Jane told herself it was because she’d been distracted by the flowers. She’d been so busy asking herself, “Who on earth would send me flowers? And why?”
But even so, the instant the door opened, she knew that something was not as it should be. Something was different. Something was missing.
For a moment-just a moment-she even thought she must be in the wrong room. At least that would have explained the flowers.
But she couldn’t possibly be in the wrong room. This was her room, number 722, the very same one she’d left not half an hour ago to go down to the garage with Connie.
And…well, of course! Now she knew exactly what was missing. It was the Washington Monument. She’d been looking at it before, and it was the last thing she’d seen as she’d pulled the door closed behind her. But now the curtains were drawn, the room in darkness. And she’d left the desk light on…
All that realizing took place in the space of time it took her to utter one small exclamation of surprise and alarm. What she did next required even less time and no thought at all, and she couldn’t for the life of her account for the impulse.
She let go of her purse, reached into the plastic bag that held her Roy Rogers six-shooter and pulled it out. It slid smoothly from its holster, nestled nicely in the palm of her hand. And the next thing she knew, she was holding it the way she’d seen policemen do in the movies, with both hands and at arm’s length, and was aiming the toy pistol at the dark wall of draperies right where the Washington Monument was supposed to be.
And what then? Up until that moment, her mind had been operating on autopilot, or like a computer purring smoothly through its set-up program. Now it waited with a blank screen, cursor patiently blinking, for further instructions. And she had none whatsoever to give it! She thought…nothing. No review of the course of action chosen, no consideration of better alternatives. no what-ifs or should-haves. Stranger still, she felt nothing, not even fear.
Perhaps there just wasn’t time. Because that curious blankness could have lasted no more than the span of a heartbeat or two, and just as she was beginning to get a glimmer of an idea that maybe, just maybe, it was a very stupid thing she’d done, the blankness exploded into violence and total confusion.
Something struck her-from the side, she believed, although for some reason she fell forward, suddenly and hard, so that the wind was knocked out of her. As she lay gasping and retching on the scratchy hotel carpet, she felt a tremendous weight come down between her shoulder blades, as if someone had knelt there, on one knee.
She knew a second or two of absolute terror as hands touched her…fingers searched along the side of her neck… There was a ghastly pressure. Panic-stricken, unable to struggle or even draw a single breath, she wanted to scream, to cry out. But no sound came from her mouth. And then darkness drifted down around her, almost gently, as if someone had thrown a blanket over her head…
And then, just as gently lifted it. She found that she could breathe again, and hear all sorts of confusing noises-thumps and scuffles, muffled shouts and running footsteps. She could see, although her range of vision consisted mostly of the underside of a hotel bed. And for some reason, she felt so weak that the notion of lifting her head, even to improve the view, was utterly beyond her.
She would have been content to stay where she was for a while longer, but it seemed only a moment before she felt the vibrations of footsteps scuffing and jarring the carpet nearby. The bed that loomed alongside her jiggled violently, and then urgent hands were gripping her hips, her waist, her shoulders. She felt those hands pulling her back, turning her over.
She heard a man’s voice, raspy with alarm. “Ma’am-are you all right?”
She muttered automatically, “I think so.”
But as the hands pulled and hoisted her to a sitting position, her head began to pound and the darkness to descend once more. Quite by accident, she found that if she hastened the darkness by closing her eyes and then wrapped herself inside it like a nice, safe cocoon, she could concentrate all her willpower on fighting the nausea. She felt quite clever to have made that discovery, and would have preferred to stay indefinitely in that safe, lovely darkness.
“Here, put your head down,” the voice commanded, coming now from a great distance, somewhere on the other side of the darkness. “Don’t get sick on me now.”
The idea of passing out or throwing up on her shoes in the presence of a total stranger was all the inspiration Jane needed. Cautiously opening her eyes, she found that her view now consisted of the hotel-room carpet and her own feet. From that fact, her sluggish powers of deduction reasoned that she must be sitting on the edge of the bed with her head tucked between her knees. Besides being hideously uncomfortable, she found it a mortifying position to be in, especially since a stranger was sitting beside her and holding her firmly by the shoulders.
At some point, he’d also apparently closed the door, but turned on only the entry light. She didn’t know whether to be sorry there wasn’t more light, or glad.
“Are you all right?” the man asked for the second time, in a gravelly, dispassionate voice that Jane suddenly realized was familiar to her. “Want me to call someone?”
She gasped. “Oh, God, no!” The idea appalled her. “No, I’m okay. Really.” She tried a somewhat gingerly stretch.
Her Good Samaritan instantly let go of her shoulders but stayed where he was, close beside her, his body touching hers, as if he thought she needed bolstering.
And she did-oh, she did! All the willpower she’d employed moments ago to keep her wits and her lunch, she called upon now to keep from throwing herself into those strong masculine arms. To keep herself from thinking about how lovely it would be to have those arms around her while she blubbered and snuffled into the man’s nice broad chest.
Instead, she let her eyes drift shut again, drew a long breath and rotated her head carefully. “Oh, my,” she murmured. “What on earth happened?”
“I was hoping you could tell me,” the now very familiar voice said dryly.
Recognition came like a clap of thunder. Jane’s eyes flew open upon a facial landscape so forbidding and at such close range, she pulled back from it with a soft, reflexive gasp. “Mr. Hawkins-it is you. What on earth are you doing here? I’m Jane-Jane Carlysle-from the auction, remember?”
He seemed to be regarding her with puzzling intensity. “Oh, I remember you,” he said, and something about the way he said it made her heart stumble.
While she pondered that phenomenon, he got up and turned on the lamp on the dresser. On the way back, he stooped to pick something up from the floor. “I guess this must belong to you,” he said, and held it out to her on the palm of one hand.
“Oh, God.” Instead of taking the offering, she put a hand over her mouth to stifle a giggle. Then, to her dismay, she began to shake, but not with laughter.
Tom Hawkins looked at her for a moment, then shifted his grip on the toy pistol he held in his hand, hefted its weight, sighted along the barrel, pulled back the hammer. He squeezed the trigger and listened almost thoughtfully to the crisp metallic click.
“Quite a weapon,” he drawled with more than a hint of sarcasm. “What were you gonna do, throw it?” It was only when he transferred a steely blue gaze back to her that she realized he was angry.
To Jane, seeing anger in the eyes of a stranger was so unexpected-it seemed so very personal, somehow-it was as if she’d been doused with cold water, or slapped smartly across the face. Her head cleared. Her shaking subsided. She sat very straight and still, immersed in a strange calm that was almost like being suspended in weightlessness.
“I don’t know what I meant to do with it,” she said in a hollow voice. “I don’t think…the fact is, I didn’t think. It was stupid, of course. Right now I can think of at least six things I should have done instead. I don’t know what got into me.”
Hawk found it impossible, suddenly, to be so close to her. He went to sit on the other bed, shoulders hunched and hands clasped between his knees, and studied the woman who had just become his biggest problem. Her face was very pale, and there were dark smudges under her eyes. She should have looked older, he thought, with her makeup gone and her hair all mussed and curling with the humidity in a way that could only be natural, but for some reason she didn’t. She looked incredibly young. And frightened. He hadn’t expected that.
“You were damn lucky,” he said harshly. “You know that, don’t you? If I hadn’t come along when I did-”
“I know.” She caught in a breath hungrily, as if she hadn’t had one in a while, then repeated, “I know. I haven’t even thanked you.” She looked sideways at him. Amazing, he thought, how expressive those sea-gray eyes of hers could be-and a reminder to him to keep his own shielded. “I’m very grateful you happened along. How did you-I mean. it’s such a coincidence, isn’t it?”
There was a nuance in her words that didn’t escape Hawk. He laughed, hoping to head off her suspicions with a certain gruff charm. “No kidding. You’re the last person I expected to see here. Hey, I was on my way to the elevators-going down to get a bite to eat, as a matter of fact. And I hear this yelp and a thump, and the next thing I know, this guy comes tearing out of here with this package in his hands-”
“Package-oh my God, my painting!” She shot to her feet. He could have told her it was a bad move. He put out a hand to steady her when she swayed.
“Hey, it’s okay-it’s right there, on the bed.” He put his hands on her shoulders and eased her down, narrowing his eyes when he looked at her, trying hard not to see how pale and vulnerable she was. “I…more or less persuaded the bast-uh, guy-to leave it behind.” His lips tightened and stretched in a smile while his jaw clenched with the unpleasant taste of lies. Necessary lies, he assured himself. “Unfortunately, I couldn’t persuade him to stick around and explain why he was making off with it. Hey,” he added, all innocence, “isn’t that the one you just bought, today at the auction?”
She nodded, then winced.
“Headache?” he asked gently.
She nodded again, closing her eyes this time. “He…did something to my neck-right here.” She cupped the place with her hand, rubbed briefly, then let the hand drop. Her eyes opened, fixed unnervingly on his face as she said in a soft, puzzled voice, “I think…I must have passed out. It’s so strange…I really think he was going to kill me.”
Hawk didn’t say anything. He watched his hands as he placed one on either side of her neck, watched his fingers search for the spot he knew very well, trying to block out the way her skin felt, the way it had felt such a short time before, when he’d stopped for just a second or two, the life force pulsing beneath it. Soft and warm. Vibrant and strong. Alive.
He tried to block out awareness of those eyes of hers, so near he could see the tiny lines that gave away her age. Tried to deny the strange, tense silence that had fallen between them.
He couldn’t look at her eyes, so he shifted his gaze to her mouth. And that was a mistake. He hadn’t expected it to be so full and soft…or so near. His heartbeat grew strong and heavy; his mouth went dry and his vision blurred. He could feel the moist warmth of her breath on his lips, like a summer promise.
Shaken to the very soles of his feet, he pulled his hands away from her and growled, “Lady, if he’d wanted you dead, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”
But even with the safer distance between them, for several moments longer they sat in that curious state of silent tension, in a kind of connectedness God knows he didn’t want, but didn’t know how to end. Her eyes seemed to be asking something of him. He felt as if he ought to apologize to her.
But exactly what would he be apologizing for? The fact that it was he who’d knocked her down and put her out of commission, when by doing so he’d probably saved her life? The fact that he wanted to kiss her-very nearly had kissed her-or the fact that kissing her was the one thing he wasn’t about to let himself do?
And then suddenly, like a rubber band stretched too far, the suspense broke. Hawk shifted even farther away from her and they both spoke at once.
“Did you see who-”
“-Must be some painting.”
He rebounded first, answering her question with a shake of his head. “He was wearing a ski mask.”
For some reason, that information seemed to unnerve her as nothing else had. She muttered, “I don’t believe this,” then added with a touch of asperity, “What is it with that painting, anyway? First that man Campbell tries to buy it, then he wanted to bribe me, and now someone-” She broke off midsentence, her eyes darting to Hawk’s with the unspoken question.
He answered it with a shrug of apology. “Sorry. No way to tell if it was the same guy. I told you-he had on a ski mask.” At least that much was true.
“Must be some painting,” he remarked once more, keeping his tone light, with only a touch of irony. Picking up the flat, paper-wrapped package he’d placed so carefully on the bed next to him, he held it up tentatively in front of Jane, who was chewing her lip and frowning thoughtfully at nothing. “Okay if I take a look at it?”
“What? Oh, okay, sure…” She obliged him by holding it while he tore the tape that crisscrossed the back and peeled aside the layers of brown packing paper. A moment later, he had it in his hands. The prize. Game, set…match.
“It’s nice,” he said, surprised to discover that he meant it. Funny, he wouldn’t have expected that little weasel Jarek Singh to have such good taste in art. Not that it mattered; it could be Elvis on black velvet, for all he cared. What he wanted was hidden somewhere in, on or behind this damn painting, and all he had to do now was get it out of the woman’s clutches long enough to find it.
An idea came to him, based on something he’d overheard earlier, in the parking garage. Keeping his voice carefully neutral, he said, “I take it it’s not supposed to be valuable?”
“No.” She rose, gingerly at first, then with more confidence, and moved over beside him so she could look at the painting with him.
He found himself bracing automatically for her nearness. Apparently not at all affected by his, she was silent for a while, gazing down at the painting as if she’d never seen it before. Then she caught a quick breath and said in a puzzled tone, “I was told it isn’t. I just bought it because I like it. The style reminds me of Renoir-I’ve always liked Renoir.” She gave a short laugh. “Of course, this isn’t. I’m certain of that. But it’s more than that. It just…” Her voice trailed off, but she went on staring at the dancers in the painting. There was something about the tilt of her head that made her seem…wistful.
“Maybe,” Hawk said, releasing the painting into her keeping with a casual shrug, “somebody knows something you don’t.”
Her eyes flew to his, not guiltily, but with a little lift of surprise and gladness, in the way of one human being discovering another of like mind. “That’s just what I thought! You don’t think it’s silly, do you? Things like that do happen.” Again she gave that ripple of laughter he was beginning to recognize as a signature of hers. “Not to me, of course. But suppose…”
“If you’d asked me this morning, I’d have said not a chance,” said Hawk dryly. “But after what just happened, I’d have to wonder. Somebody obviously wants that painting pretty badly.” He paused a beat before adding, “Maybe you should have it appraised.”
She nodded, her face thoughtful. “Oh, I plan to. I’d already planned to, after that man Campbell offered me so much money for it. And after this…”
“I might be able to help you there.” He said it with just enough diffidence, not too eager. “I have a friend at the Smithsonian-he could probably recommend somebody. I’ll give him a call, if you want. You could take the painting in tomorrow morning.”
That ought to give Devore plenty of time to get somebody in place, he thought.
She laughed and said faintly, “My goodness, the Smithsonian.”
But Hawk knew he was losing her. He was an experienced enough hunter to know when his quarry had sensed the trap. Her smile was strained, now, her body tense, and her eyes slid sideways, reluctant to meet his.
Or maybe, he told himself, it was just that she was feeling better now, more her usual self, and her natural self-preservation instinct was kicking in. He was well aware that an animal suffering from trauma will tolerate invasions of its comfort zone that a hale and healthy one never would. Human beings were no different.
Or, it could be that Jane Carlysle was simply experiencing the normal edginess of a woman-a nice woman-becoming aware that she was alone in a hotel room with a strange man. Small wonder if she was feeling leery, after that near slip of his. He’d have to be a lot more careful about that in the future. And he would be. It had just snuck up on him, that’s all. It had been a long time since he’d felt that kind of attraction to a woman. A long, long time.
But, either way, his moment had come and gone. Time to drop back and punt, he thought. Let her get her confidence back, and wait for another chance.
“Just an idea,” he said with a shrug.
“I appreciate the offer.” She leaned forward to prop the painting against the pillows at the head of the bed, and shot him a quick smile over her shoulder before she straightened-not seductively, more like a peace offering, he thought, but felt the sudden lurch in his belly anyway, like a plane hitting an air pocket. “I really do-it’s very kind of you. But I already have the name of an appraiser-I believe he has a gallery in Georgetown. I’m going in to Washington first thing in the morning anyway. I’ll just take the painting with me then.”
“Oh-okay, well, that’s good.” Nothing more to be done now, he told himself. Time to go. And yet he felt a curious reluctance. He told himself it was the painting he hated to leave behind. “That’s good…sounds like you’ve got it covered.” He edged toward the door. “I guess if you’re sure you’re okay…”
“I am-really.” She followed him, moving in that fidgety way people do when they don’t know quite what to do with their hands. “And thank you. For saving my-” She broke off, gave that little embarrassed laugh of hers and amended it to, “My painting. I don’t know what I’d have done if you hadn’t…”
“My pleasure,” Hawk said, and reminded himself to smile. “Glad I happened to be in the right place at the right time.” He stopped suddenly, as if the thought had just come to him, and made one last try. “Listen, maybe you should get somebody to go with you when you take that painting in tomorrow. You know, if somebody’s crazy enough to try this…”
“Oh, no, that’s okay, I’ll be fine.” She said it hurriedly, automatically, the usual polite demurral. Then, as she thought about it, he saw her smile slip a little. “Anyway,” she added staunchly, “I’m prepared now. Forewarned is forearmed, right?”
His thought exactly. This time he didn’t give her the smile she wanted. Instead, frowning, he said, “Are you sure? I have a couple of appointments, but I can probably-”
“Oh, no-no, really.” It was firm, final. He heard it in her voice, saw it in the set of her mouth.
“Well, okay then. Be careful.” His hand was on the doorknob. He turned it and pulled. “Lock your door.”
Instead of a reply, he heard a soft, stifled sound, and turning, found that she’d crisscrossed her body with her arms and covered her mouth with one hand. Above it, the eyes that clung to his were suddenly troubled, frightened, confused. He’d never seen such tattletale eyes.
“Oh, I will” Her words came muffled through her fingers. “And I did. That’s just it. I know I locked my door when I went out. How on earth did he get in here?” She shivered.
Hawk tapped the small sign that was mounted on the door near the security bar. “Ma’am. I could tell you about six different ways. That’s why they tell you to put the bar on when you’re in here, and not to keep valuables in your room.”
“But what I don’t understand,” she persisted, her voice low and still shaken, “is how he knew this was my room. It’s not even registered in my name, and anyway, the hotel wouldn’t give out that information. How did he know?” It was hitting her now, he could see that-the sense of violation that every victim of violence experiences. It would probably take some time before she felt safe again.
The door was open now. Hawk held it while they both stood in silence, looking down at the arrangement of spring flowers on the floor.
“Looks like somebody’s sent you a present,” he said in a neutral voice.
She bent slowly and picked up the flowers. “It’s a mistake-it has to be,” she said in a frightened voice. “I don’t know anybody who’d send me flowers. The only ones who even know I’m here are my kids, and I can’t think why-” She broke off as he reached over and turned the little white card on its plastic stake so she could see “Jane Carlysle” plainly written there. Just the name, and nothing else. She whispered, “I don’t understand.”
“Don’t you?” Hawk’s mouth twisted as he touched a sprig of lilac with one finger. “This…is probably how he knew. It’s one of the tricks-call and order something to be delivered to a particular person, then watch and see which room it goes to.” He let the hand drop to his side.
She whispered, “My God.”
He felt grimy, uncomfortable in his own skin. Ashamed. Her stricken eyes clung to his, framed in daffodils and tulips. The smell of lilacs hung in the air between them, making his nose burn and his eyes ache. He hadn’t been prepared for this. Desperately, he hardened himself against the memories, the guilt, and her.
He said thickly, “Well, now you know,” and turned.
He’d taken only a few steps when she called to him. “Mr. Hawkins…”
She’d never know what it cost him to pause and look back, when he knew she’d be standing where he’d left her, with her arms full of those damn flowers.
“Mr. Hawkins,” she asked, her voice steady, her face pale but resolute, “are you with the police?”
For some reason, the question didn’t surprise him. Nor did the fact that she’d said police, not cops. A nice woman… He wondered later if that was why he didn’t simply lie to her.
Instead, he muttered, “Not in this jurisdiction,” and walked away, this time without looking back.
After Tom Hawkins had gone, Jane closed and locked her door and barricaded it with the security bar. Then, for a time. she just stood with the flowers in her arms, struggling to think, to make decisions, to regain some measure of control. Control of herself, her life and her circumstances.
Recent events had shaken her more than she wanted to admit to herself, and certainly more than she’d ever admit to a stranger, especially one as attractive as that enigmatic Mr. Hawkins. After all, she was a full-grown woman-a middle-aged woman, if she was completely honest with herself-and ought to be accustomed by now to dealing with life’s unpleasant little surprises.
Okay, so she’d never been the victim of a violent crime before. These things happened all over the world, to millions of people, every single day.
Grow up, Jane. Join the club. And pull yourself together. You’re always complaining that nothing exciting ever happens to you.
A perfect example, she thought, of “Be careful what you wish for!”
So, okay, first of all, what to do with the flowers? It wasn’t in her nature to blame them for the fact that they’d been used for evil intent. And they were so beautifut-some of her favorites, in fact. She’d always particularly loved lilacs.
Closing her eyes, she dipped her face into the center of the bouquet and inhaled that sweet, familiar scent; she felt the cool touch on her cheeks and eyelids, light as a kitten’s kisses, and felt the tremors of emotions she couldn’t name. Which was something that had been happening to her quite a lot today, for some reason.
But those longings that had come over her at the auction had been vague and restless, a strange, sweet ache for something she’d never known and probably never would know. This was much more specific, and if she didn’t know what it was she was feeling, at least she knew why. Because standing there with her eyes closed and the smell of spring in the air, all she could see was the tall form of Tom Hawkins, walking away from her down that long hallway without looking back. Walking away…and out of her life forever.
Oh, but she couldn’t give in to emotions of any kind right now. And she would not. She even had a formula-how did it go? Oh, yes, she remembered it well. Swallow hard a few times…concentrate on breathing deeply until the weakness passes… Then, do something. Find a job, a purpose.
So, as if it were the most important job in the world, she carried the flowers into the bathroom and gave them a drink of water, then dried the florist’s vase carefully so it wouldn’t leave a ring on the furniture and placed it on the dresser, arranging it nicely in front of the mirror. The fragrance of the lilacs seemed to fill the room.
I should eat something, she thought. From experience, she knew she’d feel better if she did. But, oh dear, how could she leave her room unguarded? What if he was out there somewhere, watching, waiting for her to do just that?
This time the wave of emotion was easier to identify. What it was, was pure panic. Suddenly she could feel it all over again-the sensation of falling, of utter helplessness, the weight on her back squeezing the breath out of her lungs. She felt warm fingers on her neck, the awful, terrifying pressure, the pounding, the gentle darkness…
Trembling, she sank onto the bed, groped for the phone and clumsily punched the Operator button. For a moment, hearing the unexpected words, “Front desk,” her mind went blank. Then her own voice responded calmly, “Room service, please.” The very normalcy of her request helped to quiet her panic, although it continued to roll and chum through her insides.
After the girl at the front desk had cheerfully connected her with room service, she ordered the only thing she could think of at that moment, even though she wasn’t particularly fond of hamburgers, and absolutely never ate French fries.
Music, she thought desperately as she cradled the phone, reaching for the TV remote. That’s what I need. Please, God, let there be something on PBS.
But PBS was showing a nature film, and the idea of watching Serengeti lions tear into a zebra wasn’t at all appealing to her right then. Neither were the talk shows, police dramas, old movies, sitcoms and infomercials offered by the other channels. The best she could find was the cable channel directory, which was playing classical music as background-Vivaldi, she thought. Or maybe it was Mozart. She turned up the volume as far as she dared, then sat restlessly fiddling with the remote control as her eyes darted around the room in search of further distraction.
She thought about the paperback romance novel she’d bought to read that evening, the map of Washington she’d meant to study, the sight-seeing plans she’d intended to make. But she didn’t feel like reading, or planning. She couldn’t think. Her mind was a jumble of fragmented thoughts and impressions. She felt exhausted and wired at the same time.
What she wanted was simply to talk to someone.
She thought about calling the girls. She knew she should-they’d be expecting to hear from her, since she always checked in with them when she had to be away overnight. But of course she didn’t dare tell them about this. It would only alarm and upset them. And besides, she was the mom, she was supposed to be the strong one, the steadfast, sensible one; her children were supposed to come to her for comfort and strength, not the other way around. And if she called them and tried to act as though nothing was wrong, they’d know. They’d hear it in her voice; she’d never been any good at hiding her feelings.
She supposed she should report the incident to hotel security or the police. Doing so would certainly give her an opportunity to talk, but she had an idea it would, in the long run, bring her more headaches than solace.
What she really needed, she thought, was a friend. Just a friend, with a sympathetic ear and a strong shoulder. Like Connie, who was more than likely halfway home to Cooper’s Mill by now, or blissfully asleep in some roadside motel. She thought of David, who had never listened or given her much support or solace, even when they were married. She thought of a stranger named Hawkins who had sat beside her, almost but not quite touching, just in case she needed him.
For the first time since the terrifying days leading to and then following her decision to divorce David, loneliness seemed overwhelming. It came suddenly, like a bad cramp. Doubled over with the pain of it, arms across her belly, she rocked herself back and forth, entombed in the darkness of her own desolation. She kept saying to herself, Dammit, dammit, I thought I was done with this. I thought I was stronger. I thought I’d taught myself not to need.
And so she had, until tonight, when a stranger’s touch had awakened her to her own reality, like a bright light turned on in a room where she’d grown accustomed to darkness. Once before such a thing had happened to her, and her life had been forever changed.
A knock on the door and a muffled, “Room service,” jolted her badly. Trembling, she went to eye the hotel waiter’s starched white coat through the peephole. She instructed him to leave the tray outside the door, and only after he’d gone and she’d verified that the hallway was completely deserted did she unlatch the safety bar and open the door long enough to snatch the tray and carry it inside.
She wolfed down the hamburger without tasting it, left the French fries untouched, then prepared for bed, taking meticulous care to floss and brush and cleanse as she always did; she’d always found routine reassuring. After that, she put on the peach-colored silk pajamas she only wore on those rare occasions when she slept away from home and crawled between the starched and tucked hotel sheets. With the pillows from both beds stacked high behind her shoulders and the light burning brightly over the nightstand, she channel-surfed until her eyes burned and her head ached. Then, at least, she could welcome the darkness with relief rather than dread. But she didn’t find solace in it, nor sleep, either.
Sometime in the dead of night, it came to her and she threw back the covers and sat up, clutching the edge of the bed. Clammy. Trembling. And one thought in her mind: wet wool.
That was what was wrong. She’d smelled it. She’d felt it. His coat had been wet. And yet he’d told her he’d been on his way out. Hadn’t he? Yes, she was sure he’d said so. On his way out to get something to eat, that was it. Tom Hawkins had lied to her. Why?
His story about “happening along” at just the right moment-had that been a lie, too? And if he hadn’t just “happened” to be there, it followed that he must have been there for a purpose. Was the purpose something to do with her, or her attacker?
It has to be something to do with the painting, she thought. It has to be.
Slowly, she turned to look at it, propped against the head of the other bed, the graceful figures only faint pale shapes in the almost darkness. He was there at the auction, she thought, forcing her plodding thoughts along dim and scary paths. He’d seemed so nice, so helpful. And tonight, he’d just happened to be here, out of all the hotels in the city, in time to save her painting, if not actually her life. Such an amazing coincidence.
She got up, padded barefoot around the foot of her bed and made her way to the other one, where she shoved the discarded wrappings aside and sat facing the painting with one leg drawn up on the unrumpled spread.
She thought about the man Campbell-he’d wanted the painting badly. So did the man in her room tonight.
And what about Tom Hawkins? He’d been there at the auction, where Campbell was. And he’d been here tonight, where Campbell-or whoever-was. Was it Campbell he wanted, or the painting? Was he a cop, or wasn’t he?
Not in this jurisdiction. What an odd answer that was, now that she thought about it. What kind of law enforcement officer would be tracking a man-or a painting-out of his jurisdiction? If the damn thing was stolen, why didn’t he just say so? And most of all, why would he lie about so simple a thing as whether he’d been coming or going?
She knew there wasn’t any use going back to bed, not then. She sat in the armchair, curled up and wrapped in the bedspread, gazing out the window at the floodlit Washington Monument until her eyes ached and the vision blurred.
Tomorrow, she vowed. Tomorrow I’m going to find out about that painting, once and for all.
She had a feeling she hadn’t seen the last of Tom Hawkins, either. Whoever he was.