Chapter 18
Ethan was vaguely aware that someone had said something in a tone that would indicate they were not pleased. He rolled over on the bed, reaching for Livi’s warm body, but touched only the cool, empty sheet. Then he realized she stood in the entry to the bedroom, facing the wall.
Where the painting hung.
Which she should have never found, because he had cleverly placed another canvas on top of it. But apparently she had, for some strange reason, decided to look under it.
Bloody hell.
“Livi.” He sat up and reached for his pants, forgoing the boxers. “Let me explain.”
“Don’t. Even.” She held up her right hand. “This is real. It’s the real fucking Death of the Gravedigger.”
Ethan approached her warily, knowing better than to actually touch her. He didn’t want her to feel that she had to physically defend herself.
“You knew the canvas in the Tate Britain was a forgery,” she said, “but you didn’t say anything because you had the real one all along.” She spun on him. Her hair was lush and wild. The light beaming through the windows transformed her to a goddess. “You stole this?”
“Oh, no. Never. I am not a thief.”
“If you’re not a thief, then—” She pressed her fingers against her temple and shook her head. “Did your father paint that?”
“No, he did not. He would never—”
“But it’s the original. I know it is. Oh! I can’t believe I didn’t see this from the start. You are a bloody forger! The Gravedigger in the Tate was your work!”
Denying it would not earn him any points for honesty. Ethan felt as if he were straddling a divide; his legs spread so widely that any movement would send him plummeting into the abyss below.
Wisely, he remained silent.
“Is your father even a forger? Was that a lie to cover up your works?”
“Christopher Maxwell was a far better artist than I can ever aspire to be.”
“Artist? You copy other people’s works! You take advantage and make profit from cheating. You’re a liar!”
“No, Livi, please! Can we discuss this rationally?”
“Who do you work really for? Is it Interpol? They don’t even claim you as an asset. Or is that a lie to cover—whatever it is you’re up to!”
“I do work for Interpol—”
“Do they know what you’ve done? Of course. This is crazy. You said they dealt with all sorts of white collar crimes. Elite crimes… You’ve been recruited because of your skills. Is that it?”
He nodded. “As a condition of my employment, I wasn’t allowed to discuss my past…uh, work. Believe me, I struggled with not telling you—”
“You’ve been lying to me since day one. My God, I slept with a…” She gasped and turned down the hallway, marching toward the front door. “You’re off the case!”
Ethan rushed past her, slamming his back against the door just as she started to pull it open. “I’m not off the case. I’ve been authorized by Interpol to work on it. I’ve done nothing that they would deem detrimental to the case. In fact, as you’ve guessed, they hired me because of my talents. Livi, listen to me.”
She slammed her arms across her chest. The look in her eyes could have maimed. Ethan felt a surprising ache in his heart. Why? He wasn’t falling in love with her.
Was he?
“I’m not supposed to have that painting,” he blurted out, hoping to keep her from calling up Interpol and reporting him. “My father stole it after I…” He winced. “I like to paint the masters. And The Death of the Gravedigger has always been a favorite of mine. I did it only for myself. I had no idea Christopher would take it upon himself to switch the forgery with the real thing.”
“I can’t believe this. You have to bring it back.”
“No. I can’t.” He slid to the side, blocking her from the doorknob. “It’s the last thing my father gave me before he died. I… Family has always meant the world to me, and Christopher was all I had. I can’t return it.”
Her expression grew neutral, and her eyes lost the gloss and brightness. But he could feel her anger, the betrayal, radiate from her. Slowly, she shook her head. “Move aside.”
“We need to discuss this, Livi. I’m doing good now. I’m putting away the forgers and the art thieves.”
“Without serving time yourself?”
“I did serve time. I was pulled out of prison and told my father had died, and if I didn’t want the gravestone right next to him I would use my skills for the ECU. Please, if they discover I have that painting, it’s back to prison for me.”
“Where you should be.”
She reached for the doorknob, and Ethan stepped aside. Yanking open the door, she turned and glared at him. “Your lies do not cease. You were in prison too? I know your father is a murderer. I checked him out. The two of you…”
Without another word, she left his apartment. Clutching the doorframe, he listened to her heels click toward the lift. When the clicks stopped, he cast his gaze down the hallway and met hers. Tears glistened in her blue eyes. He saw her whisper, “Bastard,” before getting onto the lift.
Ethan swore and pressed his forehead to the doorframe. He’d fucked up. His integrity had taken a blow. His freedom would be lost.
But more importantly, he had lied to someone he cared about. And he’d hurt her.
“You are a bastard,” he muttered.
Wandering back to the bedroom, he picked up his strewn clothing, His cell phone beeped with a text.
* * * *
Olivia left Ethan’s apartment building and headed toward the parking lot. Her cell phone beeped with a text and a voice mail. It was from dispatch. She quickly returned the call and learned there had been another vandalism at the National Gallery in West End.
“The painting is still intact,” dispatch reported. “I’ve taken the liberty of calling in the bomb squad.”
“Good call. I can be there in…twenty minutes.”
“Mister Maxwell is on his way as well.”
“Oh.”
Right. He was working the case. The bastard. Had the Arts and Antiquities Unit ever worked with former forgers or convicted criminals? She wasn’t aware that they had or would. She would make sure they toed the line on that. Yet Ethan had pushed her across that line. One teasing kiss at a time.
The man had The Death of the Gravedigger hanging on his living room wall. What was she going to do about that?
“Constable Lawson?”
“Uh, right. Mr. Maxwell and I will meet at the National Gallery. Thanks, Denise.”
She hung up and dashed to her car. Inside, she tugged out the makeup bag from her purse and quickly fixed her face, which she should have done in Ethan’s bathroom. Bright red lipstick, mascara and a little powder would hide her extracurricular activities. Thankful she’d worn the jersey dress that didn’t wrinkle, she shifted into drive and pulled out onto the street.
After what she learned, Olivia didn’t want to face Ethan. He was worried she’d tell his secret ex-con club about the painting? Damn right he should be worried. The man had no ethics. How much time had he served? Couldn’t have been very long. His father had stolen the painting for him? Arggh! Between creating forgeries and theft, when did the old man have time to commit a murder?
Now that she knew the truth, it was going to be impossible to ever look Ethan in the eye again. And she had just gotten comfortable with eye contact.
Was she being too hard on him? He had served time. And now he was working for Interpol, putting his criminal skills to use to help fight crime. It sounded good. In theory.
“I hate forgers,” she muttered. “There is no excuse for them. They take advantage…” Anger tightened her jaws.
Ethan had lied to her. He had also seduced her.
No, that wasn’t right. She had seduced him. She had been the one to suggest they have sex. With no strings attached.
Yet somehow she’d become caught in a knot of strings that dangled her helplessly, just low enough to linger close to Ethan. And wonder.
“What am I going to do?”