The man called Darnell drummed his fingers on the table, watching the monitor in front of him. It showed his two flunkies sitting in a cheap Minnesota hotel room a thousand miles and more away from his current location.

“I take it you don’t have my lithographs.” He kept his tone carefully reasonable, though he was utterly enraged.

“No.” Archie Jones took a deep breath, the bedsprings squeaking beneath his solid, squat body. “That prick beat us to the punch again. He must have warned them we was coming. They’d moved the display to the lockdown area. We weren’t prepared for that. So we had to ditch the whole thing.”

Archie cursed to show how frustrated he was. Hoping for pity? His lips twisted. Archie knew better than anyone that his employer was a man sorely lacking in pity.

“When we got out, he was there on the roof.” His beady eyes rolled. “We surprised him. Think he meant to keep tabs, follow us back to you.”

“Very astute, Archie. Thankfully, I’m not so easy to find.”

Jake Harris and his infernal sister had been tracking him almost since they were old enough to toddle. It used to be amusing. Lately, it was less so. He had other, far more dangerous enemies, but none so doggedly stubborn as the Harris twins. Of course, they had their reasons.

Just as he had his for not taking care of them long ago. Darnell smiled darkly.

Archie blinked at what to him was a blank screen, rubbing his hands together, one knee bouncing up and down before he caught himself. Timor smiled ingratiatingly, white teeth slashing the thin hatchet face in two. Having his men on webcam, but not letting them see him was a tool. It kept them unbalanced, having only his voice for feedback, with none of the expressions to interpret what he might be thinking.

Diabolical, really. He smiled as he watched them sweat.

“That’s right. And it’ll be harder now, boss. I nailed the fucker for you. Twice.”

“Yeah, two shots, and still the kid managed to walk away.” Archie looked over his shoulder at Timor with a sneer. “Guess those hours at the shooting range ain’t paying off much, T.”

“He didn’t walk. Fucker played Batman.”

Darnell interrupted the budding argument, growing impatient. “Why didn’t you call me immediately?”

“You said no contact till the drop. This is the drop.” Archie was puzzled and still nervous. He really wasn’t the sharpest tool, but he cut pretty well when need be.

“Yeah.” Timor took over again. “Plus, we were tracking him down.” Timor was definitely the brains of the duo, but he lacked Archie’s instincts and had a thirst for violence and cruelty that made him dangerous and unpredictable. Archie, slow but steady, was meant to balance that. Most of the time the pairing worked well. Lately, though, they’d been making mistakes. Darnell didn’t like mistakes.

“And did you find him?” The two men weren’t looking at each other, but something unsaid passed between them. It amused Darnell that they thought they could hide anything from him. Years of reading men, especially men of this stripe, had left him with an uncanny ability to sense truth. They’d had Jake that first night, then somehow screwed it up. The only reason he didn’t send someone to clean them up right now was that Jake knew their faces. That could be useful when the time came.

“Yeah. We found him.” Timor was almost curt in his relief, until Archie elbowed him in the ribs. Instantly, he moderated his tone. “It took a bit, boss, but he’s staying in some bitch’s place. Recovering.”

“Someone we know?” Jake and Stacia Harris didn’t have many close friends, but he’d come to know most of their contacts over the years. He couldn’t recall anyone they might run to for help in that part of the States.

Archie shook his head before he caught himself. Definitely hiding something. “Nah. Some chubby bird’s taking care of him. Name of Charlotte Gracen. Got some pics with the long range.” He pulled a flat packet from his jacket and held a photograph up to the camera. “That Polack’s got his people watching the place now, couldn’t risk a closer look. Made the sister going in once, too.”

Ignoring the mention of Kowalewski, Darnell considered the grainy photograph. It had been shot through a window, badly, but he could clearly make out two figures, one sitting on the edge of a bed, the other standing next to it. Jake Harris had his father’s build and form, but his mother’s face. He was looking up at the woman in front of him with that trademark cheeky grin.

Darnell gave a thin smile of his own. Things were falling into place. Jake and his sister would pay for all the irritation they’d caused him over the years. This would be one more thread in the web that would snare them both.

“You want us to grab the bitch? Make her squeal?” Timor’s voice was eager, but Darnell didn’t care, too busy studying the other face in the photograph. The one who had given shelter to his enemies.

“No. They’ll leave. Both the Harris twins and our friend Lucjan’s men will leave eventually. And then little Ms. Gracen will be all alone. Ripe for the picking,” his voice turned to a low, chilling whisper, “should we find a use for her.”

---

Jake hobbled down the hallway, one hand against the wall, gritting his teeth with every stubborn step. This being helpless shit was driving him mad.

Technically, he wasn’t supposed to be wandering around. Martin only allowed him one supervised walk around the apartment per day. He was only up because he was starving. It wasn’t like Charlie to forget about him. This had been her fourth day back at work. Apparently, she was an accountant, a fact that mystified him. Oh, he figured she was probably extremely competent at her job, but the idea of someone with her talent crunching numbers all day made him a bit sick. Which was why he smiled when he found her.

She was painting.

Jake leaned against the doorjamb, content to catch his breath and watch. She had her back to the door, utterly absorbed in the canvas before her. Her flyaway hair had a few streaks of red in it; the same shade smudged the curve of her cheek. His smile widened, a smile that faded into sheer awe as his eyes took in the painting she was working on.

Tumbling waves of blue played across the canvas, a churning, rolling mass from edge to edge. He could almost hear the water moving and taste it on his tongue. Light played over the surface, scarlet and gold and silver. Sunrise or sunset, he couldn’t tell, because there was no sky in sight. Only water, dancing joyously with the light.

“Sweet,” he breathed. “Is that the ocean?”

Charlie stiffened but didn’t turn. “I’ve never seen the ocean. This is Lake Michigan. I went there once as a girl, with my . . .” She cleared her throat. “It was my first vacation. Mackinac Island. I expect you’ve never heard of it.”

“No,” he agreed, “but if that is any indication, it left one hell of an impression.”

She laughed softly, looking over her shoulder at him, something poignant in both her eyes and the sound that twisted his heart a little. For a woman who had opened her home to a broken and bleeding stranger, Charlie had a very hard time opening up. About anything.

“Yes, it did.” She looked back at the painting as if seeing it for the first time. “But in the end, it’s only water and a bit of light.”

“No,” Jake said, straightening, his voice firm. “It’s joy. And it’s fucking amazing.”

Her shoulders stiffened, then bowed, as if his compliment carried a weight she wasn’t ready to accept. Standing there, seeing Charlie surrounded by her paintings, it was hard to accept that she had no idea how amazing she was. A hot surge of emotion filled his chest, a fierce need to shelter and protect.

His lips tightened as Jake forced the feeling down. That was just stupid. Protection had never been his forte.

“You should go back someday,” he continued when he was able.

“Maybe.” Her shrug looked forced. “I was only three or four. This is all I really remember, the light on all that water. And being very happy. So I guess you are right. Maybe it is joy.” She shook herself, then dropped her brush into the basket below her easel. “You’re wanting dinner, aren’t you? Sorry, Jake, I forgot.”

“I’m not used to being forgotten, I hope you know,” he teased as she wiped her hands off with a rag.

She raised an eyebrow and pushed her glasses up, unaware of the blue spot she’d just left on the tip of her nose. “I bet not.” Unexpectedly, she smiled at him. “It’s probably very good for you.”

He laughed. “You know what else is good for me? Pizza. Let me get takeout.”

“No.” She rolled her eyes at his pleading look. “Martin says healthy food only. Healing food.”

“Food I should be paying for,” he grumbled.

Charlie shook a finger at him as she approached, her bare feet quiet on the hardwood floors. Her toenails were painted a shell pink, spotted with a few drops of wayward paint that made him smile. “We talked about this. Your sister already snuck behind my back and paid two months’ rent. If you think I’m letting you two pay for my groceries, too, you’ve got another think coming. You don’t eat that much.” She wrapped his arm around her shoulders as she spoke and slipped her own arm around his waist. It was a habit they’d gotten into once he’d started walking more, a habit Jake rather liked. She was the perfect height, she was soft and warm, and holding on to her never made him feel quite as pathetic as shuffling around on his own.

“Give it another week and I’ll eat you out of house and home,” he warned before leaning into her, grateful for the support as they moved down the hallway. He was healing fast, though, in no small part thanks to Charlie.

He’d sure picked the right apartment to break into, he thought with a smile, looking down at the top of that golden head. She was quiet, kind and utterly ruthless when need be.

“So you ready to tell me who shot you, Jake?” Even though he’d been expecting it for days, the softly-spoken question took him by surprise.

Well, shit. “I don’t know who shot me, precisely,” he hedged. True enough. It could have been either Archie or Timor, though his bet was on the latter.

She stopped in the middle of the hallway to look up at him, a look he already knew too well. She used it whenever his temper or his flirtations got out of hand. Cut the crap, Jake.

“After dinner, okay?” Showing solidarity for this idea, his stomach growled.

She rolled her eyes again. “Fine. But after that, time’s up.”

Jake sat down at the table to catch his breath while Charlie got some water boiling and threw together a quick marinara sauce and salad. He liked her kitchen. It was pale yellow with touches of dark blue. Pen sketches of flowers, landscapes and people were scattered over the walls in quaint, little frames. They showed promise but were plainly amateurish, the attempts of a talented child.

“Yours?” he asked, pleased with the idea of Charlie saving all her little-girl sketches. She glanced over her shoulder, then at the sketches. Her mouth tightened.

“No.” She turned back around. “They’re my sister’s.”

He frowned. “Sister?”

She ignored him, sucking a bit of sauce off the spoon and closing her eyes. Her little pink tongue flashed over those soft lips until he had to look away, losing his train of thought. Charlie brought the pan to the table. “It’s not fancy, but it’ll do.”

He straightened. “It’s smells amazing, as per usual.” It did, too, the warm, rich scent of tomatoes and oregano practically making him drool.

“What do you eat in Australia anyway?” she asked as she handed him a fully loaded plate. “Besides veggie mite, of course.”

“Vegemite.” He laughed at her. “Awesome stuff. Trust me. But mostly we eat lots of the same things Americans do. Burgers, steak, loads of barbie—what you Yanks call grilling—fish and chips, sausage sangers with onion and tomato sauce—”

“Excuse me.” She looked at him with a forkful of pasta halfway to her mouth. “What and tomato sauce?”

“Sangers. Means sandwiches. Except with sausages and Catchup.”

“Oh, like brats.”

His mouth full, Jake simply nodded. They ate in silence for a bit.

Normally, Jake hated silence of any sort—memories were too quick to rush in and fill any empty space—but with Charlie, the quiet didn’t feel so much like a void. It wasn’t until they were both done that she spoke again.

“So?” She gave him a pointed look as she reached for his plate.

He set down his fork on it with a sigh. “You’re clever enough to realize that the less you know here, the better.”

“Being ‘clever,’ I’ve never found information to be a dangerous thing.”

He snorted. “You’ve never dealt in this kind of information.”

“Seems to me if I can handle a half-dead man crashing through my bedroom window, saving said man’s life and playing host to his recovery, I can deal with knowing why.” There was more than a thread of steel in that soft voice now, that quiet clarity of hers that cut through all the bullshit.

Jake shifted his weight, wishing his head were clearer. Or that he had backup.

On cue the front door opened and Stacia’s voice rang out.

He relaxed, trying not to be too obvious about it. It hadn’t been hard for his twin to wheedle a spare key out of Charlie to keep her comings and goings quiet. Jake wouldn’t have needed a key, but Stacia didn’t have his particular nefarious skills.

She had a set all her own.

His sister walked into the room as if nothing were the matter, but as she greeted Charlie, her eyes met his and held, the question in them clear. The twin thing wasn’t something they talked about, sharing a pragmatic nature, but there was no denying they were good at sensing when one of them needed the other.

“Jake was just telling me how he got shot,” Charlie said, letting them both know in no uncertain terms that Stacia’s appearance wasn’t going to let either of them off the hook.

“Was he?” Her tone neutral, Stacia sat down between him and Charlie. “Well then, continue, brother dear.” Jake could have kicked her. He wasn’t sure he was up to having the ball in his court. With a deep breath, he decided to start with the basics.

“You live next to a museum. Was that a deliberate choice?”

“Of course. The Minnesota Museum of American Art is one of my favorites.”

“I thought as much, after seeing your stuff.”

“Her stuff?” Stacia frowned at him. Jake straightened in sudden anticipation. He hadn’t gotten a chance yet to let Stace in on Charlie’s secret.

“Go take a peek in the spare bedroom.”

Charlie stiffened but didn’t protest. With a puzzled look, Stacia got up again and headed down the hall. Seconds later—

“Fuck me dead!”

Jake shook his head, grinning at Charlie, who scowled at him, her cheeks pink. A few minutes later, Stacia was back, looking at Charlie as if she’d never seen her before. “Did you paint those? Tell me you painted those.”

“Yes. I did. What of it?”

“What of it? They’re bloody marvelous. Where do you show? Why haven’t I heard of you?”

“I’ve never done a show. Anywhere. Which probably answers that second question.”

“Well, that has got to change. Those pieces are . . .”

“Bloody marvelous, I heard.” Charlie gave her an assessing look. If Jake hadn’t been such an observant guy, he might have missed the subtle mix of suspicion, hope and pleasure that hovered beneath those set features. “But how would you know if they’re any good or not?” From anyone else, the words and tone would’ve been bitchy, but Jake had learned that was just Charlie: unpolished and straight to the point.

He rather liked her that way.

Jake was used to women—with the exception of Stace—bending over backward to please him. Finding one who treated him like just a guy, and a mildly exasperating one at that, was refreshing. But just now, it was also damned inconvenient.

Stacia had her hands on her slim hips. “I would know because art is what we do, Charlie. It’s kind of our life. I buy it and Jake, he, well . . .”

“I steal it,” Jake said dryly.

Stacia gave him a warning look before turning back to Charlie, who for the first time since he’d met her looked completely nonplussed, blinking at them both with her mouth half-open.

“Don’t be so dramatic, brother dear. He steals it back. Museums hire him to recover stolen pieces.”

“So, what,” Charlie said slowly, “it’s like you go after Thomas Crown to get the Monet back?”

“Well, not exactly,” Jake clarified. “Heists like that one are for the movies. Nobody sane really expects to fence a goddamn Monet. I mean, yes, sometimes they do go after especially famous pieces, but only for ransom.”

“Wait a minute, so we’re talking art kidnappers? Like with The Scream?”

“Bang on.” It wasn’t surprising Charlie knew that story. Even a lot of people with no interest in the art world had heard that one.

Almost twenty-five years ago, during the Winter Olympic games in Lillehammer, two hacks had walked into the National Gallery in Oslo and walked out with the priceless painting. Stupid wankers had even left a note. He was not at all surprised they had been caught. “And I’m like your FBI, I get what’s taken back. Only for a price—and discreetly.”

“Or not.” Stacia glared at him again. “Sometimes he gets shot and almost dies on strangers’ floors in the middle of the night.”

“A bad day at the office,” Jake muttered, leaning back in his chair with a wince. “It happens.”

“One of these art-nappers shot you?”

“Something like that.” Hunting Darnell was their real business, albeit a very private and personal sideline. Lying to Charlie outright made him twitchy, so he bent the truth into something resembling a pretzel. “This time we had information a job was happening before it went down. I messed it up for them. The bad guys were not pleased.” And if they hadn’t surprised Jake by coming out of the museum on the roof a full five minutes sooner than expected, he’d have trailed them back to their boss, and Darnell would be that much closer to being in the ground where he belonged.

Instead, Jake was sitting in another kitchen, broken and helpless once again while that bastard was walking around breathing easy. And probably laughing his head off. Jake pinched the bridge of his nose, unable to speak as rage and frustration filled him.

“These particular bad guys are nastier than the norm.” Stacia took pity on him, getting to her feet, her voice quiet but as firm as the hands she laid on his shoulders. Her squeeze was both a comfort and a warning. “Nothing you ever want to tangle with, Charlie.”

“But why couldn’t you call the cops when it got ugly? I mean, Jake got shot. Wouldn’t they have helped him?”

“First off, our clients prefer discretion, remember? Usually they are retaining us to spite their insurance companies and avoid raised premiums by claiming a loss. Not to mention, most museums don’t insure their collections for even a fraction of their true worth.” Stacia apparently didn’t feel the need to add that some of what Jake did wasn’t strictly legal, or that most of his and Stacia’s clientele insisted on a denial clause, meaning if Jake were caught in any of his endeavors for them, they wouldn’t acknowledge he’d been working for them at all.

Charlie didn’t appear impressed, only skeptical. “Discretion is all well and good, but isn’t it a little hard to collect your fee if you’re dead?”

Jake smiled in spite of himself. “Yes, which brings us to the second and more important point. Like I told you that night, your Hatchet Face and Shorty”—otherwise known as Timor Voight and Archie Jones, two men he and Stacia had linked to Darnell after years of painstaking work—“would have been monitoring the police scanners. This gang also seems to have a lot of well-placed moles in official positions, as we’ve found out the hard way.”

Stacia flinched, which was more effective than any comment she could have made. Charlie glanced up at her, frowning, then back at Jake.

His stomach knotted at the doubt in her gaze. And the flicker of hurt.

She hid it well, but Charlie knew he was twisting the facts. Omitting things. And they both knew that she knew. He pinched the bridge of his nose again in sheer frustration. He couldn’t tell her the truth, and he had no business feeling guilty over it, but . . .

Christ. The woman had saved his fucking life.

Charlie pressed her lips together, then straightened abruptly, getting to her feet. “It’s late. And you’ve been up too long, Jake. You need to get back in bed.”

“That’s what they all say, darl,” he said, trying to lighten the moment, but it didn’t work. The silence was leaden. His unease grew. Lying to Charlie was wrong, but honesty wasn’t safe. For either of them.

When Charlie ducked her head under his arm and wrapped one arm around his waist to help him to his feet, Jake squeezed her a bit tighter than normal, trying to let her know he was sorry. She didn’t so much as blink. They headed down the hallway, leaving Stacia to sit at the table, picking at the leftover salad.

“I’m going to miss you tucking me in every night,” he said when they got to her bedroom. He said it just to say something, but he also meant every word.

Charlie snorted. “Liar.”

When she realized what she’d said, her eyes widened and Jake flinched, that awful silence descending again. Quickly, Charlie helped him to the bed, then busied herself finding the heating pad he’d accidently kicked under it earlier.

“Don’t be mad, Charlie.” The plea in his own voice irritated him. Lies were something he dealt in every fucking day. They’d never bothered him before and there was no reason they should now. This was—

“I’m not mad, Jake,” she said when she emerged. Those blue eyes were disturbingly cool and shuttered as she set the heating pad on the bedspread. “Not even disappointed.”

That got his attention. His anger drained away like the air escaping a popped balloon. “Why the hell not?”

“Lies and half-truths are what the world is made of. Believe me, I learned that a long time ago.” She tried to smile, but it got twisted up, those sweet pink lips trembling in a way that stabbed straight into his heart. No matter what she said, Jake knew she had begun to trust him. Just a little. Charlie had let him in when anyone could tell that wasn’t something she did on a regular basis.

That was over now. Jake watched her mask slip back into place—those blue eyes shuttering, locking him out so completely he could almost hear the snick of the tumblers. The loss stung far more than it should.

“The whole truth isn’t safe.” And here he was, pleading again. Fuck.

“It rarely is. Good night.” She shut the door softly, leaving him to stare up at the ceiling, his gut aching, the heating pad forgotten next to him.