Chapter 12
Rowan sat in the car outside the historic inn and allowed his mind to absorb the impact of all that had happened.
All through the three-hour drive to Vermont he’d avoided the doubts and recriminations that screamed at his subconscious, determined to get here before he allowed himself the luxury of exploring all the horrible possibilities.
Scenarios and conspiracy theories now clamored for his attention, a dull ache throbbing in his temple with every beat of his heart.
It wasn’t hard to imagine Tamra capable of such duplicity.
It was far more difficult to believe she would steal the Madonna after her father had worked so hard to see its safe return.
Enzo had worked for months on the touchy negotiations between the Uffizi and the Gardner.
Wasn’t that what he’d been waiting for, as well? The relocation of the Madonna Fornirà to the Gardner? Rowan’s objective all along, the reason he had stayed with Tamra as long as he did. Was it possible she was working to foil his attempt even as she smiled by his side?
Becky emerged from the building and headed for the car, and he felt the weight of his own troubles as he worked to put a less dour expression on his face. Soon he would be in his own hotel room, the privacy he craved at his disposal.
“All set,” she said, sliding into the seat. “Pull around back, second door.”
He pulled up in front of it, but left the car running. “I saw a liquor store back there. You want anything?”
“No, I’m good.” She handed him a small envelope. “You’re in 211, I’m in 209.”
“Thanks.”
The room was large, with a king-size cherry poster bed and matching armoire and dresser.
Rowan threw his bag on the floor and stripped off his clothes, not bothering to close the drapes despite the darkness outside the window.
He noticed the door to the adjoining room and was grateful it was locked.
Becky could only complicate his already disjointed thoughts.
He stepped into a steaming hot shower and pulled the curtain closed with one yank.
The temperature was punishing, just shy of injurious, and he reveled in the feel of it rushing down his skin.
He bent his head and let the water pulsate on his skull, fighting his headache for the upper hand.
When he couldn’t stand the heat anymore, he stepped back, lathering his body with spicy soap and stretching out the muscles of his neck and back.
Back in the bedroom he tugged on clean briefs and poured several fingers of Scotch.
He turned off the lights and walked to the wide window overlooking a quaint village with a golf course and ski slope in the distance.
The latter reminded him of his friend David’s death and his first meeting with Becky, neither of which improved his mood.
He took a swig of his drink, allowing it to linger and burn, then took an even bigger breath. He didn’t know what Tamra was up to, didn’t know if she was responsible for this mess, didn’t know if she was safe or in danger. He didn’t even know if he cared.
But Anthony. Rowan’s face contorted and a small cry escaped him.
Where was his boy?
Suddenly, every fear he had refused to dwell on, every horror he had tried not to imagine came to life in vivid color.
His baby was lost and afraid. He was cold and hungry.
He’d been abandoned and was utterly alone.
Rowan rested his head on the cold windowpane and sobbed, scotch spilling to the floor, emotions overwhelming his spirit as great shakes racked his body.
Anthony mattered more to him than any other human being in the world, no matter who shared his DNA, and the little boy was gone.
Rowan stood like that for a long time.
Becky stood in the shadows, her heart constricting with sympathy. Somehow she knew why he wept, could feel the emotions that crested over him as if they could drown all happiness in the world.
She hadn’t intended to come in here—that wasn’t part of her plan. She had meant what she said when she told Rowan she wanted to be able to drive a truck between them, yet she was utterly compelled to keep crossing that road.
It’s not him. It’s me.
I’m the one who wants this.
So she’d showered, taking her time with the soap and shampoo, preparing herself to love him. She bent at the waist and dried her thick hair, allowing her mind to explore the possibilities that awaited her.
She hadn’t expected to find him like this, shattered and broken. It made her realize how hard he must work to appear in control, and she loved him even more than she had before.
When at last he turned around, he shook his head and frowned. “How long have you been there?”
“A long time.”
“Great.”
“It’s okay.”
“Whatever.”
She walked to him and embraced his stiff body. “It’s going to be okay.”
“You should get outta here.”
“No.”
“Yes.” He moved away and gestured toward the door, then walked to the desk and poured himself another drink, taking a long sip before turning back to her. “Becky, I mean it. Get out.”
There was anger beneath his words, but she wasn’t afraid. He needed her now. She could feel it, and she wasn’t going to leave him in his darkest hour. “I’ll take a scotch.”
“Don’t you freakin’ listen?” he yelled, rounding on her. “I don’t want company. I’m a goddamned wreck.”
She felt his eyes travel down her body, suddenly aware of her stretchy t-shirt, the pants that hugged her shapely thighs. He stared at her sex before finally raising his eyes.
“Don’t you get it?” He raised his hands in the air, his muscles clenched. “All I want to do is fuck you, forget all my problems and fuck you until I can’t remember my own goddamn name. Do you understand?”
Becky’s heart pounded like she was about to dive off a cliff, jagged rocks clearly visible beneath the sharp blue of the sea.
She hoped the water was deep enough to catch her when she fell.
This man was everything, her feelings for him all that mattered.
She forged ahead on the thinnest ice of faith, her wobbly knees threatening to give out as she walked to the desk.
“Guess I have to get my own drink, then.”
“Get the hell out!”
She sipped at the fiery scotch, eager to wet the dryness that had suddenly invaded her throat. “No.”
They faced off in the darkness. Becky took another sip, bolder now. Rowan didn’t even twitch. “Don’t you pity me, Becky. Don’t you do it.”
“Pity you?”
He moved toward her. “Don’t make love to me out of some, ‘Oh, poor broken Rowan’ bullshit. If you come to me, you do it because you want me. Not because you feel bad for me.”
“I do want you, Rowan.” She put her drink down.
“I’ve wanted you since the first moment I met you.
” It was only now she was able to separate the man from the circumstance, make it okay in her mind to follow her heart.
Crossing her arms in front of her chest, she grabbed the hem of her t-shirt and pulled it over her head. “And pretty much every moment since.”
His eyes were fixed on her breasts as she unhooked her bra and let it drop to the floor.
She pointed to the adjoining room door. “I was sitting on the other side of that door and all I could think about was you on this side of it. It wasn’t even locked. How pissed would you be if I were an axe murderer or something?”
He didn’t answer her, just stood there, staring at her nakedness. She resisted the sudden urge to cover her breasts as the moment stretched between them. Would he come to her, or would he send her away after all?
His voice was a throaty whisper, sending tingles down her spine. “Take off your pants.” She hooked her fingers on the waistband and took them slowly to the floor.
“Panties, too.”
He reached down and slipped off his briefs, her eyes drawn to him there.
He came to her, his arms snaking around her body as his mouth laid claim to hers. Never before had a touch felt so good, her skin sensitized and alive. He tasted like liquor and mint, the manly scent of him intoxicating her like the scotch spilling into her own bloodstream.
His hand trailed along her ribcage and her body moved against him, breath coming quickly.
“Please, Rowan…”
“You’re ready for me already, aren’t you?” he whispered.
She whimpered, her skin on fire. “Yes.”
They came together quickly, as if every moment leading up to this one was part of their lover’s dance, foreplay at its finest. The only touch they needed was the ultimate connection.
She felt herself losing control, in awe of the sensations running through her.
The emotional current electrified her, a new and powerful rhythm.
I love you.
The words stuck between her mind and her mouth, no way out and no way back in. There was only Rowan, the meeting of their bodies, and the sweet awakening of her heart.
The sky outside went from black to purple as Becky watched, the minutes streaming together into hours. She had slept after the second time they made love, and been awake since the third, enjoying the beating of Rowan’s heart beneath her ear and the whoosh of his breathing in the darkness.
This might be their only night together.
She was a realist, first and foremost. There was no telling what tomorrow would bring, and the way she figured, it was more likely to end without Rowan by her side than with him there.
But I will have the memory of this night forever.
Gently she stroked her hand along his arm, his springy hair tickling the pads of her fingers. The last thing she wanted to do was sleep, needing to remember as much of this night as possible, for like Cinderella at the ball, she knew in her heart it could be only temporary.
The hotel phone began to ring, and Rowan jerked awake, breaking the spell that had settled over the quiet room while he slept. Becky moved off his shoulder so he could answer it.
“Hello?”
He met her eyes and mouthed the word Enzo.
She nodded and went to take a shower while he talked. She emerged ten minutes later in a cloud of steam, wrapped in a towel that barely covered her and disappointed to find Rowan out of bed and digging through his bag.
“Enzo wants me to meet him in half an hour.”
“He’s here?”
“He came into town after I called him yesterday.”
She didn’t like the idea of Tamra’s father being so close to the bed she’d shared with Rowan. “Why does he want to meet?”
“I don’t know.” He walked to the computer and turned it on. “I need a map.”
She knew better than to ask if she should join them. Hey, Enzo, this is the-woman-I-boffed-all-night-long. Woman-I-boffed-all-night-long, this is my father-in-law. She flopped on the bed and stared at the ceiling.
I refuse to be sorry.
“I’m going to hop in the shower,” said Rowan.
“Okay.”
“You all right?”
She smiled. “Yeah.”
He leaned over her, bracing himself on the bed and kissing her soundly on the lips. “I forgot to say good morning.”
“Morning.”
“I’m sorry I’ve got to run…”
“It’s fine, go ahead.”
He nodded and stepped into the bathroom. Chilly now, Becky curled on her side and stared at the computer, a screensaver of famous works of art catching her eye. Several images in, she saw the Madonna Fornirà.
What was it about that painting that captivated so many people?
She threw back the covers, pulled the top one off the bed and wrapped herself in it, then sat down at the desk and hit the cursor back button until she once again stared at the painting.
Tamra must have lots of famous works on her computer; she was the curator of an art museum, for goodness’ sake, but it seemed this particular painting was there every time Becky turned around.
The bathroom door opened and she called to him, “Look at this.”
“It’s the Madonna Fornirà,” he said, coming closer.
“It just popped up on Tamra’s screensaver.”
“Well, it was part of the Uffizi’s collection…” He leaned over her shoulder to get a better look. “Holy shit.”
“What?”
“That’s not the original. That’s the forgery!”
Becky turned back to the screen. “How can you tell?”
“The light on her corona, for one. It’s unidirectional. In the real painting its bidirectional.”
“You’re sure this is the forgery?”
“Positive.” They looked at each other. “Which means Tamra had access to it before the reception at the Gardner.” He shook his head and slammed his fist on the desk. “She wasn’t kidnapped at all. Maybe she even painted the forgery herself!”
“She could do that?”
“I don’t know. She’s good. Maybe not that good.” He hung his head. “Oh, Tamra. What the hell have you done?”