Chapter Thirty-Seven
New York City
October 22
C lara sat in the back seat of the SUV. Her fight or flight instinct was always pointed to fight—it was the residual effect from her childhood. She’d still be kicking and punching if it weren’t for the vicious-looking knife the man on her right held to her throat. The guy on her left was the one she poked in the eye. His face was impassive, but tears leaked down his cheek from the injury. Good. She hoped she blinded him.
They drove for an hour. The knife never shifted; the passengers never spoke. Clara made note of the route and location, but her abductors seemed unconcerned with her knowledge of their destination. As they ventured deeper into the Connecticut suburbs, traffic was sparse, and the streets were quiet. The only sound she heard was the high-pitched ngggg of a revving motorcycle in the distance.
Eventually, they pulled into a gated drive and stopped in the cobblestone circle surrounding an abstract gold sculpture Clara could only describe as phallic .
The men escorted her up the stone steps to the front door. The heavy knocker was a cast of the head of Poseidon, the handle his beard. One of her guards banged twice, and the door opened to a smartly dressed man with a warm smile.
Her host dismissed her captors with a disapproving sweep of his fingers, then turned his attention to Clara. “I apologize for the rude treatment, Miss Gautreau.”
“Who are you?”
“My name is Willoughby. I’m the house manager. Mr. Kite would like a word.” He extended an arm toward the grand staircase. “Through the double doors at the top.”
Clara took the steps alone. Halfway up, she glanced back to see the house manager walk over to a woman half-hidden in the next room. She was wearing a nightgown. Willoughby joined her but stopped to study a stain on the carpet.
Clara climbed the stairs, angry and apprehensive. One of the heavy maple doors was ajar. Clara pushed it open the remaining distance. The office was lovely. There was a subtle elegance to it. On her right, bookshelves lined the walls of a tasteful seating area. Her eyes widened when she saw the painting stolen from her father hanging on the opposite wall. And straight ahead, Lucien Kite sat behind a kingly desk, smiling. Was he sitting on a chair made of money?
Kite spoke first. “I have a celebrity in my midst. The infamous Lynx.”
Clara didn’t pretend. She knew her little ruse at the warehouse would be discovered eventually. “What do you want?”
“Two things. First, since you will never possess it, I thought you might like to see my latest acquisition.”
“That you stole,” she spat.
“Oh, that’s rich coming from you.”
Clara entered the room fully and crossed to the portrait. The depiction drew her in, the woman so desperate, reaching out for someone. An aura surrounded the image so poignant that Clara felt the despair in her soul.
“I’m not particularly impressed with it.” Kite interrupted her perusal. “But I know the painting’s secret and why your father wants it.”
Clara knew the rumors. Something about the portrait told her that Reynard wanted it for its beauty, not some inane treasure hunt. Lucien Kite’s tastes were determined by price tag and not quality. Reynard purchased art that affected him. She kept those thoughts to herself.
Instead, she said, “You’re a brave man stealing from Reynard. He has many friends.”
Clara returned her attention to the painting. This time, she examined the mounting and the frame, checking for motion sensors and alarms.
Kite replied, “Your father is the Old Guard. He is respected but no longer feared.”
A thud against the window behind Lucien Kite stole their attention. In the dim exterior lighting, Clara could see a bird had flown into the floor-to-ceiling plate glass and landed dazed on the balcony. After flopping on the flagstone for a moment, it flew into the darkness.
Kite grumbled. “There’s a nest of great grey owls on the balcony. Some loony birdwatcher reported it to the bird police. They’re protected, so as much as I’d like to tip the whole fucking lot of them right off the edge, the last thing I need is a swarm of nature cops arresting me. Can you picture it? Al Capone went to jail for tax evasion. Lucien Kite gets pinched for animal abuse.”
“Yes, that would be comical.”
He joined her at the fireplace and regarded the portrait. “Ever done any modeling? Been lured to a photographer’s studio after one too many mojitos?”
“No,” she replied flatly.
Kite shrugged. “Still, I can see why he painted her. Unlike those chubs in the Louvre, this gal is sexy.” He fingered a strand of Clara’s hair.
She stepped away. “What else?”
“Hmm?”
“You said you brought me here for two things.”
“Ah, yes.” Lucien Kite picked up a thick envelope with a wax seal and extended his hand. “For you. I’m hosting a costume party next weekend. I realize it’s short notice, but I wanted to invite you. You see, Clara, I have studied The Lynx for quite some time. I know how you think. I know how you steal. So I thought I’d save you the trouble of sneaking into my home and open my doors for you. Give it your best shot.” Kite stood and came around the desk. “Oh, and feel free to use your ruse of requesting a tour of the house and my art collection for research on your Ph.D. My house manager can schedule it any time.”
“I’ll bear that in mind.”
“Why you want it is beyond me; it’s not what I would steal if I robbed this house.” His expression conveyed Kite had a valuable secret hidden here.
When Clara said nothing, he walked her to the office entry, pulling both doors open with bravado. “Willoughby can show you out. One of my men will return you to The City.”
A persistent banging on the front door had them both turning their heads. A muffled shout came through the wood. “Open the goddamned door!”
Clara couldn’t hide her smile. “Thanks, I have a ride. Oh, and Lucien?”
“Yes?”
“I’m going to steal that painting right out from under your nose.” She turned and descended the stairs. “See you at the party.”
She started for the front door, but a tsking sound had her looking over her shoulder. Willoughby was where she had last seen him. Only now, he was staring at a water stain on the ceiling. A drop fell and landed at his feet. Clara tracked the water damage up to what must be a bathroom next to Kite’s office.
Remembering his duty, the house manager hurried to her side and opened the door, still vibrating from the incessant pounding.
Miles stood on the threshold like a warrior god. Dressed in jeans, boots, and a plain gray T-shirt, he looked young. And angry. Clara felt her face heat and her nipples harden beneath her bra. Without a word to her escort, Miles grabbed her hand and yanked her out of the house. She had to jog to keep up with his strides as he pulled her toward a motorcycle.
Holy shit, he’s the hottest man I’ve ever seen . The thought ran through her mind unbidden as Miles grabbed the spare helmet and placed it on her head. Then he secured his own, lifted Clara onto the seat, and mounted the bike.
She instinctively reached around his body. He smelled like ocean air and clean laundry. Clara wanted to press her face between his shoulder blades and inhale the scent. With a Herculean effort, she resisted, reminding herself that she hated Miles Buchanan. A voice in her head seemed to say oh, who the hell are you kidding?
With a rev of the motor and a spray of gravel, they shot away from the mansion.