She didn’t dare make her deeper thoughts any more conscious, much less voice them because the notions forming in her mind were crazy. Illogical. Impossible. Still, she sometimes thought the painting was…coming alive.
Another minute passed. She’d been wrong. No one was downstairs. The security was great, she reminded herself, still wondering what had come over her in Weatherby’s. She’d felt leaving the painting in the auction house would be a…well, betrayal. Of him.
But now, lying in the dark, she knew she was only betraying herself. Selling the painting would generate enough money to change her life. Or someone else’s. A creak sounded, and her heart hammered again. Was the building settling down? Or had Weatherby’s staff leaked information about the rare find? But no. They were professionals. Another minute passed. No more sounds. Good.
Anyone else would have sold, she realized. Would she ever become what her folks would call a “normal” person? The kind with a good job, stable husband, two kids and a dog? Like her younger sister, Brittania?
Somebody coughed, and ice flooded her veins. Her hand froze around the shoe. She thought she heard a shot glass hitting the bar downstairs, and she gulped, realizing the door to the stairs must be open. She started to call out, “James.” But he really was on vacation, on the other side of the world. Oh God, she thought, her mind racing as she edged off the bed. Careful. He’ll hear you. Was there more than one intruder? She cursed herself for shutting the blinds so tightly and leaving her phone on the other side of the room. What if she tripped over something in the dark? Biting back a gasp, she saw the door leading downstairs really was open. Just a fraction. He’d been upstairs, already! In her room! Watching her sleep!
She stifled a whimper. How had he—or he and others—gotten in? Her eyes darted around wildly. She had to close and lock the door between the floors before he heard her and came running.
Her mind raced. What about the alarm? And the computerized keypad? He—or they—must have come in some way. But how? She decided she’d run to the door, slam it shut and once it was locked, she’d grab her phone and call the police.
She could barely steady her hands. As she slowly crept toward the door, an explosive curse sounded. A cry escaped her lips. Then everything went quiet. Too quiet. Knowing it was now or never, that he’d heard her, she fled for the door.
So did he! Footsteps pounded on the stairs. He was coming up! She had to close the door and pull the chain across before he…Grabbing the door’s edge, she tried to force it closed, but it caught on something.
“My foot!”
She stared down at a dark boot wedged in the crack. She tried not to panic, but terror consumed her heart. It was racing fast, exploding in her chest. She prayed she sounded stronger than she felt. “Get your foot out of the door!”
“Don’t you be tellin’ me what to do, miss.”
She pushed harder.
He pushed back, and a tug-of-war ensued. It was like arm wrestling, and worse, he was stronger. He was winning. “I already called the police,” she lied.
“I would ’a heard you on the…” He paused. “Telephone…That’s it.”
She barely registered his words. Someone at Weatherby’s must have leaked information about the masterpiece, after all. “You can have the painting.”
“I should hope so, miss. It’s mine.”
His? His voice was a barely discernable Irish brogue, the words strangely antiquated. The boot had odd buckles, too, like none she’d ever seen—and if there was one thing Tanya knew about, it was shoes. The boot looked strangely familiar, too, as if she’d seen a picture of it somewhere. And what did he mean when he’d said the painting was his? Had the proprietress of Finders Keepers learned of Eduardo’s appraisal, then hired this man to steal the painting, feeling entitled to it?
At least he didn’t seem to have accomplices. “Get your foot out of the door!”
“I’ll do no such thing.”
Instead he pushed again. Harder. Fear paralyzed her as she was forced backward. What if he intended more than theft? People had been killed for less than one-point-five million dollars. Eduardo said the painting might even bring two million. Renewed panic shot through her as the stranger’s dark, hulking body crashed through the doorway.
Instinctively she hauled her hand back, swinging the platform. As he yelped, she ducked, glad Izzie and Marlo had coerced her to take dance classes. With practiced agility, she was able to limbo under his elbow. Eluding his grasp with a pirouette, she tumbled downstairs, running hard now, leaping over the bottom five steps.
She hit the floor running. You’ve got to get to the front door! The second it opened, an alarm would sound. Neighbors would come. Cops! But footsteps thundered behind her. She threw the platform to slow him down. He’d turned on the lamp at the bar before, so dim hazy light illuminated her steps. She had no time to wonder what he’d been doing downstairs. She was fifteen feet from the door. Then ten. Then five…
Gratitude filled her as she swept her arm wide, a splayed hand ready to grab the knob. Something pulled her back! A hand grasped her shirt! She lost her footing! Lunged! She couldn’t gain traction. He pulled her backward, and viselike arms circled her waist. Turning, she wrenched hard as he brought her down, then gasped as he rolled with her to the floor.
He landed on top. The door was less than five feet away. Maybe she could still reach it. Punching wildly, she hit his face while he tried to catch her flailing hands. Her pulse skyrocketed as the masculine scent of him filled her lungs. He writhed against her as she squirmed, his weight crushing her. “Get off me!”
“I’ve met nicer wildcats in the woods,” he spat.
She felt dizzy. Faint. And no wonder. The dress for Izzie’s opening had no longer fit, and she’d starved herself for days, so she could wear it. But now, her life depended on staying alert. Her nightshirt had risen, bunching around her waist. There was nothing between their bodies but her exposed panties and the thin fabric of his pants. Not jeans, she thought. Maybe cycling slacks. Heat twined through her limbs, feeling taut, like the corded ropes of his sinews.
He was so strong. Suddenly heat flooded her. He had an erection! He was twisting his torso, too, settling more comfortably between her legs. Was the maniac sexually assaulting her? Had she gotten this all wrong? Was his intrusion unrelated to the painting? But no…he’d said it was his. She tried to glimpse his face, her mind reeling, but hair was hanging in his face. If she got away, could she identify him for the police? “If you think you can rape me,” she snarled, “you’re—”
“Rape!” he exploded, rolling away. In a flash, he rose to his feet, towering over her. “If you ask me, America would be a better place with no women in it to rape a’tall! If it’s not Basil Drake accusin’ me, it’s always somebody else! It’s enough to make any man drink himself to death in McMulligan’s and never kiss a wench again, much less show her his divining rod, I swear it is!”
Divining rod? What was he talking about? Whatever the case, she used the advantage to scramble to her feet. She stilled. Indeed, she could only stare, her eyes bugging. The sexiest green-eyed gaze she’d ever seen flickered down her body feeling as hot as a flame. It settled near the throat of her nightshirt, studying cleavage. She became aware of her bare legs, and that fighting him had left her aroused and panting. But that wasn’t the worst thing. Her eyes were deceiving her, or the light was too faint to be reliable.
And yet it was him.
The dark man from the painting. His hair was loose now, no longer tied back. Her hands had tangled with the strip of cloth holding it back, and it had fallen to the floor. Still, she’d know