Take It Down. Kira Sinclair
of booting everyone off the island so that she could run from one room to the other until she found the painting of her grandmother that her sleazy ex-boyfriend had stolen from her four years ago.
The piece was far from priceless, at least in art circles. It had been semivaluable. The man who’d painted it, a lover from her grandmother’s own misspent youth, had achieved a moderate amount of success after their time together. The painting had gone up in value somewhat over the years, but the emotion behind it had always meant more to Elle.
The colors were lush. Burgundy, gold, black, green. Her grandmother, a young woman just beginning to taste the world, was looking over her bare shoulder, caught in the act of dropping her robe to the ground. The mischief and passion in her bright gray eyes, so familiar and yet so different, had always called to Elle. Nana had never married the man. In fact, she’d gone on to devote her life to someone else. Very happily, to hear her tell it, although Elle had never met her grandfather. But caught in that one moment of time, there was no mistaking that the young woman her grandmother once was desperately desired the man staring at her with a brush in his hand.
The painting was the one and only possession of her grandmother’s that she’d had, but it was also so much more. The skill of the painter was evident in the layering of color, the shadow and light. The way he’d captured the hint of daring in the sparkle of her grandmother’s eyes. That image had been evidence to a struggling teenage girl that the world didn’t revolve solely around strict rules and unbreakable laws. It had been proof that there was a world outside her father’s house, one she’d someday get to experience, just as her grandmother had.
Nana had been the only female influence in Elle’s life after her mother had died when she was very young. She’d also been the only one to understand Elle’s reckless artistic bent and had encouraged her to explore her talents. She wished Nana could see the success she’d found in the past few years—the sale of her paintings finally supporting her.
Nana had understood her. And for Elle, the painting represented that bond of understanding, as well.
She’d been heartbroken when, disgruntled over the fact that she’d kicked his sorry, mooching, jobless ass to the curb, Mac had ransacked her place, taking anything in her apartment worth more than a dime. Her computer, TV, DVD player…everything.
Although, all she’d cared about was the painting. It was the only thing that couldn’t be replaced.
Mac had disappeared along with all of her stuff. She’d filed a police report, but she had enough cops in her family to realize her possessions had vanished right along with him. She’d wanted to protest as the officer who’d taken her statement had written down miscellaneous wall art when she’d listed her Nana’s painting.
She’d cried herself to sleep that night, knowing it was gone forever.
But then eight weeks ago, she’d opened Worldwide Travel and seen the glossy picture of a resort and the painting of her seminude grandmother against the backdrop of lush green walls and sparkling ocean. She’d known she needed to get it back.
Her father and brothers had told her the foreign location of the resort made recovery next to impossible. The lawyer she’d consulted had said the same thing. Foreign courts were complicated enough, but she couldn’t even prove the painting was hers. It had been gifted to her grandmother, who’d gifted it to her. There was no paper trail. She could prove that the painting was of her grandmother, but that didn’t mean she’d ever owned it.
She’d thought to reason with the owner of the island. If he’d bothered to return any of her letters, emails or phone calls, she might not have had to resort to treachery in order to recover what was rightfully hers.
She had to assume that the owner knew the piece was stolen and had no intention of returning it to her.
That freed up her moral obligations to the commandment about stealing rather nicely. While Sister Mary Theresa wouldn’t approve, Elle’s conscience was clean.
A picture slammed onto the surface of the rickety table before her, pulling her from her self-righteous anger and making her jump. The handcuffs rattled again, only this time it wasn’t for effect and the jarring sensation jolted up her arms and into her shoulders, making her want to double over—if she’d had the freedom of movement to do so.
It took her a moment to focus her attention on just what was sitting in front of her. Her eyes squinted at the grainy black-and-white image as a coil of unease began to tighten in her chest.
“I do have the right to hold you, considering this photo proves that you were the source of a false fire alarm. The same one you claimed made you disoriented and unable to find your own room.”
Yeah. This was not good.
Elle fought the urge to open her mouth and let words start spilling out. She had no doubt the hard-ass who’d delighted in clamping her to this chair wouldn’t understand why she was here or believe her without the proof her lawyer had pointed out she didn’t have.
He rounded the table to stare across the scored and dirty surface and placed his palms flat onto the center, leaning forward into her space. Her only thought was damn, the man is tall. He was big, too, with broad shoulders and the kind of muscles that clothes couldn’t disguise. Any other time, she’d have enjoyed staring at him.
At this precise moment, not so much.
“Feel free to call your lawyer. You won’t get a damn thing.”
His eyes bored into her and, for the first time since she’d come to the island, she began to squirm. They were a mix of green and gold and gray that shouldn’t have been mesmerizing but somehow was. The expression in them was hard, disconnected almost. She’d seen that expression before, in her dad’s eyes on the nights he’d come home late after working a particularly horrendous murder.
She licked her lips, fighting the urge to reach out to him in the same way she’d always tried to bring the light back into her dad’s face. But this wasn’t the time. And he wasn’t her problem.
The silence stretched between them, broken only by the loud bang of the door as it slammed into the wall.
“Zane, what are you doing?”
His mouth pinched before his focus switched to the man who’d just entered.
“Questioning a thief.”
“That’s not what Marcy said. According to her, this woman didn’t take a damn thing and we have no right to hold her.”
“She pulled the fire alarm.”
“I don’t care if she put on a rabbit suit and paraded up and down the halls, pretending she was the Easter bunny. Let her go.”
Elle craned her head around until she could see her would-be savior.
He wasn’t what she’d expected. While the man’s words had certainly been stern enough, his posture was anything but. He lounged against the open doorway, one hand lodged in a pocket at his hip and the other dangling loosely at his side. His shorts were slack around his hips. He had on a Hawaiian shirt, a dark cord of some kind wrapped around his tanned throat.
The man was the picture of laid-back island life. Elle thought it was a lie. A core of steel lurked somewhere deep inside. There was certainly no question he had some level of authority over Hard-Ass. She hoped he was about to use it to her advantage.
“Now, be a good boy and unlock those handcuffs before she calls her lawyer.”
“She’s already threatened to do that.”
She watched as a grimace crossed his face. “I’m sure there’s no reason for that. I apologize for Zane’s behavior. He’s ex-CIA.”
He made the statement as if it explained absolutely everything there was to know about the other man. And dragging her gaze back over to him, she thought it just might.
Hard-Ass’s…no, Zane’s jaw tightened even more