Pursuit (26 page)

He grimaced, peered at her, and grinned when she grimaced back. “It sells, and it’s what’s hot now, what can I say, eh? If you know anything about Canadian art, I’ve got Simone Fast, Randy Hirsch, and Peter Perricone.

“The show, this is how it’d work. We take care of matting, framing, and transport, insurance included, and we take 35 percent. It’s a really good deal, most US galleries take 40–50 percent and charge you for matting and framing. Starting asking price for watercolors is $800. Three thousand for an oil.”

Matt could see Charlotte turning it over in her mind. “It
is
a good deal,” she said, finally, sounding surprised.

Jesus, she isn’t a bargainer.
Matt would have doubled that, on principle, then let the guy negotiate the price down a bit.

“Good.” Ensler slapped the flat of his hand on the tabletop and stood up. “So let me know when I can stop by to see what you’ve got, I’m really looking forward to it, don’t see this quality often, and in an unknown—great. I’ll need your address, how about later this afternoon, I’m here until Sunday, what do you say?”

“Okay,” Charlotte said. “You can stop by after lunch—”

“At six,” Matt interrupted. “And come alone.” Ensler didn’t know how to react to that. He looked to Charlotte for guidance. To her credit, she watched Matt’s eyes a moment, face somber, then nodded. Good girl. Whatever it was she saw in his face was enough for her to trust him.

Charlotte turned to Ensler. “Yes, you can stop by today at six, and I’ll show you a selection of works. We can discuss what you want in the permanent collection and for the show.”

“Okay.” Ensler stood up, tapping the card on the table. “Cell-phone number’s there, if you need to contact me, it was a pleasure, eh? See you later.” With a nod to Charlotte and a half nod to Matt, he walked back to his table.

Charlotte waited until he was out of earshot, pushed her plate away, folded her arms on the table, and glared at Matt. She kept her voice low but there was anger in it. “What was that about? Why on earth do I have to wait until six? Why—”

Matt held up a hand to stop the flow of grievances and steeled himself. This next bit was not going to be pleasant. He was going to have to give her a crash course in opsec, which most people took for paranoia.

“The extra hours are going to give me time to check this Ensler guy out. Make a few calls—I have friends in Canada who can check—do some Internet research.” Matt hated that look on her face, as if she’d been sucker punched in the stomach. He hated even more that he’d been the one to put it there. “It just so happens that I think the guy’s on the up and up. I think he has a gallery, and I think he wants to buy your stuff. You’re getting a free one this time. But it could have been a disaster.” Matt leaned forward and lowered his voice. “So I guess that, all things considered, it’s a good thing that Charlotte Fitzgerald isn’t your real name, isn’t it?”

San Luis

April 28

Charlotte’s first instinct was to run. But Matt was quicker than she was. Before the thought even materialized, before she could even take a breath to move, he’d caught her hands in a gentle but unbreakable grip.

She hadn’t even seen him move. One second she’d blanked on what he’d said, and the next second, her hands were in his.

Charlotte couldn’t seem to catch her breath. Great bands of panic tightened around her chest, and her heart thudded so hard, she was certain Matt could hear it. His gaze flicked down, then back up to her face. He didn’t need to hear her heart beating, he could see the echoes of her heart in the frantic pulse beating in her neck. He could feel the wild pulse in her wrists, beating a violent tattoo.

“Ah—” Charlotte blanked. Utterly and totally. She was usually a quick thinker, able to get out of awkward situations with grace, but this threw her. There was no possible answer to give, no way out. She looked left and right in little darting glances, but the thought of escape was ridiculous with Matt Sanders holding her hands in his, watching her carefully. His gaze was steady, completely neutral. She had no idea what he was thinking. It was so unfair because she knew her own face mirrored her emotions—shock, then fear, then a longing to get away.

The time to deny his words was long gone. She’d betrayed herself unwittingly, a second after he’d spoken, by not denying it immediately. Her paralysis and panic spoke for themselves.

He’d figured it out, though she couldn’t understand how he’d done it. The only good thing in this whole mess was that he didn’t know her real name. Thank God for that. Moira’s passport was hidden in a pocket she’d created in the canvas backing of her father’s portrait.

Once he’d seen the passport, he’d have a city to check—Warrenton. Two seconds on a computer with an Internet connection, and he’d have known all about her. The Charlotte Court case still hadn’t died down. Any checks on Moira Charlotte Fitzgerald would come up with Charlotte’s photograph in all the papers. Matt would recognize her and instantly know the truth. And if she was unlucky, if Matt did his duty as a citizen as he was probably hardwired to do, half an hour after that she could be in a Mexican holding pen, awaiting the FBI agents flying in to take her back to the States.

“That—that’s ridiculous,” she gasped, finally. Too little, too late. Oh God, she sounded so lame, even to her own ears. “Of course my name is Charlotte Fitzgerald.”

“No, it’s not.” His hands tightened briefly. “Don’t take me for a fool, honey.” His deep voice was low and soft. No one else could hear him. From a distance, they probably looked like lovers, holding hands over a tabletop. “I want you to know that I’m on your side, whatever kind of trouble you’re in. Whatever it is that’s wrong, I want to help. But don’t lie to me. That won’t help me, and, above all, it won’t help you.”

She couldn’t lie to him, and she couldn’t tell the truth. Charlotte watched his dark brown eyes, searching for a way out. He wasn’t giving her one. His gaze was calm and steady. Then he did something totally unexpected—he lifted her hands, turned them upward and raised them to his mouth, pressing a soft kiss in each palm. Her hands were icy-cold with shock, and his warm lips and breath felt like steam against her cold skin. The gesture was tender and unnerving. He kept his lips against her right palm, his gaze calm and direct.

“Let me help you,” he whispered, the words a hot breath against her skin. He no longer looked impassive, expressionless. There was heat and yearning and tenderness in his face and oh, how she wanted to reach out to him. He was fire on a gelid night, and she would give anything to be able to warm her hands by it. All the fear and loneliness and despair of the past months rose up and seized her by the throat.

Let me help you
, he’d said.
Oh God, if only he could. If only it was that simple.
Everything about him called to her—that steadfast gaze, those capable hands, that amazingly strong body, the look of tenderness on his rough features. A few words, and she wouldn’t be alone anymore. It was almost too strong a temptation to resist.

Charlotte’s hands trembled in his. She shook all over, a trembling that started deep in the core of her. Her throat ached with unspoken words and unshed tears. This was too much. The tenderness, the patience in his gaze, the soft caress against her hands, the gentle grip—it was too much. A single tear slipped out of her eye, slid down her cheek, and plopped onto the wooden tabletop. “I can’t talk,” she whispered. It was hard to get the words out against the rock weighing down her chest.

Matt’s eyes dropped as he followed the path of the tear, as if that one teardrop could contain all her secrets, and all he had to do was study it to learn everything about her. When his eyes rose again, his face was impassive again. Not cold, not warm. It was as if the look of tenderness she’d seen before had never existed, as if she’d dreamed it.

“Let’s go outside,” he said softly, and rose. “We need to talk.”

Charlotte waited while Matt tried, uselessly, to pay for lunch, then followed him outside. She stood for a moment, blinking in the bright early-afternoon sunlight. Matt took her hand in his and tugged. “Let’s go for a walk. I need to stretch my legs.”

He adjusted his stride to hers as they walked across the brightly tiled
ramblas
down to the beach.

“Some new yachts in,” he observed casually, looking across the azure bay at the long quay jutting out into the water. There had only been a few fishing boats moored there the day she’d arrived in San Luis. Now a dozen sleek white yachts were anchored, gently rising and falling with the tide, brass gleaming in the sunshine. “It’s the season. Lenny says the marina will be full by midsummer. He does about 80 percent of his business from May to September.”

“Mmm.” They were walking along the hard-packed sand toward the northern end of the bay. He was making general conversation to calm her down.

He didn’t have to. She was already calm. That pinwheel moment of bright panic was gone, and in its place was a determination to play the hand life had dealt her. They slowly walked along the beachfront. The sun had started sinking westwards and lit the buildings along the waterfront until they glowed, picking out the bright colors of the doors and windows. The light—that radiant light any artist would kill for—shone like diamonds. It was siesta time, so there weren’t many people walking along the waterfront, but the few who did nodded at them. Charlotte had yet to meet an unfriendly San Luiseño. Charlotte loved it here. She loved the people, the colors, the light, the very air. She loved the feeling of creating a life for herself here, with every day that passed. She wanted to protect that life with every cell in her body. She wasn’t going back until she’d found a way to prove her innocence. And if she never managed—so be it.

If she kept out of trouble, she could live here forever, if need be. Mama Pilar had discreetly let her know that Janet, the tenant before her, had lived in San Luis for twelve years without a
permiso
. She just came and stayed. Not all the foreign artists in San Luis had their papers in order. The police turned a blind eye. Everyone was cool with it. She’d been worried about money, something she’d have once thought impossible. Charlotte Court, of the Warrenton Courts, with a dwindling supply of money. If she was careful, she could last out the year, maybe until next summer with her Chicago money, if she was incredibly frugal. A job was impossible. She had no papers and no work permit, she had to stay under the radar of the authorities.

Perry Ensler was a godsend. If she could sell her paintings and make a living, her money problems were solved.

And the big man walking beside her, he was a huge problem, too. He’d made it clear he was sticking close, and Charlotte didn’t even try to kid herself she could drive him away or shake him off. What made things worse was that she didn’t want to drive him away. He’d stopped walking, and she did, too. They’d reached the low stone wall that ran from the marina halfway up the beach.

“Here, let’s stop a while.” Without any effort whatsoever, Matt picked her up and sat her on the wall, stepping right in front of her. Her legs opened automatically, and he moved between them until her thighs were hugging his legs. He leaned forward a little, resting his hands beside her hips. She was caged in by his big body. Sitting on the wall, her face was level with his, and she was able to study him openly. The afternoon sun shone straight on him, turning his tanned skin bronze, casting deep bronze highlights in his dark brown hair, emphasizing the high, broad cheekbones.

It was a fascinating face, in so many ways. The shape and structure of it, so strong and so intensely male. His face had her hands itching for a pencil. The intelligence of those chocolate brown eyes that missed nothing. This close, she could see another faint scar beside his right eye, hidden in the sun wrinkles fanning out from it. Any closer, and he’d have lost the eye.

He had scars all over his torso and legs, some white, some red, all of them ghastly. He’d led a dangerous life. He was a dangerous man. She had to remember that. Right now, he didn’t present a danger to her. He was looking at her with heat in his eyes, gaze dipping down to her mouth, then up again. Charlotte held her breath. What she saw in his eyes made her heart lurch. Strength, tenderness, toughness. And a scary kind of pitilessness that reminded her all over again that this was a man who had killed and was perfectly willing to kill again. He’d killed in the service of his country, it was true, but he had blood on his hands. It hadn’t crushed him, it had only made him harder. He moved his head the few inches necessary to cover her mouth with his, lips settling gently over hers. He didn’t fumble, angling for the right fit. He found it right away, tongue slowly entering her mouth in a kiss so warm and coaxing that all the thoughts that had been circling round and round her head, in an endless loop of worry and fear, disappeared. Simply went up in smoke. His mouth was so warm over hers, so soft, she drifted dreamily, forgetting where she was and who she was.

His lips slid over hers, coaxing hers apart to allow his tongue to slide against hers once more. Oh God, he tasted so good! He tasted of the mole and the Corona he’d had at lunch. He tasted of musk and man. When her tongue shyly met his, he groaned in her mouth and shook. She felt the moan throughout her body. They were so close the noise echoed in her mouth, she could feel the vibration in his hard chest pressed against hers. His hand at her back pressed her forward against him, against his aroused penis, until the lips of her sex opened. A shift of his hips, and she was riding him. She licked his tongue again and felt his penis surge against her, becoming thicker and longer.
Amazing
. She could feel in another part of her body what her mouth was doing to his. It was so intriguing, she tried again, lifting her head slightly, licking his lips. Immediately, she could feel the ripples against her sensitive flesh. A blast of heat rose from her groin as he moved slowly against her, letting her feel the full length and breadth of him. He was holding her tightly now. If she’d wanted to breathe, she’d have found it difficult, so it was a good thing she didn’t care. All she needed, she got from his mouth, the source of all pleasure in the world. He bit at her lips, lightly, then harder, lifting his mouth just long enough to find a better, deeper fit.