million four days ago.”
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Another cough and a shudder. “I spent it. I owed some people,
some people from Columbia. Please. You can’t tell Pushkin I lost the
painting. He’ll kill me. He might kill you, too. God, how did this go
so wrong? I just need a little time. I can find it. She must have taken it with her last night.”
“He’s a very international idiot,” Ivan said in Russian. “How
many dangerous groups can one man get involved with?”
Alexei shook his head. Renard was going downhill fast. It was
obvious the man had spent Pushkin’s money on cocaine. “Please,
show some respect, Ivan. We are in his country. We should kill him in
his own language.”
Renard let out a pitiful cry.
Ivan backhanded him. “Fine. But you are too soft on these
people.”
As Ivan continued to pound on the gallery owner who’d been
foolish enough to make a deal with the Russian mob and then renege
on it, Alexei looked around the small room. The gallery outside had
been stark and modern, but this was a work space. It was much more
intimate, with small details that let a person know something about
the occupants. Before he’d been too preoccupied with wailing from
pain, Renard had explained that this was his restoration room.
Apparently he was not an artist himself, but he cleaned up works that
had damage. It was in this manner that he had acquired the painting
Pushkin desired. Alexei bent over and picked up the canvas that had
been destroyed by Ivan when they first entered the room. Renard had
tried to play a little game with them. He’d told them to pack up the
painting and leave as though they were mere messenger boys without
a brain in their head. Alexei knew better. Pushkin had sent them a
copy of the photo of the painting they were supposed to bring back.
He’d pulled up the photo on his cell phone, unwilling to take the
man’s word for it. Between the man’s sweaty, nervous demeanor, and
Alexei’s excellent eye, he’d quickly discerned that the man was
attempting to fool them. The painting looked very similar, but it
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49
wasn’t close to the same in Alexei’s eyes. There was something about
the colors. Alexei had seen it right away.
Renard had explained, through his cries of pain, that he had
hidden the Picasso for safekeeping and easy transport. Now he could
not find it.
It was a very foolish play on Renard’s part.
Ivan had torn apart this work to prove what Alexei suspected. Ivan
had cursed because the paint was still wet. Apparently Renard had
hidden the Picasso behind another painting and switched them,
hoping no one would notice until he was long gone. Alexei stared at
the canvas Ivan had pried off the frame.
It was odd. Mostly it was a collection of colors, and yet he could
feel the emotion from the canvas. It was all blues and greens and the
slightest hint of purple. There was the faintest impression of a male
figure. Alexei liked art.
“Who is artist?” He would bet it was a female. The softness spoke
of femininity.
Ivan let the gallery owner drop to the floor. “What do you care?
This is not the painting that the boss desires. Are you sure it is
painting at all? It looks like someone tosses paint can at a canvas.”
Philistine. Ivan wasn’t smart enough to know his art. Alexei
shrugged. “I am curious.”
Ivan kicked at Renard, his booted foot connecting viciously with
the man’s gut. “Tell my friend, who is artist. He wants to know.”
Renard turned his bloodshot eyes up and looked at Alexei. “She’s
an employee.”
So it was a woman. “She is sad. This is very sad painting. I like it.
It say things to me.”
“It speak to you, Alexei. That is the right phrase. Don’t lecture me
until you get your English right. You are correct about one thing. We
have to be able to speak to the people we are killing or they will not know why they are dead.”
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At those words, Renard began to scream. His high-pitched wails
ate at Alexei’s nerves. He looked at Ivan and spoke in Russian.
“That was not helpful.”
Ivan shrugged. Renard tried to crawl away, but Ivan’s boot came
down on his back. “Better he knows what is coming for him. He does
not have the painting. He would have given it up by now.”
Most people would have given it up by now. Ivan was an expert at
pain delivery. So Renard didn’t have the painting, and apparently the
money had gone straight up his nose. If he didn’t have the painting,
Alexei needed to figure out who did. It would do him no good to
return to Russia with nothing to show for his efforts. He needed that
painting.
“Would police have the painting?” Alexei asked, hoping that the
answer was no. He knew why Renard had brought in the police. The
idiot wanted to keep his business, and the best way to do it was to pin the crime on someone else. But he prayed the man had been smart
enough not to allow the prize to become evidence.
“No, it was a different painting, I tell you,” Renard managed. “I
hid it behind a different painting. I don’t know. All of her stuff looks alike to me. I prefer realism. Her stuff is mostly swirly colors meant to express emotion. I’ve been staring at her work for months, and I
don’t get it. Sold a couple for her. Always the same buyer. He pays
top dollar.”
Ivan frowned as he looked down. “Perhaps I hit him too hard.”
“You think?” Alexei shook his head. Ivan always hit them too
hard. It made it very difficult to interrogate a victim when his teeth were stuck halfway down his throat. He started to point at Ivan, and
noticed that his fingers had a fine coating of blue paint on them. The canvas was still slightly wet. “This artist, she works in here? What if she took the painting you need and begins a new one?”
Renard’s eyes flared. “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.
She has to have the painting. I tried to get into her place, but the
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police were there, and then some other people were there early this
morning. I haven’t been able to get in.”
If it was true, Alexei might still salvage this little mission. “This artist, she live close to here?”
Renard sagged, obviously pleased to have a few more moments of
life left. His eyes were sparked with wild hope. “Yes, Jennifer lives
on Good Latimer. I’ll take you there. That has to be where the
painting is. I know it. I just know it. We might have to wait until the place is empty.”
Ivan smiled. “I will take care of anyone in our way.”
But forty minutes later, Ivan neatly and efficiently took care of the
only person in their way. Ivan slit Renard’s throat. It was quiet, and they weren’t worried about clean. The shag carpet beneath their feet was old, but quickly soaked up the blood.
There wasn’t a single painting in the apartment Renard had led
them to. Alexei looked around. It was obvious to him that an artist
lived here. There
were easels and unframed, unpainted canvases.
There were half-used tools and oil paints all over the kitchen table.
There were brushes in a can in the bathroom. The whole bathroom
smelled of chemicals.
“The boss is not going to like this.” Now that the mark was dead,
Ivan shifted back to Russian.
Alexei followed suit. “He will be very angry.”
Ivan started looking through the artist’s kitchen. “I need to find a
good butcher knife. Pushkin will want us to at least bring back the
head. I hate these international jobs, Alexei. It’s gotten so hard to get a decapitated head through an American airport. How much cash do
you have? We will need to bribe someone.”
He felt his deep groan rumble from his chest. This was a
nightmare. “Pushkin will be even angrier we spent his cash on bribes,
which is why we should attempt to offer him an alternative.”
“And what is that?”
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Alexei glanced around the room. It was obvious the woman had
left in a hurry. This woman either knew where the painting was, or
knew who took it. He needed to find this woman, this Jennifer. There
was an answering machine blinking by the phone. Curious, Alexei
pushed the button. A cheery female voice came on.
“This is Jen. I’m not here, or I’m off in la-la land, so leave me a
message.” There was a long beep and then another soft, feminine
voice.
“Jen, it’s Callie. I can’t tell you happy I am Stef tracked you
down, though I’m so sorry about the whole jail thing. Nate is coming
to get you. You might not even get this message, but if you do, know
that Zane and I will be waiting at the airport in Alamosa. I can’t wait to see you. I’m so happy you’re coming home. Bliss isn’t the same
without you.”
“What is this Bliss?” Ivan asked.
Alexei looked around. “It is a place, I think. This Alamosa is
where the artist has gone, and I think she took her canvases with her.
Perhaps she doesn’t know.”
“Or maybe she does and I have more work to do.” Ivan sounded
like a man anticipating a treat.
Alexei stared down at the only framed picture in the whole house.
It was of two young women and an older female. There was a tall
brunette with lovely, slender features. He would bet she was the artist.
There was a shorter but equally pretty woman with dark hair. The
older woman was a blonde. She wore a shirt with dangling fringe, and
a red cowboy hat sat atop her puffy hair.
He read the marking on the shirt the slender brunette wore.
Stella’s Café – Bliss, Colorado
If he was the smart man who managed to track down the painting
Pushkin wanted, the boss would have to thank him personally. That
would be the moment that Alexei avenged his brother.
“Call Pushkin. Tell him we are going to Colorado.”
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Chapter Five
Jen shivered as the door to the jet was opened and the February air
hit her. She pulled Stefan’s coat around her. She turned to look at
him. He was wearing a dress shirt and slacks. He must have been
freezing, but the minute she began to shrug out of his coat he sent her a look colder than the wind outside. Jen stuck her tongue out at him
and buttoned up the coat.
“Very mature, Jennifer,” Stef murmured as he gestured for her to
go first.
She felt her spirit sag. That was the crux of their problems. He
thought she was too young for him. It wasn’t like he was some old
guy. He wasn’t even ten years older than she was. It also wasn’t like
she’d asked him for marriage. She’d been in love with him. That
didn’t necessarily lead to marriage. She’d seen her mother fall in and out of love. She had never pushed Stef for anything more than
friendship and some sex. He seemed to think she was too young even
for that.
Jen stood at the top of the stairs and looked down. One lone figure
stood on the tarmac holding a handmade sign that said Welcome Back, Felon.
Callie Sheppard grinned as she held her sign up, and Jen felt tears
fill her eyes.
“She missed you,” Nate said from behind her.
For the first time she thought about what she’d done when she’d
snuck away from Bliss. She had meant to leave behind Stef and all
their problems, but she’d done more than that. She’d left Callie and
Stella and Rachel and Laura. She’d walked out on Mel and the Harper
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twins, and Zane and Nate. Tears flowed freely now as she took her
wobbly first step down the staircase. She’d left the only place that had ever felt like home because she’d been too embarrassed to see Stef
again.
Maybe he was right. Maybe she was too young. And maybe, just
maybe, it was time to grow up.
Jen took hold of herself and rushed down the steps. She didn’t
stop until she threw her arms around Callie.
“Hey!” Callie said. She dropped her sign. Her arms quickly
enveloped Jen. “Hey, it’s okay, sweetie. It’s going to be okay. Don’t
you worry about a thing. You’re home now.”
Jen felt Callie smooth down the back of her hair, and she cried.
She didn’t care that everyone was watching. Now that she was
standing here, she knew Callie was right. Everything would be fine
because she was home.
“I’m sorry,” Jen managed after a moment. “I should never have
left the way I did.”
“It’s okay,” Callie said softly. “You’re back now. That’s what
matters.”
And that was Callie in a nutshell, Jen thought. Callie would never
hold it against her. She would never withhold her affection. Her heart was open.
She felt another hand on her back, and she looked up at the
sheriff. Nate Wright’s eyes were far softer now, and he nodded down
at her.
“Callie’s right. It’s going to be okay. We won’t let you go back to
jail. Stef is already working on getting the charges dropped. Let’s get the car and get out of this weather.”
Jen took a step back, and Callie went on her toes trying to press
her lips against her husband’s. Nate’s gloved hand came out to stop
her. Callie’s lips made a little O.
“No can do, baby.” Nate shook his head as he stared down at her.
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Callie pouted. Her hands went to her hips. She was drowning in a
parka, her small, curvy body completely covered by her coat. “What
did I do?”
“It wasn’t you. It was Stef,” Jen supplied, saving Nate the trouble.
“He needs his fake girlfriend again, and he doesn’t care that she’s
already double married.”
Callie’s brown eyes widened. “What are you talking about? Oh
my, Sebastian! And Stef! Why didn’t you call? And what are you
doing without a coat?”
Callie stalked toward the plane where the Talbot men were
disembarking. Jen stared at Nate. He had some explaining to do.
“Okay, where’s the big guy? I know you two have something
awful cooked up for Stef.” There was no way Natha
n Wright allowed
his wife to be used in some cover-up.
A little smirk crossed Nate’s face. “I have no idea what you’re
talking about, darlin’. I’m just helping out an old friend. I am a very patient and tolerant man.”
“Since when?” The only person less patient than Nathan Wright
was Max Harper. Nate was a notorious hard-ass, and the last thing Jen
would expect him to do would be to allow his wife to pose as another
man’s girlfriend.
One shoulder came up negligently. “You know this whole
threesome thing works on several levels for us. It takes two men to
keep Callie out of trouble, but more than that, I can always count on
Zane to do the right thing.”
Jen listened to Nate talk, but her eyes were on Stef and Callie. She
felt a sick pit of jealousy form in her gut as Stef wrapped his arms
around Callie. She knew that it was all for show. She could see Stef
whispering to her, probably begging her to play along, but it still hurt.
Callie was good enough to show off. Callie was sweet enough to
bring home with him. She doubted Stef had told anyone about the
night they had shared. Callie might be a fake girlfriend, but Jen
doubted it hurt worse than being the dirty little secret.
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Stef was talking to his father, his arm firmly around Callie’s waist
as she twisted her head around slightly. Her brown eyes were
questioning as she looked back at Nate. The sheriff merely gave her a
hearty thumbs-up, and she shrugged and turned back around to talk to
Sebastian Talbot.
It was at that moment that Jen noticed big, gorgeous Zane walking
down the tarmac, two Styrofoam mugs of coffee in his hands. Zane
Hollister was roughly six and a half feet tall. His beautiful face bore some scars from his time as a DEA agent, but he was heavenly
looking to Jen. She’d always wanted to paint him. It would be a
challenge to get his spirit just right. He was an intoxicating mix of
rough man and vulnerable boy. But now he looked like an angry bull.
He stopped in the middle of the tarmac, and his mouth dropped open.
Jen followed his line of sight back to where Stef was leaning over,
placing a light kiss on Callie’s lips.