Lost Art Assignment (16 page)

“Of course I trust you,” Davis said. “I lov…” He cut himself off, like a child who almost gave away the secret code. His arm dropped, and he walked back to the other side of the table.

“Sorry,” Davis went on, fiddling with his fork. “You know, I've probably told three hundred women I loved them. Most of them older than I, none of them nearly as lovely as you. You've no reason to believe me. After all, I'm a con man. I lie for a living. But I'm not lying now. Felicity, I think I've fallen in love with you.”

If the first question shocked Felicity, this new revelation was a hammer blow to the skull.
This isn't happening,
she thought.
We haven't known each other long enough for this. He's sweet, and Lord knows he's pretty, but how much of this is real? Is that sincerity I see in his eyes or the masterful emotional control of an artist plying his craft? How do I handle this?

“Well? Say something.” Having laid his heart on the line, Davis now needed a response. Felicity knew what it must be. Regardless of the truth, she had to play it as if it was all a con. Any other course could be emotional, and possibly literal, suicide.

“Ross, I…wow. What can I say?” She gave the least suspicious reply. Davis shoved the cart aside and wrapped his arms around her.

“Ross, I just don't know,” Felicity said, staring into his opaque eyes. “I mean it's all going so fast. I'm just not sure.”

Instead of answering, Davis bent his head and kissed her. His mouth pressed hers, gently at first, then with increasing intensity until she had to part her lips to admit
his questing tongue. He drew her breath from her, sapped her reason, and she melted back into his arms. His strong right hand locked her shoulder in a grip that told her she couldn't fall. His left hand slid down to just cup the top half of her derriere.

“I'm still not sure,” Felicity whispered when Davis lifted his head, letting her breathe again, “but I'm definitely leaning in favor.”

“Let me convince you.” Davis breathed the words into her ear, lifted her in his arms and walked toward the bed. Felicity tried to remember the dangers this situation held, but it was no use. The fires were lit, and they never burned themselves out. Silently, she paraphrased Scarlet O'Hara. “I'll think tomorrow,” she thought. “Tomorrow is another day.”

During another long, gentle kiss, Davis delicately slipped open the buttons at the back of Felicity's collar, easing the dress over her shoulders. She wanted to feel relaxed and willing, but she knew Ross felt her stiffen when his kisses trailed down her neck to her chest.

“Ross.” Felicity said. “Get the lights, okay?”

“But, I want to see you.” Davis' words weren't really a protest, but his eyes insisted.

“Please?”

Davis nodded, and walked over to the light switch. Next he headed for the table, to puff out the candles. At the last instant he hesitated, leaving a single wick burning. He hovered for five seconds, his lips poised but his eyes pointed toward the bed.

“All right.” Felicity's voice came out of the darkness. “Just one.”

She never saw his smile until he was right next to her again, caressing, kissing, and undressing her. He was quite
adept at this, Felicity thought. There is a special skill involved in dealing with women's fasteners without being awkward. He managed to get her naked without fumbling or losing the warmth.

At the same time, Felicity worked at buttons, snaps and zipper, so when he finished with her clothing, he simply stepped back, letting his drop to the floor. She rolled under the covers and he followed suit. He felt very warm to her, all over, the single candle casting a pencil line aura around his golden form. Felicity sucked in a breath when he cupped one soft breast, and heard him do the same. Then his thumb brushed the rough line leading down her left breast, and she jerked away. His hand jerked away as if he feared that he had hurt her. His gaze cast down as if seeking a recent injury.

“Don't look,” Felicity said, in a pouty voice. “It's ugly.”

“It's beautiful,” Davis said, his hand returning to the caress it had abandoned, “but how did you get cut here? Certainly no man…”

“No, it was a woman. She cut me for no reason except to make me ugly.”

“Well, that sure didn't work,” Davis said, forcing her to look him in the eye. “You know what this does. It makes you unique. And it says something. It says, ‘this is no child you've got here'. It says ‘this is a woman who's been there, who's done it, who's made it on her own, and she's got the scar to prove it.' And you know what else? It's very sexy.”

Then Davis lowered his face very slowly and kissed the scar's starting point. He laid a trail of tender kisses down its length, until he reached the end. The mark was a rough arrow pointing him directly to Felicity's left nipple. When his mouth closed around it, his right hand curled playfully in the baby fine floss between her legs. Her head snapped
back, a single sigh escaped her lips, and she could feel the swirling eddies of passion coming for her, coming to drag her into the familiar whirlpool of love.

She relaxed and let it take her.

“I love you, baby,” Davis whispered. “Just tell me what you want.” The lone candle had burned itself out long ago. Davis stretched lazily, reached out and turned on the bedside lamp.

Felicity stroked his smooth chest, her ear resting against his heart. “Oh Ross, darling, I don't think there's anything left.”

“That's not what I meant,” Davis said. “Here, sit up a minute.”

“Uh-oh.” Felicity slid herself up, holding the sheet up over her breasts. “This sounds serious.”

“Listen. I don't think you hooked up with me because you wanted a job. And I don't think you did it because of my good looks, either.”

“Seemed like a good reason to me,” she teased, rubbing his stomach. Awareness was returning, and with it, her natural caution.

“Come on now.” Davis tried to be serious, but Felicity's hands would not let him. “Let me in on your ulterior motive. I promise not to be angry, or cause you any trouble, but if you're cooking something up to scam J.J., don't leave me in the dark. He's big on loyalty. Anything out of line, you'll have him on your ass forever, and mine too.”

“You're scared of him?”

“Baby, all I know is, when you got J.J. Slash on your ass, you truly have got somebody on your ass. I just need to know.”

Looking at Davis' handsome features, Felicity decided
to gamble. She could be truthful up to a point and still stay in character. Whether he loved her or was pretending, he would have to at least try to help.

“Okay, Ross, I'll tell you, but you won't like it.”

“Try me.”

“Well, it's the art. With me, it's always the art.” Felicity shifted her position on the sheet. Why don't hotels leave a towel or something under the bed? “A couple of paintings I stole for you really hooked me. What I really want is to find out where they went. If they're sold again, I can steal them again, to keep.”

“So that's it.” Davis hugged Felicity to himself, stealing a quick glance down at her marvelous bosom. “Well, that ain't no thing. When we get back to New York, I'll just ask J.J. for his distributors list. Then we can find out who got the ones you want.”

“You'd do that for me?” Felicity asked, expanding her massage circle to include his abdomen and chest.

“Of course. All you have to do is promise to stay with me for a while, give this thing a chance.”

“Sounds like a winning deal for me,” she said, smiling. That was awfully easy. “When can we go?”

“Well, I do have some unfinished business here. We do. Do you play poker?”

“Well enough.” She started nipping gently at his chest.

“Good. If you got a good selection of marks, we can set up the game for this weekend. Cut that out, will you? If you sit in, my mechanic can make sure you win the money you're owed for the last painting. After that, we'll take off for New York and your lost art. After that, maybe a week in Aruba to get acquainted, eh? Or maybe the Turks and Caicos.

“There is one other thing I want,” she said.

“Anything,” Davis said, slipping a hand through her long, loose hair.

“You know that last thing you did? Right before the end? Could you do that some more?”

“Wonder when's the last time they had an execution in Scarsdale?” Morgan asked himself out loud. If Ghost found it funny, he gave no sign.

Morgan rubbed his eyes with both palms. He had stayed up far too late last night, polishing his plan to take out the Italian gangster, and had spent too much time lying still in the back of this hot van. He needed to be at his best, since he was depending on so much that was undependable: an enemy he didn't know enough about, a team he hardly knew, and a rifle he had not spent enough time with.

It had started two nights ago at Slash's computer. That was when he found out Minelli lived way up here, past The Bronx, past Mount Vernon, past New Rochelle, in a huge rambling house in a peaceful suburban neighborhood. It constituted not so much a fortress as a protected village. His entire neighborhood was peppered with sub-lieutenants' families. There was no way to know which windows within a two block radius of his home hid lookouts or guards.

Morgan was surprised to learn that Slash had people watching his main competitors for months. That intel proved invaluable. Minelli's schedule varied from day to day in no pattern Morgan could see, except for the most important thing. He went home every night, and he left every weekday morning at about the same time. At eight o'clock each day, three close associates walked to his garage, got into his bulletproof BMW and started it u
p. Minelli kissed his plain but dutiful wife, climbed into his car, and rode off to direct his little crime empire.

It turned out he specialized in kiddie porn and child prostitution. Judging from the house, he made a decent living at it. But then, slavery had always been very profitable.

A commando raid was out of the question. Police protection in that area was too good. The house was too big to get in, find him and make a quick strike. It didn't look good for even getting close without raising suspicions. Everything Slash had said was true. There was no getting at the man. At least, not through normal gang war methods.

If he could get what he needed, Morgan could take Minelli out of the picture with a surgical strike, relying on Minelli's experience. Gangland executions had always come in two flavors. Sometimes someone planted a bomb where the target would surely find it, like under his car's hood. Other times it was up close and personal, with a gun or knife or occasionally a garrote for variety. Minelli was too well prepared to avoid this kind of attack. So Morgan planned to bring him into the kill zone using the man's own instincts against him.

The next day was a long one, filled with preparation. First he had to find the right rifle, and that caused a frustrating conversation with Slash, who escorted Morgan to an unoccupied apartment under his own. The entire place had been converted into an armory complete with rifle racks and pegboards covered with handguns.

“You need something specific, Slick? Take your pick.”

Morgan scanned the collection with a mixture of admiration and sympathy. He saw at least a dozen different handguns, both auto and revolver, from .22 caliber to the Desert Eagle .50 Caliber. Every permutation of AR-15 and
AK-47 was represented, and Morgan had to wonder why Slick thought assault rifles were of use for his purposes. Submachine guns were plentiful too, from the obsolete Tech-9 to Uzis and MAC-10s. Clearly, Slick thought he was ready for anything.

“Look,” Morgan said. “What I need is a little more special purpose than these guns. I don't think you understand the amount of…”

“Power?” Slick asked. “You need power to go the distance, right? We got .44 Mags here. It don't hit much harder than that.”

“Not exactly a sniper round.” Morgan said. “For distance a round has to have a flat trajectory and…”

“A long barrel, right?” Slash said, snatching a heavy barreled M-16 off the rack. “This baby's pretty long. You know, I can take every one of these bitches apart and put it back together. I know what they can do, nigger.”

Finally, Morgan realized he couldn't keep being nice. He locked eyes with Slick and kept his tone stiff. “Listen. This is my area of expertise. Nothing here is accurate enough…”

“It ain't the gun that hits the target, Slick. It's the man behind it.”

“You're only half right. The shooter has to have a weapon that's as accurate over distance as he is.”

There was an uneasy silence for five long seconds. Then Slash said, “No bullshit now. Did you really cap a guy at five hundred yards?”

“No bullshit,” Morgan said. “At that distance the shooter has to know he has a round that will fly true. He's got to figure wind drift, bullet drop, the effects of temperature, the curvature of the earth…”

“Hold up,” Slash said, grinning. “Now I know you
shitting me.”

“Or you can find somebody else who can make the shot.” Morgan shrugged but maintained eye contact. Slash smirked, nodded slowly as if considering, and finally grinned.

“Alright, Slick, you got the balls and I'm going to give you enough rope. I know a guy can give you any kind of gun you can imagine. I'm gonna send your ass over there with Ghost and then we'll see if you hang yourself.”

With Morgan at the wheel, Ghost had led him to a boarding house on the edge of Chinatown. There, a small Asian man with a scar where his left eyebrow should be greeted them in the dimly lit hallway.

“We know Ghost.” the small man said in a strong accent Morgan recognized. “What you need?”

“Reach. Accuracy. Power. Lots of power. It's a sniper touch, but against a hardened target.”