Chapter 17
Ethan woke to bright sunlight. And a text message on his phone. Sitting up in bed, he noted the pink vibrator on the night table he hadn’t seen last night. “Really? So I’ve got competition?” He glanced to Livi. Asleep and utterly satisfied, thanks to him. No mechanical imitation of a penis would ever win over his expertise. “Take that,” he said to the pink phallus.
He grabbed his pants, pulled them on, and then read the message. Chester Clarke had linked a name from the list he’d gotten from the Wexler gallery to a CCTV mugshot: Reginald Parker. Attached was a surveillance photo of the man leaving a Hobbycraft store. And the photo matched the one taken outside the coffee shop.
“We’ve got a name,” he said as Livi stirred.
Her legs jutted out from under the wrinkled white sheet. She turned onto her back, exposing a jiggle of breast. “Really?”
“Reginald Parker was seen in the craft store. And that was one of the names the Wexler gallery gave me as a client who had been in lately, asking questions about Pre-Raphaelite works, and if the museum would have an interest in one. Bruxford was suspicious, but curious.”
Livi brushed the hair from her eyelashes. “Does the name mean anything to you?”
“No. I’m going to head over to the craft store. See if anyone remembers the man. It’ll be a long shot. I’ll check in with you later.” He leaned down to kiss her breast, and suckled the nipple into his mouth. Did he have to leave her so abruptly? Yes, because the case was finally taking on some solidity. And if he stayed, that would complicate their one-night stand. “You are a goddess. And I adore your tits. See you in a bit.”
“I can’t convince you to stay?”
“It wouldn’t be wise for the two of us to show up at Scotland Yard together, don’t you think?”
“Good call. I’ll check in with you after a shower and breakfast.”
He headed out and called the Wexler as he made his way down to the street. Bruxford remembered Reginald Parker. As he’d told him previously, he’d been suspicious of him asking about Pre-Raphaelites without any photos or proof of the paintings he’d claimed he might have to offer. Bruxford couldn’t quite describe him, though, and when Ethan asked about dark hair and an average build, he agreed Parker was quite non-descript. But there was no address for him on file.
Ethan thanked Bruxford and hung up. Parker was their man. He was certain of it. But how did Parker know him?
* * * *
At the office, Olivia received a text from Ethan about Reginald Parker. The Wexler had no address on file, but the craft store had been able to pull up a cash register receipt and, with warrant pending, they could have a trace on his address soon enough.
Things were finally beginning to progress on this case. She felt a surge of hope, but it didn’t match the elation she’d felt since getting up this morning. Sex with the sexy art crimes consultant? Oh yes. Bloody yes. That had hit the spot.
More than a few times.
She couldn’t even be bothered by her stifling boxy office today. And she sipped chai with gusto and let the heat of the drink settle in her chest as if it were Ethan kissing her between her breasts. Mmm….
Superintendent Wellbrute stuck his head in through her doorway. “How’s your neck?”
“Oh. My neck?” She straightened up and grabbed a file to look busy. Why was he asking—oh, right! “It’s fine, thank you. Just bruised the skin. Nothing to be concerned about.”
“I read the reports. You could have been seriously hurt. Was the incident related to the investigation?”
“No. You know I had to attend the party as a representative from Scotland Yard.”
“Yes. We must keep up appearances for funding.” He pursed his lips in thought. “You handled the situation well. Good job, Constable Lawson.”
Buoyed by the rare compliment, Olivia sat up even straighter.
“Keep me informed,” he said, and wandered down the hallway.
Her phone buzzed with a text. Ethan had decided to swing by a couple local art galleries to see about their Pre-Raphaelite offerings. He wondered if she would like to meet him at Leadenhall Market in a few hours for a bite to eat and to discuss his findings. That sounded perfect. It would give her time to go over all the evidence and piece together what they’d discovered so far.
Three hours later, they strolled beneath the grand, covered Victorian halls of Leadenhall Market after a quick lunch from Chop’d. Olivia loved their salads, and always got the pear and stilton with extra walnuts.
“So nothing turned up at the six galleries you stopped into this morning?” she asked as Ethan grabbed her hand and led her toward what looked like a private exit door from the market. It opened to a breezeway that stretched toward an apartment complex.
“Not a thing. Very disappointing.”
“You’ve been unable to tie anything from the current case to the trafficking ring?”
“Unfortunately not.”
“I’ve yet to hear back on the credit card check. We still don’t have an address for Reginald Parker. And until we do, there’s not much we can do but wait it out. Where are we headed now?”
“My place.” With a charming smile, he opened the door to the building and waved her in. “If you wish?”
Olivia didn’t hesitate, and followed him directly onto the lift. By the time the lift topped his floor, they were entwined in a passionate kiss. Entangled together, they exited the elevator and shuffled down the hallway to his front door.
“You know this is on the clock,” Olivia said as she followed him inside. They hadn’t disentangled themselves from one another and the kisses had moved from her mouth to her neck.
“Depends on how you allocate the hours in the day toward work. A person should put in eight hours, yes? So if that eight happens all at once, in a set time period, or spread throughout the entire twenty-four hours…” He raised his eyebrows.
“I can get behind that thought process.”
“Good. Because I want to get behind you.” He turned her around and brushed her hair away to resume kissing her neck. “Mmm, you are a Leighton goddess.”
The endearment coiled in her senses and shivered over her skin. Leighton’s women on canvas were gorgeous, airy, and brightly colored.
Olivia held onto the door frame and closed her eyes, tilting her head as Ethan’s breathy, hot kisses sent tingles up her spine. “That’s the bedroom just around the corner?”
“Indeed, it is.”
She shoved his chest, pushing him backward, and steering him into the bedroom and toward the end of the bed. “This goddess needs a mid-afternoon booty call.”
He spread out his arms in invitation. “Have at me.”
“I will.” She tucked her fingers down the front of his trousers and tugged him close. Unzipping him, she released his erection and gave it a firm and commanding squeeze. “On your knees, lover.”
Ethan obliged her, gliding his hands up her legs and under her skirt to cup her arse. Kissing her belly, and moving lower, he breathed through the fabric, the heat teased her mons. She squeezed her thighs to catch the growing aches of desire. Tugging off her panties, he gave her a nudge with his nose.
Olivia swooned, falling on the end of the bed. The man was intent. Her skirt flew up over her stomach as he spread her legs and kissed his way from the inside of her thigh to her wet, wanting core.
Any guilt she felt for playing around on company time disappeared as Ethan’s tongue flicked over her clitoris, making her gasp and moan. The case was at a standstill while they waited for further information. She could manage this liaison. She was a woman, after all. She could do more than one thing at a time.
And so could Ethan. He glided a finger inside her and teased her spine into an arch as his tongue matched the rhythm of his motions. She clutched the bed cover and rocked her hips. He fed upon her, knowing exactly the right pressure, the length to sustain his touches, and when to let up for just a few seconds. Her heart pumped, afraid he wouldn’t touch her again. Then the heat of his tongue swept away that worry and doubled her pleasure.
She came quickly and with a throaty cry. Toes curling in the heels she still wore, Olivia spread out her arms on the bed and gasped as the orgasm purled through her.
* * * *
Olivia rolled over in the late afternoon sunlight. She smiled and swept her hand across the warmth where she had lain. Right next to it, sprawled on his back, his gorgeous body on full display, lay Ethan. The curly hairs that trailed down his chest called attention to the hard, firm muscles that she couldn’t get enough of.
She sighed. Her intent of having sex with him just once to scratch an itch had been abandoned. Was there anything wrong with scratching an itch more than once?
Certainly not. And she’d been feeling her oats after the surprising compliment earlier from her boss.
Picking up her dress, she moved carefully to keep from waking Ethan—who had slipped into a surprising but well-earned nap—and wandered across the hallway to the bathroom. There she dressed, fussed with her hair a bit—it actually looked passable enough to leave the building without performing the walk of shame. Wishing for a toothbrush, she used the corner of a hand towel, then tossed it into the hamper neatly placed beside the toilet.
The whole flat was neat and tidy. Small, spare. No extraneous stuff. Like the man.
So unlike her.
But then again, what woman ever wanted to date herself? She liked that Ethan was everything she was not. But of course, they weren’t dating. They were just having a fling. And there was nothing at all wrong with that.
It was quarter after four, and she needed to get back to the office. So she walked down the hallway. The daylight from the bedroom beamed across the one wall, illuminating everything in grays. Bending to put on one shoe and then the other, when she rose, she nudged the huge canvas on the wall and it tilted.
“Oops,” she whispered.
She bent to adjust the canvas, which was by an artist she’d never heard of. Had to be a cheap department-store find, which was strange, considering the man was an art aficionado. She would have expected at least one fine work hanging on his walls. And if not an original, then a classy copy; he being such a fan of forgers. And why not something by his father?
Olivia pushed at the canvas, but it refused to hang straight. Something was in the way. She lifted it off the wall.
There was another canvas hung beneath. It was even framed.
Setting aside the department-store painting, Olivia stepped before the canvas on the wall and gasped. Despite the dull light, she recognized the work immediately. Her heart sank.
It looked so authentic. And they’d just discussed this work the other day in the Tate Britain. That one had been a forgery.
She touched the frame, startled that the wood was solid and not glossy with stain or varnish. Pressing her finger into the edge of the painting confirmed the paint was hard. Something inside her, some intuition, told her the truth of the painting.
Olivia swore. Loudly.