found the hardest to believe. “Let’s say you did see a duplicate painting. I read that eccentric collectors of art sometimes keep the originals under lock and key in rooms with rigorously controlled temperatures to preserve them, and they hang replicas on their walls.”
“Well, yes...”
“They’d have to entrust the valuable original to someone for the reproduction of the work. Someone highly reputable. Wouldn’t the Sinclair Gallery fit that bill?”
Chelsea released a long breath. “Yes, I suppose.” She picked up her glass but didn’t drink. “I suddenly feel very foolish. That thought had occurred to me as well, because everything you said is true. Mrs. Sinclair and Mr. Hadley are both highly regarded, distinguished professionals in the field, and I could see how they’d be called upon in such circumstances. Also, as I’ve said before, I don’t believe they’d jeopardize their reputations by being involved in something illegal.” She finally took a drink.