Ian

8

IAN STOOD at the conference table in Declan’s office, staring at the painting he’d pulled from beneath his bed. It wasn’t much to look at, at least not compared to Marisol’s paintings. This seemed like a bunch of splotches on canvas.

All this fuss for something a kid might have painted. Though he’d learned to appreciate fine art, he still didn’t understand why it was worth so damn much. After all, this was maybe thirty dollars worth of materials. A nice car had more in it in parts, yet sold for a lot less.

“Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars.”

Both Ian and Declan stared in disbelief at Richard Christiansen, an art expert Declan had called in to meet with them. “What?” Ian gasped.

“Two hundred and fifty thousand,” Christiansen repeated. “If it were an original Emory Colter. But it’s not.”

“Of course not,” Ian muttered, covering his surprise. “What would I be doing with a painting worth that much?”

Dec watched from nearby, his gaze darting back and forth between Christiansen and the painting, his mind obviously intent on figuring out what was going on.

“What can you tell us about it?” Dec asked.

The expert bent over the painting and examined it through a magnifying glass. “Where did you get this?”

“I’m afraid I can’t tell you that,” Ian replied. “It’s part of an ongoing police investigation.”

The elderly man stepped back and rubbed his goatee thoughtfully. “Well, it’s definitely a forgery. A very clever forgery.”

“How do you know?”

“I’m quite familiar with Colter’s work. In fact, I knew him very well before he died. He spent his summers in Newport and did some of his finest work there. I don’t want to brag, but I’m considered the leading expert on Colter’s early work.”

Ian smiled tightly. He’d asked Dec to find him an art expert, and as always, Dec had known exactly who to call. Leave it to him to find the one guy who just might ask too many questions along with the answers he provided.

“You know, it’s funny, but I was called upon to authenticate this very painting just last year. I couldn’t. I was out of the country.”

“So, you’re sure this is a forgery?” Ian asked.

Christiansen nodded. “Although I can’t tell you whoever did the painting had malicious intentions. Some collectors, especially corporations, have a copy done and they hang that in their corporate offices. The insurance is simply too high to put a valuable painting in a place that isn’t as secure as a museum. The public gets to enjoy what they believe is an original while the original is tucked away in a vault for investment purposes. I can’t say I approve of the practice, but it is done.”

“So who could do work like this?” Ian asked.

“There’s a number of artists. Do you want the artists operating on the right or the wrong side of the law?” he asked.

“Start with the wrong,” Dec said.

“No,” Ian interrupted. “I really don’t need to know. All I wanted was to learn if the painting was an original. I have my answer.”

“Ah, yes, well back to that. I’m afraid there’s more. In most cases, the insurance company will take a photo of the borders for comparison when determining provenance and authenticity.”

“The borders?” Ian asked.

“The edges. When a painting is framed, the public can’t see the border. These are also hidden from view if the painting is reproduced or photographed. However, if the forger is in the presence of the real painting or a photo of the unframed painting, then a comparison of the borders is useless. In my opinion, this forger, or copyist, if you will, was working from the real painting, which might lead one to believe this had been commissioned by the owner of the painting.”

“So how can you tell it’s a forgery?” Dec asked.

“Because I have one bit of knowledge other appraisers don’t. It’s something Emory Colter told me long ago, something he always adds to each of his paintings, so he himself can recognize an original from a copy.”

“What’s that?” Ian asked.

“I can’t tell you. If I did, I wouldn’t be the foremost expert on Emory Colter. Suffice it to say I am positive this is not an original Emory Colter. I’d stake my reputation on it.”

“What is it worth?” Ian asked.

“Maybe three or four thousand,” he said. “Whatever the commission was and a good reproduction doesn’t come cheap. However, if you do decide to sell it, you should-”

“Sell it?”

“Yes. If you plan to sell it, you must make sure the copy was authorized by the artist or his estate. If Emory Colter sold the reproduction rights to that painting, the owner can make all the copies he wants and it doesn’t break the law. If someone other than the owner makes a copy, that’s a different story.”

Ian reached out and shook the elderly man’s hand. “Thank you. I appreciate your help. I’d ask you keep this information confidential. This is an ongoing investigation.”

“Of course, of course. I’m a bit of a crime buff myself. Always fancied I’d make a good detective. You will let me know what this was all about after you’ve arrested the perps, won’t you?”

Ian held back a chuckle. “Yes, after we catch the perps, I’ll be sure to call you.”

Dec showed the appraiser out of the office and, a few moments later, returned with a grim expression on his face. “Are you going to tell me what this is all about?”

“That guy watches too many cop shows. The perps? I usually just call them the suspects. Skells, perps, scumbags. Makes them sound so glamorous. They’re criminals.”

“Speaking of criminals, where did you get that painting?” Dec held up his hand. “Never mind, I can guess where you got it. Why did you bring it here?”

“I needed to know what it was,” Ian murmured. With a frustrated groan, he rubbed his eyes with his hands. “Just give me a moment or two to think this out.”

Everything that he thought he knew had suddenly been turned upside down. Marisol intended to switch the original for the forgery. But she was in possession of the forgery, so that could only mean, she was after the original. Unless, she wasn’t aware that the painting in her possession was the forgery. Perhaps, she thought it was the original.

“Did you get this from Marisol-”

Ian looked up. “Don’t. The less you know, the better. I’m already in deeper than I care to be.”

“I read the file. I know that Hector Arantes was convicted of art forgery and served ten years. He’s out of prison now, and from the looks of things, he’s up to his old tricks again. But how you got one of his forgeries, well…I figure his daughter must be mixed up in this. And you’re mixed up with his daughter.” Dec chuckled. “I saw the photo in the file. She’s beautiful, I’ll give her that.”

“I’m not mixed up with her. Do you really think I’d be stupid enough to get involved with someone I suspect is breaking the law?”

Dec considered the question, then shook his head. “No,” he finally said. “If I know one thing about you, Ian, you follow the rules, to the letter. So how did you get the painting?”

“She hid it, I borrowed it. I had to check it out for myself. I just didn’t expect it to be a copy.”

“You thought it was the original?”

Ian nodded. “She said it was. I guess either she was lying to me or she doesn’t really know.”

“You’d better find out.” Dec clapped him on the back, then walked over to a low cabinet set against the wall. He opened a door to reveal a small refrigerator, then pulled out two bottles of orange juice, tossing one in Ian’s direction. “So, why don’t you tell me about the girl,” he suggested.

Ian took a slow sip of the cold juice. “Wouldn’t that be against the rules of your little game?”

“My game? I thought it was your game.”

“No, as I recall, you were the one who suggested the celibacy pact. Three months, no women. Three months is a long time.”

“I should be the one who is worried, don’t you think? Marcus is stuck on a boat, eating organic mangoes and drinking champagne. You’re chasing after a woman who might just be a criminal. Neither one of you is getting any.”

“And you are?” Ian asked.

“No,” Dec replied. “I’m spending all my time trying to find Trevor Ross’s runaway daughter, Eden. It seems she got herself into a little mess in Europe and now her daddy is going to have to bail her out. I went out to talk to Marcus earlier this week, hoping he might have seen her hanging around Ross’s estate, but he’s completely useless when it comes to doing my legwork.”

“He’s a creative type,” Ian commented. “They think a lot differently than you and me.”

Declan gave him a skeptical look, then shook his head. “Why don’t we go out and get some lunch? I know we’re supposed to get together at your place tonight, but since you’re here, we can call Marcus and hang out here in Providence.”

Ian glanced at his watch, the took another gulp of the orange juice. “I have to get back,” he said. “But thanks for taking care of this so quickly. And let me know what I owe you for the art expert.”

“I’m sure my company can cover his fees. I’ll see you tonight,” he called as Ian walked to the door.

“Yeah, right,” Ian said. “Tonight. My place.”

When he reached the parking ramp beneath Dec’s office building, he sat in his car for a long time, trying to figure out his next move. He was usually an excellent judge of character, knowing immediately when someone was lying to him. But his radar was off when it came to Marisol. He could never really focus when he was with her. Her beauty, her sensuality, became a distraction, clouding his brain until he could barely think.

If she was aware she had the forgery, then he could assume she was working with David Barnett. If not, then perhaps she was being used by Barnett. So did he treat her as an unwitting accomplice or a full-fledged conspirator?

The only way he’d know for sure was to confront her, which he intended to do the moment he returned to Bonnett Harbor.

“IT’S PERFECT,” Marisol said, holding up Sascha’s Balenciaga bag. “See, you can’t even tell what’s inside.”

They sat at the worktable in the rear of Gallerie Luna, sipping on cold glasses of limeade and eating shortbread cookies. Sascha had arrived from New York just that morning, determined to convince Marisol to give the painting back to her father and be done with it.

But no amount of convincing, even Sascha’s whining, would change Marisol’s mind. The more she considered her plan, the better she thought it would work. She’d promised Ian she’d give him a chance to fix everything, but he didn’t deserve to be dragged into this. She could do it on her own.

“I know this will work,” Marisol said. It had to. And the sooner, the better.

Sascha toyed with a tube of paint. “I’m starting to get nervous. What if something goes wrong? Shouldn’t we practice? How do I know throwing this in the sink will knock out the alarm system? How do I know I won’t electrocute myself?”

“Just don’t touch the water,” Marisol said. “And make sure it’s on before you toss it in. Did you call the Templetons? Remember, we have to be there in daylight, or I won’t have light to work.”

“I did,” Sascha replied. “And we’ve been invited over for brunch on Sunday. You’re lucky they love your work. She was hoping we’d join her for cocktails this evening, but I said we were busy.”

“But we aren’t,” Marisol said. “Why didn’t you accept?”

“Because I didn’t think we were ready.” Sascha fanned her face with her hand. “I have to prepare myself. I’ve never broken the law.” She paused, frowning. “Well, not any big laws. I did smoke pot when I was in college. And of course, I never drive the speed limit. And I once took a parking ticket from my car and put it on another car.”

“I’m sorry I put you in this situation,” Marisol said. “You’re a good friend to do this for me. I don’t know how I’ll ever pay you back.”

“With many large commissions,” Sascha said. “After this, you’re going to get back to work and we’re going to plan your opening. I have some important clients I intend to invite and they’re going to be spending obscene amounts of money on your work.”

Marisol smiled. “Good. I’m going to need obscene amounts of money if I intend to settle here. I can’t live in that tiny apartment upstairs much longer.”

“Settle here?” Sascha asked. “You can’t be serious. This was supposed to be a summer place for you. In the winter, you go back to the city.”

“I was thinking I’d live here full-time. I’m not that far from New York and it’s quiet here and-”

“Don’t do this,” Sascha warned. “Don’t throw yourself into another relationship so soon after David. I know this policeman is handsome, but what could you two possibly have in common?”

“He’s the police chief,” she said, gathering her patience. “And we have plenty in common.” Sascha was her friend, and a business partner, but there were times when she acted like Marisol’s mother.

Sascha stood up and paced back and forth between the worktable and the sofa. “You belong in the city. Everyone who is anyone is lives in the city. You need to be seen, at parties and gallery openings. People will forget.”

“There are plenty of successful artists who live outside New York City.”

“Of course. But they all have established careers and a solid market for their work. You’re not there yet.”

Marisol got up from the worktable and walked back to the kitchen to fetch the pitcher of limeade. She refilled Sascha’s glass, then sat down on her stool. “I’m not just staying for him,” she said.

“You aren’t?”

“Maybe I am,” Marisol admitted. “But what’s wrong with that? I want to see where this all leads. We have this incredible chemistry. When we’re together he can’t keep his hands off me. I’ve never had that with a man before. Do you know how good it feels to be desired like that?”

“What about David?”

“No,” Marisol said. “This is different. With David, everything was so predictable. We were the perfect couple, but he didn’t want me. Not the way Ian does.”

“So this guy is good in bed,” Sascha said. “How good could he be?”

Marisol smiled slyly. “Very, very good. No, unbelievably great. Fabulous. I don’t know. There isn’t really an adjective to describe it. It’s just-wow!”

“Magnificent? Astonishing? Extraordinary?” Sascha prompted.

“All of those. And really, really hot. Intense. And his body is just to die for.”

Sascha sighed as she plopped back down on her stool. “Every woman’s dream man?”

“Yeah,” Marisol said.

They silently stared across the room at the painting she’d done of Ian, both of them lost in their own thoughts. When the front buzzer sounded, they both looked toward the door.

“I suppose that’s him,” Sascha said.

“Can you give us a minute?”

She nodded, grabbed her bag and walked to the back of the gallery. Marisol hurried to the door and pulled it open, expecting to see Ian. But David stood outside.

When she tried to slam the door, he stuck his foot inside, then shoved the door so hard, she had to step back. He stalked into the gallery, letting the door slam behind him. Slowly, he took in the paintings and the sculptures scattered around the room.

“Where is it?” he muttered. “I want the painting. I know you have it.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Marisol said. “Just leave, David.”

“Your father sent you the Colter. I need it. And if you don’t give it to me, I’m going to let the authorities know your father is back to his old tricks again.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Marisol repeated.

He spun around and grabbed her arms, his fingers biting into her flesh. “I have a buyer who wants his painting. If I don’t give it to him, he’s going to be very angry. He might just decide to hurt me.”

“Then I guess you shouldn’t have gotten involved with him,” Marisol said.

“Tell me where it is,” he muttered.

“Go ahead,” Marisol said. “Search the place. I don’t know where it is or where my father is. I haven’t heard from him in weeks. And if he is involved in some scheme with you, then I don’t want to hear about it. He’s an adult, he makes his own choices. And I’ve made mine. Look for your damn painting and then get out, before I call the police.”

“Marisol?” Sascha slowly walked toward them, her eyes fixed on David. “Is everything all right?”

“Yes, fine.”

“Hello, David. You’re looking…flushed. Are you feeling all right?”

“Yes, fine,” he replied.

“Well, then, we’re all fine. Can I get you something to drink?”

David shook his head. “Would you excuse us? Marisol and I have important matters to discuss.”

“I’ll just be in the back,” she said, “in case I’m needed.”

When Sascha had disappeared, David grabbed Marisol again and cursed beneath his breath. But this time, she yanked out of his grasp, crossing her arms in front of her.

“Find your father and convince him to bring back my painting. Or all the trouble that’s going to rain down on me is going to come down on him, too. And you.”

“I’ll see if I can find him,” Marisol said, keeping her tone cool and indifferent. “I’ll call you.”

He nodded curtly, then turned for the door.

“David?” Her voice stopped him and he faced her. In three short strides she was in front of him. Without thinking, she drew her hand back and slapped his face, the sound echoing through the silence of the gallery.

“You can’t protect your father,” he said.

“That wasn’t for my father. That was for me. For making me believe I didn’t deserve anything more than you gave me. I know differently now.”

He opened his mouth to reply, then thought better of it and turned on his heel, stalking to the door. A few moments later, it slammed behind him and Marisol released a tightly held breath. “We can’t wait,” she called.

Sascha appeared by her side. “Wait for what?”

“We’re going now. To the Templetons’.”

“We can’t,” Sascha said.

“You said she wanted us there for cocktails. Well, call her and tell her we can make it. And we’re coming right now. We just have to pick up the painting from Ian’s place and we’ll be on our way. After we switch them, I’m going to give the forgery to David and he can give that to his buyer. Hopefully, that will be enough to appease him.”

“Maybe we should wait and think this out a bit,” Sascha said.

But Marisol was through thinking about this. She needed to grab this opportunity now and solve her problem, instead of worrying over it for the next day and a half. As she dragged her decoy painting toward the back of the gallery, she tossed Sascha her car keys. “Bring your car around to the back. And don’t forget the heat gun.”

After struggling to fit the crate in the back of Sascha’s Volvo wagon, they finally wedged it in and slammed the hatch shut. Then Marisol ran back inside to grab the tools she’d packed in her favorite bag. When she was settled inside the car, she took a deep breath.

“I can see why art thieves do what they do,” she said. “It’s kind of a rush, all this excitement and nerves. Will we get caught, won’t we get caught, who knows-”

“Shut up,” Sascha said as she started the car. “Let’s not talk or I’m going to get out of this car and walk back to New York.”

“All right,” Marisol said. “No talking. Just drive.”

Marisol directed Sascha through the streets of Bonnett Harbor, watching carefully to see if they were being followed. She wouldn’t put it past David to be lurking in the shadows, watching her every move. But after taking a circuitous route through town, she decided that David had retreated to lick his wounds and revise his strategy.

“Turn down this street,” she said. Sascha drove to the middle of the block, then Marisol pointed to Ian’s house. “I’m going to go inside and get the painting. Circle the block a couple times and I’ll run out. If you see anyone on the street, don’t slow down, just keep going.”

“We should be doing this at night,” Sascha said. “Not in broad daylight.”

“Well, we don’t have a choice.” Marisol hopped out of the car, glanced both ways and ran up the driveway to the side door. She grabbed the doorknob and turned it, but to her surprise, the door wouldn’t open.

“No,” she moaned. “It can’t be locked.” Frantically, she pulled up the mat and searched for a key. She couldn’t blame Ian for locking the house, considering the valuable painting under his bed. Or maybe he’d done it to prevent her from retrieving the painting without his knowledge.

Marisol walked around the back of the house, then noticed a window open in the breakfast nook. She grabbed a lawn chair and pulled it over to the house, balancing on it as she tore off the screen. A few moments later, she raised the sash and crawled inside.

She raced upstairs and found the painting where she’d left it. Dragging it from beneath the bed, Marisol tucked it under her arm and hurried back outside, this time using the kitchen door. She saw Sascha circle the block, then waited for her to appear again before running out to the street.

When she was safely inside the car, Marisol screamed, unable to control her nerves. Then, a laugh erupted and she couldn’t seem to stop the emotions bubbling to the surface. She wasn’t happy or amused or even frustrated. She was just scared.

“Are you all right?” Sascha asked.

“I will be,” she said. “Once this is all over.”

“FIRST OFF, YOU CAN’T TALK to women, so how can you be honest with them? They have no capacity for logical reasoning. They’re driven by emotions. Let me tell you, getting into a real conversation with a woman is like stepping on a land mine. One stupid move, one offhand comment or misplaced adjective and, boom, you’re dead.”

Ian waited for his brothers to respond, knowing what he’d said was complete bullshit. At one time, he believed that women were incapable of logical thought. But then he’d met Marisol. He didn’t have to work hard to figure her out. She was just…Marisol.

“And you can’t depend upon women,” Declan commented. “They may have your back now, but the minute you don’t agree with them, they’ll cut your legs out from under you. You want someone who’ll have your back? That’s what brothers are for.”

“Women are not the enemy,” Marcus said.

Ian stared at Marcus for a long moment, grinning. “Did you break the pact?”

“No!” Marcus said. “I’ve just figured out a few things for myself.”

“So, are you planning to share with us?” Declan asked.

Marcus shook his head. “Not at the moment.”

A long silence descended on the group as Ian and Dec stood at the grill and stared into the fire. Ian dumped a bit of beer onto the flames that licked at the burgers. He listened distractedly as Dec and Marcus discussed the search for Eden Ross, but his mind kept wandering to Marisol.

“Louise Wilson over at the diner mentioned there were a couple of guys wandering around Bonnett Harbor asking if anyone had seen her,” Ian commented. “They’re promising a big payday for information. Ten thousand for a tip that leads to a photo of Eden Ross. I’m thinking I ought to be out looking for her.”

“She must be close by, then,” Dec said.

“Why do you say that?” Marcus asked.

Ian walked over to the picnic table and grabbed another beer from the cooler, taking the chance to glance at his watch. Dinner would be ready in a few minutes, a half hour to eat, another half hour to hang out and he could be over at Marisol’s by six or six-thirty.

“I gotta go,” Marcus said.

Ian frowned. “You haven’t had anything to eat.”

Marcus shrugged. “The wind is supposed to pick up later tonight and I’ve got to set another anchor.”

“So how’s the job going for you?” Dec called. “What did Ross think about the work?”

“He thought it was great,” Marcus yelled.

“He’s an odd one, that boy,” Declan said, staring after their younger brother.

“I can never quite figure what’s going on in his head,” Ian commented. “You really think he’s found himself a girl?”

“Nah,” Dec said. “All Marcus cares about is his work. Besides, who would he meet staying out on the boat?”

They sat outside for the next hour, enjoying their dinner and chatting about work. Ian avoided talking about Marisol and the painting, and instead, pumped Dec for information on Eden Ross. In the end, Dec enlisted Ian’s help in the search, asking him to keep an eye out for Eden, as well.

He finally left at seven and Ian hurried upstairs to change out of his uniform, pulling on a fresh T-shirt and a pair of jeans. He noticed the covers on the bed had been tossed back, and smoothed them in place with his hand. Slowly, Ian realized someone had been in his bedroom.

He dropped to the floor and peered under the bed. “Oh, hell,” he muttered. The painting was gone. And it didn’t take a rocket scientist to know who had it. She must have been here before he returned home from work. He tugged on a pair of Nikes, tucked his badge in the back pocket of his jeans, then raced downstairs.

If Marisol had any thought to switch those paintings tonight, then it might already be too late. He jumped into his car and threw it in gear, backing down the driveway and swinging the Mustang out into the street.

A few minutes later, he pulled up in front of Gallerie Luna. Marisol’s car was parked out front, but she wasn’t answering the buzzer. For a brief moment, he felt a prickle of panic, then decided that there was no need to jump to conclusions. Maybe she’d gone for a walk, maybe she was waiting for him at his house right now.

He tried the buzzer once more, then returned to his car, double-parked in front of the gallery. He’d just take a drive over to Newport and check in with the Templetons. And if she wasn’t there, he’d put out an APB on her and have the rest of the Bonnett Harbor police force helping in the search.

As he sped across the Newport Bridge, his thoughts returned to the meeting in Declan’s office. Though he didn’t want to believe the worst in Marisol, there was a tiny voice that told him she could be lying about the painting. For all he knew, she was aware that the painting in her possession was a fake and her intention all along was to steal the real painting. Hell, she could be working with David Barnett on this scheme.

The gates to the Templeton mansion were open when he approached on Ruggles Avenue. He parked on the circular drive and turned off the car. But as soon as the engine stopped, he heard a loud siren sounding from inside the house. “The burglar alarm,” he murmured. Maybe he was too late?

He grabbed his badge from his pocket, then jogged up to the front door. Ian rang the bell once, then opened the door. Cheryl Templeton stood in the foyer, her hands pressed to her ears as he held out his badge.

“Oh, thank God you’re here. I can’t remember the code to the system. The security company is on the phone and they won’t switch off the alarm until I give them the code.” She held out the phone. “You talk to them.”

“Where is your husband?”

“He’s out of town on business,” she said. “Please, tell them they can turn off the alarm. Why aren’t you wearing your uniform?”

“I’m undercover,” Ian said. She seemed to accept the answer, to Ian’s relief. “Is there anyone else in the house?”

“Yes. Sascha Duroy is here and Marisol Arantes. Marisol was in the library and I’m not sure where Sascha is.”

“Let me check around first,” he said, taking the phone from her hand. “Why don’t you wait out front, just for your own safety. When I find the other two ladies, I’ll send them out. And once the house is clear, I’ll tell the security company to turn off the alarm.”

“Tell them the power went off and that’s what set off the alarm. There aren’t any burglars.”

Ian waited until Cheryl Templeton was outside, then tried the library door, but found it locked. Cursing, he rapped sharply. “Marisol!” He knocked again. “Marisol, let me in.”

A moment later, the door swung open. She reached out and grabbed him, then dragged him inside. “What are you doing here?”

“The question is, what are you doing here?”

“I don’t have time for this,” she muttered. “Did anyone see you come in? How did you get in the house? Where is Mrs. Templeton?”

“Mrs. Templeton let me in. She’s under the impression I’m responding to their security alert. I don’t think she realized I’m not the Newport police.”

Marisol hurried back to the painting on the wall, grasping the frame as she tried to lift it off the hook. “You could give me a hand here. I don’t have much time. Did you lock the door behind you?”

Ian grabbed his handcuffs and snapped one side on her left wrist, then reached across and caught her right. She didn’t realize what he was doing until she couldn’t move her arms.

“This is no time for games!” she cried above the alarm “Take these things off me.”

“Not until you look me in the eye and tell me what you’re really doing here. I know the truth, Marisol.”

“Of course you do. I told you.”

He grabbed her hands and forced her to face him, looking deeply into her eyes, watching the emotions play across her expression. She looked frightened and frantic. “The painting on the wall is the real one,” he said.

Her eyes went wide and she gasped. In that moment, Ian knew she had no knowledge of what was really going on. “But it can’t be. How do you know?”

“I took the one hidden under my bed to an expert this morning. He verified it was a forgery. He knew Emory Colter. He was sure, Marisol. You were going to replace the real painting with the fake.”

She fell back in the chair as the revelation sank in. “And then I was going to give David the fake. But it would have been the real painting. And I would have never known.” She paused. “Why did you handcuff me?”

“Because I wasn’t sure whether you knew or not.”

“Of course I didn’t know. How could you think-” She paused, anger flashing in her eyes. “Get me out of these.”

He unlocked the cuffs. “Straighten things up in here. I’m going to get the alarm switched off. Where is Sascha?”

“In the bathroom. Blowing out the electricity.”

“Can you do this?”

Marisol nodded. “Just go.”

Ian turned for the door, holding the phone up to his ear. “This is Police Captain Ian Quinn from the Bonnett Harbor Police Department. I’m a guest here at Mrs. Templeton’s. My badge number is 743. I’m checking the house now.”

He made a cursory search of the mansion, knowing there weren’t any burglars. He found Sascha standing outside the powder room beneath the stairs, water dripping from her oversize handbag. “I think you better go out front and wait for me.”

She nodded, then brushed by him, avoiding his gaze. He walked through the first floor of the house, then peeked back inside the library. Marisol was standing next to the fireplace, her painting propped up against the mahogany desk.

“All set?”

Marisol nodded, joining him at the library door. “Thank you,” she murmured.

He took her hand and led her outside. “The house is clear,” Ian said into the phone. A few moments later, the alarm switched off, leaving Ian with ringing ears.

“Oh, thank you,” Mrs. Templeton said. “I’m so glad you came.” She frowned. “How did you get here so quickly? The alarm just went off a few seconds before you arrived.”

“I actually came to help Marisol,” he said. “But I got delayed. I understand she has a gift for you.”

Cheryl Templeton clapped her hands. “Yes. I can hardly wait. Can we see it?”

“Maybe we should get the power turned on first?” Ian suggested.

“Oh, I put the gardener on that task.” She grabbed Sascha by the arm, then caught Marisol’s hand. “Are we ready? Can I see it now? Come along, let’s go.”

Ian followed the trio back inside the house and waited at the library door. Cheryl Templeton covered her eyes as Sascha led her inside and Marisol stood next to her painting. She nodded at Ian and he quickly moved to the crate, grabbing it and taking it out the door while Mrs. Templeton still had her eyes covered.

“Are you ready?” Marisol asked as Ian closed the door behind him.

He carried the crate to Sascha’s car and slid it into the back. As he slammed the hatch, Ian sighed, satisfied that he’d done all he could to keep Marisol and her father out of jail-for now. But there was still one wild card in this whole mess and that was David Barnett.

Barnett was short a painting and as long as he believed Marisol had the Colter, he wouldn’t leave her alone. Since Ian didn’t have a reason to arrest him, something else had to be done. But what?

Ian glanced up as Marisol and Sascha hurried out of the house, offering their apologies for such a hasty exit. Cheryl Templeton followed after them, imploring everyone to stay for dinner. But to Ian’s relief, the invitation was graciously refused.

Sascha got into the Volvo and Marisol grabbed for the passenger’s door, but Ian took her elbow and steered her toward the Mustang. “You’re coming with me,” he said.

“I-I should go with Sascha. She has the painting.”

Ian shook his head. “I’m not letting you out of my sight again until we’ve decided what to do with that damned painting.”

Marisol slid into the Mustang and Ian hurried around to the driver’s side. They followed Sascha down the driveway and once out of sight of the house, he glanced over at Marisol.

She sent him a weak smile. “Sorry?”

Ian laughed. “Sorry? Do you realize what would have happened had you actually made that switch? That was theft, Marisol. You could have ended up in prison for a very long time.”

She opened her mouth to speak, but Ian held up his hand. Right now, he wasn’t interested in explanations. This certainly wasn’t what he was taught at the police academy, nor had his ten years of job experience prepared him to dance along the edges of the law as he had tonight.

The only consolation was that, for the moment, Marisol was on the right side of the law-his side.