Chapter 3 #2
“We were here for a reception, celebrating the exchange of artwork between the Gardner Museum and the Uffizi.” He sat down next to her.
“It’s an unprecedented event for the Gardner.
Their collection is unchanging, but they decided to display one of the Uffizi’s works for a limited engagement.
The Madonna Fornirà, by Agotsi. It belongs here.
It’s part of the series that Isabella Gardner collected, the missing link.
It’s important for history’s sake that the pieces be together, at least once.
And it’s excellent PR for the Italian government. ”
He shook his head. “I was so concerned about security for the painting. Everything was about the painting.” Countless hours he had worked side-by-side with the Gardner’s head of security. Rowan thought they had considered every possibility, every point of entry.
Becky’s green eyes met his. “You said on the news there was a ransom note.”
“Five million dollars for their safe return.” A wave of nausea crested at the reminder. “The kidnappers said they’ll be in touch within twenty-four hours.” He looked at his watch.
“What the hell are you supposed to do until then?”
“I have no fucking clue.”
A handsome man in a sharply tailored suit came to the doorway. “Rowan, we need you downstairs.”
Rowan and Becky stood up, and the man’s brows snapped down. “Who is this?” he asked.
“A friend. Becky O’Connor.” He turned to her. “Gianni Amato. He’s with Interpol.”
“Something terrible has happened,” said Amato.
The floor beneath Rowan seemed to drop several inches. “Did they find them?”
“No, but come. You must see this for yourself.”
Becky picked up her coat and purse, then followed the men downstairs.
On a tall easel stood a resplendent painting of Mary holding the baby Jesus, their pose instantly reminding her of the snapshot of Rowan’s wife and son she saw on the news report.
A small sign on the easel read, Madonna Fornirà by Giuseppe Agotsi.
Three years of French class had Becky loosely translating the Italian as Madonna provides.
Rowan stepped closer, his eyes darting around the painting, horror overtaking his features. “No,” he whispered, his eyes raking over the canvas. “It’s not possible. It’s not possible!” He bent at the waist, muttered a curse, and came up with his hands on either side of his head.
“You see it, too,” said Amato.
“Of course I see it! It’s a goddamn forgery.
” He began to pace. “How is that fucking possible? I inspected the painting myself after the hall was set up for the reception. Then I was in the room, along with all of you.” He gestured to them with his hands.
“The entire evening.” He turned to the Interpol agent. “When did this happen?”
“I noticed it after Ms. de Toffoli was taken.”
“But how the hell…”
“I don’t know. But somehow, someone has stolen your wife, your son and the Madonna Fornirà right out from under our noses.”
Marco Santori was at the wheel and Ellington rode shotgun as the entourage made their way back to the hotel Rowan and Tamra stayed at the night before. Becky couldn’t help but feel like an interloper, the piece that didn’t fit, the one who didn’t belong here.
She stared out the windshield, the image of a negligée laying on a hotel room floor popping into her mind unbidden, thrown there by Rowan as he stripped his wife in the heat of passion.
She felt like an intruder as the car raced toward the hotel, slipping between husband and wife like an uninvited guest. She was crossing some line, breaking the rules again.
No, I’m helping a friend. That’s all. As soon as Colin and Gwen get here, I’ll be on my way.
Rowan spoke softly. “You didn’t have to come. It wasn’t necessary.”
“Would you rather I go home?”
“No,” he said, meeting her eyes in the darkness, and her belly flip-flopped. She could feel her body responding to his nearness, the scent of his skin affecting her like some primitive mating call.
Down, girl.
“Okay, then.” Her stomach growled and she dug in her bag for a snack. Finding peanut butter cookies and a bag of pretzels, she held them up. “Hungry?”
“No.”
Well I am.
She could picture herself saying the words as she yanked her sweater over her head and attacked him.
What the hell was the matter with her? This man was in the middle of an enormous crisis, his wife and infant son vanished into thin air, and she was fantasizing about him.
To be fair, I was fantasizing about him long before his wife disappeared.
She ripped open the cookies violently, the plastic rustling noisily in the silence, and popped one in her mouth. Chewing loudly, she watched the lights of downtown Boston go by as her body hummed with awareness and sexual need.
She had to calm down. She barely knew the man, yet her subconscious had featured him prominently in several dreams since he first made an appearance in her life.
Rowan dreams were some of her personal favorites, second only to werewolves.
Something about a shape-shifter—the full moon, the inherent danger—really got Becky’s motor going.
She imagined Rowan as a werewolf now, baring his fangs, and sighed aloud as she bit into another cookie. The image was like Christmas morning and her birthday all rolled into one.
She must be a horrible person to be thinking sexy thoughts about a guy in this situation.
Was it her fault she was drawn to the opposite sex like steel to a magnet, and this particular man like one of those high powered magnets they use to move cars?
Deliberately she turned her thoughts back to the man she met in the bar.
He was attractive, nice. He liked hockey. What the hell was his name?
“Why did you come tonight?” Rowan asked.
The question caught her off-guard, his voice strumming her insides like a musical instrument. She worked at an innocent look and met his eyes, remembering her visceral reaction to seeing him on TV. “I don’t know.”
“No?”
The blood rushed into her cheeks. I’ve been dreaming about you, lusting after you in my sleep. She shrugged. “I saw a friend on TV and thought maybe I could help.”
He nodded slowly.
“I’m sorry. It’s just…”
“What?”
“The last time we met, I think you got the wrong impression.”
“And what impression was that?”
“You thought I was interested in you as a woman.”
An embarrassed flush surged onto her cheeks as Agent Ellington turned full around to stare at her. “I wouldn’t say that,” she said.
“No? What would you say?”
She turned toward him. “I’d say you came on to me, Rowan.”
“No. I told you I was married. That I had a family it Italy.”
“Which is why it was totally out of line.”
“This is ridiculous. I love my wife with my entire soul. I’m sorry if you somehow got the impression I did not.”
She brought her chin up. “Okay, Rowan. Whatever you say.” Shifting in her seat, her eyes locked with Ellington’s. “You get all that?” she asked, her head bobbing, and he turned back around.
Rowan’s voice was quiet. “I’m sorry, Becky.”
“Whatever. I’ll grab a cab from the hotel. I just want to go home.”