Eye of the Storm Read online

  The arson detective nodded grudgingly. “Remote car starter. The trigger would look like a car alarm key fob.”

  “What kind of flammable liquid was it? I couldn’t smell anything but it burned fast.”

  Romero pursed his lips, obviously determined not to allow a civilian further into his confidence. Drake answered for her.

  “Lamp oil mixed with paraffin. The heat of the current burst the light bulbs and simultaneously ignited it as it poured down over the canvas.”

  “The pops we heard.” He nodded. “Who knew far enough ahead of time to set them up? It had to be someone who knew you were the artist.”

  Romero shoved his hands into his pants pockets, his jacket opening to display his gun and badge—reminders of who was in charge here. “What makes you think Ms. Fairstone wasn’t the intended victim? She’s the one out a million dollars worth of art.”

  “Not after the insurance pays. And while this might not be the most successful fund raiser of the season, it will certainly by the most memorable and talked about.” Cassie shook her head. “The only losers here were Drake and the clinic. The bastard could have at least waited until after the auction.”

  <<<>>>

  DRAKE CUT HER a look accompanied by a half smile. Leave it to Hart to get her priorities straight, he thought. He could always depend on her to slice through the bullshit.

  Romero made a small noise and Drake realized the detective had just put two and two together and figured out who Hart was.

  “How can you be so certain you weren’t the target, Dr. Hart?” Romero asked, his tone indicating he was tired of playing games. “I understand your ex-husband’s brother was here tonight?”

  Drake glanced up at that. Alan King would definitely top his list of anyone with a grudge against Hart—and Drake. “King was here?”

  “I didn’t see him,” Hart said. “If Alan King wanted revenge over his brother’s death, he’d make sure I saw him enjoying the spectacle.” Drake had to agree with her assessment; King was a supreme narcissist.

  Romero seemed disappointed by her answer.

  “Maybe someone who attended Fairstone’s private viewing?” Jimmy put in. “They had access before the rest of us.”

  “Private viewing?” Romero asked. “When did this private showing occur?”

  Drake answered. “This afternoon, once the installation was completed. Just an intimate group of about twenty, any of them could have had time to plan this.”

  “The devices were strictly amateur—easy to download instructions from the web and the components could be found at any Kmart.” Romero shrugged. “I’m gonna hit the computer anyway, see if any of this fits a signature we’ve got on file.”

  “ATF as well?” Drake asked.

  Romero shot him a look that said he didn’t need to tell him how to do his job.

  Chapter 7

  IT WAS ALMOST three in the morning before Cassie, with Jimmy’s help, was able to coax Drake away from the museum and back home to the apartment they shared on the top floor of his building in East Liberty. During that time, they’d reviewed recordings from dozens of security cameras, only to find that the crucial one had been blacked out during the time the incendiary devices were planted. Like the devices themselves, the camera had been circumvented by low-tech means: a dolly containing a large, draped sculpture had been parked in front of the camera for twelve minutes earlier that afternoon. Of course, there was now no trace of the sculpture or its paperwork.

  The arson investigator, Romero, had also dissected Drake’s case history, searching for someone who might have a grudge against Drake. There were a few names he and Jimmy came up with, disgruntled customers Jimmy called them, but a quick check confirmed they were all still incarcerated.

  Jimmy still insisted on placing a protective detail outside Drake’s building—something Drake usually would have balked at, but agreed to readily. Because of Cassie, she knew. Fine by her; the officers would be protecting him as much as her.

  Drake’s frustration and anger was broadcast via the rigid set of his shoulders as they climbed the stairs to their apartment. “You should get some rest.” Cassie resorted to making small talk. “Your mom, and Nellie and Jacob, are stopping here for brunch before the rehearsal tomorrow.”

  He gave a grunt. “I don’t understand this whole having the rehearsal party at Tessa’s house when the wedding’s going to be here. And why do you have to leave early just to try on your dress? It’s my mom’s—not like I haven’t seen pictures of it.”

  With Christmas Eve on a Saturday and all their friends and Drake’s relatives having the twenty-third off, Adeena, Cassie’s best friend and maid of honor, had planned their rehearsal party for Friday afternoon at the house she shared with her Great Aunt Tessa.

  “Because that’s the way your mother wanted it. You’re her only child and your family is also the only family I have left, and she’s excited about me wearing her dress, so I expect you to indulge her and smile. A lot.”

  They reached the apartment door but he didn’t unlock it, instead turned to scowl at her. “I’m not a child and this isn’t self-pity.”

  “I know that. You’re worried. That what happened tonight is only the beginning. That maybe we should cancel the wedding, tell everyone to stay home. That maybe we shouldn’t stay here tonight and should just head out of town and hold up in a cheap motel in a town we don’t even know the name of.”

  That cracked his facade. Not by much, the worry still leaked into his smile, but it was a start. “Am I that predictable?”

  She stood on her tiptoes to kiss his nose. “Yes. Which is why I’ll wait here while you clear the apartment and secure it.”

  “And everyone thinks I’m marrying you for your money.” A joke since she had none. In fact, between the two of them pouring everything they had into the Liberty Center, if they did run away, they’d probably be sleeping in the back of his car.

  He unlocked the door, cracked it open far enough to check the alarm panel and enter his code, then, leaving the lights off, entered with his gun drawn. She waited impatiently as Hennessey, her overweight tortoiseshell cat, meandered through the open door to whine about being left alone. Finally, Drake returned, snapping on the foyer light, and they all entered.

  He took her coat and hung up his own as well, his movements taut, still not relaxed despite being in the safety of their home. He’d never get any rest at this rate. Good thing Cassie knew a surefire way to relax them both.

  He turned back to her, his expression revealing as much emotion as a blank slate. But she didn’t need to see emotion on his face to know what was churning just beneath the surface. The storm-tossed indigo of his eyes did that for her, as did his knotted shoulder muscles. She led him to the bedroom, turning on only the shaded bedside lamp.

  “I’m in no mood,” he said, hands dug deep into his pocket, shoulders hunched. She ignored him, kicked off her shoes and lifted her skirt to slide out of her panties, letting them drop to the floor. She was now naked beneath the velvet folds of the dress and Drake knew it.

  Still, he tried to turn away. “Cassie.” He almost growled her name in protest as she moved to him. It was funny how he only used her first name when he was irritated with her.

  She’d know she’d broken through to him when he reverted to his more familiar, intimate use of her surname. The way he said it, that one syllable, could send thrills roiling through her body. Sometimes she hated the way he could affect her—a single word or glance or touch could leave her helpless.

  She raised her hands to his shoulders, playfully flicking the straps of his suspenders. Her smile was wicked as he moved his hands to cover hers, to try to stop her from proceeding.

  Wrong move, she thought, leaning forward to nip his hand, letting her teeth sink into his flesh with enough force to distract any man.

  “Damn it, Hart!”

  Victory, she thought, sliding the suspenders from his shoulders even as he drew her to her tiptoes, his mouth dev
ouring hers.

  <<<>>>

  DRAKE SQUEEZED HART’S shoulders, crushing the velvet of her gown in his sweaty palms. He yanked the cloth away, letting it slide down to hang in the crook of her arms, leaving her chest bare to him. As he bent to kiss her, he felt her intake of breath stealing his. Her hands slid between their bodies, fumbling with the buttons on his shirt. She made a small noise of frustration and yanked hard on the fabric, popping buttons in all directions.

  He fisted one hand in her hair, unraveling the intricate braid, and tugged on it, pulling her head back so his mouth was free to roam her body. A sheen of sweat was all that separated them as she slid his shirt away from him. Then her fingers began to dance a tortuous tango down his spine until they found the sensitive spot at the small of his back, beneath his waistband. His hips arched in anticipation; he knew what would happen once she touched that spot just so. He was already aroused. He didn’t believe she could coax any more from his body.

  But, as usual, Hart surprised him. Her fingers drew away, teasing, taunting, before moving closer once more. Her leg skimmed up the back of his, drawing his hips to hers, layers of fabric still separating them below, creating a delicious friction.

  Then her fingers touched that small area of skin that sent a jolt of electricity through every nerve ending. Drake caught his breath; pain and pleasure surged through him, exquisite and demanding in its urgency.

  Hart raised her head, her mouth grazing his ear. “I want you, now,” she commanded. He was only too willing to comply.

  He gave her a gentle push onto the bed, the now rumpled and twisted folds of velvet still separating him from what he desired, what he needed. He knelt between her legs, grabbed both sides of her gown’s hem and ripped the fabric upward. The tearing noise echoed his own desire and finally, she lay naked, open before him.

  He didn’t take the time to do more than slide his pants down before he joined her on the bed. She wrapped her legs around him and he was inside her, thrusting with an urgency that had been building all night long. Hart pulled him ever deeper and as he reared his head to give voice to the fury and passion that climaxed within him, he realized this was what he wanted to render in his art, this feeling of exhilaration, of awe over the power of two people joined together. Her face flushed with color, eyes wide as her mouth opened in her own primal scream of pleasure.

  The animal who had taken Steadfast from him had won a shallow victory indeed. Drake looked upon Hart and knew this was the real prize, this power he and Hart shared, and he would do anything in the world to protect it.

  And her.

  Chapter 8

  DRAKE WOKE A few hours later, his vision filled with the tableau he’d seen earlier at the gala: Hart with Adeena and Denise. The painting composed itself in his mind; he could imagine the layers of pigment, the swirl of the brushstrokes, how he would shape the light and perspective, bend them to suit his needs.

  One day he’d recreate Steadfast—more for his own pleasure, to prove that animals didn’t rule the world, not his world, anyway. But first he wanted to paint the three women—Three Graces he would call it.

  Leaving Hart to sleep, he moved into his studio just as the sunrise streamed its pearlescent light through the eastern facing windows. His favorite time to sit and sketch, before the city was fully aroused, before he had to face the rigors of his own work day, while night-soaked dreamscapes and images remained fresh in mind. He draped the remnants of Hart’s dress over an easel where the first rays of the sun caught the shimmer of light trapped in the folds of purple velvet.

  He took his pad and, instead of charcoal, grabbed a pencil. These were only preliminary studies, a mapping out of the images he wanted, so vibrant in his mind but so difficult to translate onto paper and canvas.

  He let his mind wander as he worked.

  Steadfast had been about capturing and using light to convey the emotion of the piece. He’d experimented repeatedly until he’d developed a technique with pigments and dyes that allowed the canvas to absorb a fraction of the light and reflect the rest. It had been tedious and frustrating finding that right balance between light and light, the solid and the transparent, luminescent, but worth it in the end.

  Grace would be more about shadow he realized as he looked down on his first sketch. Adeena so dark, Denise so fair, and Hart in the middle. As always, Hart would be the crux of the image.

  He’d drawn her just as he’d seen her last night: that slightly crooked smile, those eyes that had seen too much to allow any moment of happiness to be disregarded, filled with knowledge that threatened to taint the joy.

  Yet it didn’t. And that was the battle, wasn’t it? How to reveal the shadows that clung to Hart’s life, darkness that would have long ago devoured a less sturdy soul, and balance them with the joy she brought to her life—and his.

  Shadow and light. His fingers kept moving, playing. A tricky balance to find, to use flat pigments and canvas to express the emotions that fueled a soul.

  But now that he knew what he wanted, half the battle was won. The rest was just endless experimentation, trial and error.

  With Steadfast, he’d unveiled Hart’s courage—which she would deny wholeheartedly, saying she was afraid of almost everything, but he knew better.

  Drake looked once more on the face of the woman he loved and felt he had uncovered a new understanding of her. Balance was extremely important to her life. Just as it was for him. He was constantly striving, either as a cop or an artist, to create order out of chaos, to find a balance he could reproduce in his own life.

  Adeena and Denise were studies in movement, laughter rippling through them. Hart was the center, moving, responding, full of raw emotion, yet also curiously still.

  He was reminded of a film he’d seen in seventh grade social studies class. Whirling dervishes, their faces filled with a calm transfixion as they communed with God while their bodies embraced perpetual motion in a flawless, graceful dance of life. Which came first, the motion or the calm? He wondered and drew Hart’s image once more, this time using a page to render her face alone.

  Eye of a hurricane—the calm, serene center of the storm created by raging winds circling around the edge. That was Hart. She had no need to search for balance or strive for it, she just was. It explained why her actions did indeed speak louder than words—they were created by primal forces instructing her in what needed to be done to maintain that precious balance.

  The scratch of the pencil was the only sound in the room. Drake filled in shadows, balancing the light, but wasn’t happy with the results. The pencil wouldn’t do. He had the composition he wanted, but the rest of the image would be built by color and texture. Lots of metals—maybe even grind some gold or silver directly into some of the pigment? He looked at the rose blush of light shimmering from the folds of Hart’s dress. No, not silver or gold. Copper.

  He thought about seeing Hart work in the cacophony of the ER, watching her during a trauma resuscitation, or when she’d confronted violence. Somehow Hart always kept her equilibrium, knowing what action needed to be taken and doing it without hesitation.

  Drake marveled at that. A man on a constant quest for stability in his life, he’d found a woman with a perfect sense of balance.

  But the only way to stay centered was to acknowledge the chaos that swirled around her, constantly working to tear into the calm eye of the storm, devour it.

  Those were the shadows. The price Hart paid for being Hart, the price Drake would pay for loving her.

  He shook his head, banishing morbid thoughts into the brilliant rays of the rising sun, condemning them to a fiery death.

  It did not always have to be that way—would not, not as long as the two of them were together.

  Chapter 9

  SINCE BOTH CASSIE and Drake enjoyed cooking, making brunch for his family was an enjoyable, well-choreographed dance as they moved around their small but well-equipped kitchen. She even saw him smile once or twice—real smiles, not “I’d
rather be down at the station chasing the guy who dared burn my work of art,” fakes. Whatever work he’d done in his studio this morning had refreshed his mood.

  Maybe it was greedy of her, wanting her soon-to-be groom happy and relaxed before their wedding tomorrow night, but she didn’t care. They’d both been through so much to make it here she refused to let anyone steal this moment from them.

  She moved into the kitchen and finished making the coffee while Drake’s family—his mother, aunt, and uncle—gathered around the table, dissecting the press coverage of last night’s events. Soon a tantalizing aroma filled the air. Drake might be the gourmet, but no one made coffee like Cassie. Gram Rosa had taught her how to turn ordinary beans into a thick, strong brew that tasted of ambrosia, not a bitter drop to be found.

  She was silent as she walked around the table, filling cups, listening with a smile as Jacob and Nellie decried the Tribune’s lack of standards.

  “Their headline editor should be taken out and thrashed,” Jacob said, pointing to the banner displayed on his iPad. “Terrorism strikes Fairstone unveiling,” he read. “Garbage. Absolute sensationalistic garbage.”

  “But, Remy, the photos of the paintings—even though they’re grainy—are stunning. Absolutely stunning,” Drake’s Aunt Nellie told him.

  “I wish I’d been there,” Muriel said, laying a proud hand on her son’s arm. “All those people applauding your work, not even knowing who you were.”

  “They do now.” Drake grimaced. Cassie filled his mug. His hand moved to light on her waist and she left a kiss on the top of his head before moving on.

  “Still, I’m so proud of you, Remy.”

  Cassie returned the pot to the kitchen and leaned on the bar, watching the family—her family soon, she thought. It had been a very long time since she was a part of a family. It was exciting and scary at the same time. There were at least three conversations going on at the table, overlapping, weaving back and forth without missing a beat.