The Pleasure Chest. Jule McBride

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СКАЧАТЬ was the Chelsea Pier. Masts rose into the fading amber sun, and triangular folds of sails flapped in a soft breeze. It was a scene Stede O’Flannery might have painted.

      “There she is,” he whispered. As she appeared at the side of the building, carefully making her way down the precarious outer steps from her apartment, he tossed bills onto the table. Because he couldn’t afford to waste pricey espresso, he downed it even though it scalded his tongue. Then he slung the camera strap over his shoulder and followed Tanya.

      

      “THIS IS MAY at Finders Keepers. I hate to bother you—” the voice came over the answering machine “—but a week’s passed, and I forgot to run your card through. I’m running it now.”

      Waking, Tanya rolled onto her back in bed, staring into the darkness. Had May called just now? But no…the answering machine had awakened Tanya a while ago, as she was drifting off. Last night, she’d worked on her show until dawn, and after taking a shower this afternoon, she’d closed the blinds, taking a nap so she’d be fresh for Izzie’s opening tonight. She glanced at the digital clock on the bedside table. Almost seven-thirty. The opening had already started! Suddenly Tanya’s heart missed a beat. She heard something…

      Downstairs.

      Wood creaked. Papers rustled. Her senses went on alert, and scents in the room sharpened. She could smell vanilla from a candle. Jasmine incense mixed with paint varnish. And something sharper still, woods and pine, like a woodsman…

      Her hand groped over the bed’s edge until she found a platform shoe. It weighed more than a brick. Good. She could bludgeon someone to death with it. Realizing she was holding her breath, she exhaled silently. Gingerly she pushed back the covers, aware she was clad only in a nightshirt. Adrenaline was drying her throat, leaving a metallic taste in her mouth as she got her bearings.

      The outer door of her apartment was equipped with four noisy dead bolts. Her phone receiver wasn’t in its cradle, but across the room, resting in the brush holder of her easel. Could she reach it without being heard?

      Art thieves, she suddenly thought, damning herself for overriding Eduardo and James’s protestations and bringing a masterpiece home. Stunned, Eduardo had told her to bring the painting back when she was ready to sell, then James had left for vacation, closing the shop. She’d been jumpy ever since. No matter where she went, she felt as if someone were watching her. She blew out a sigh. Her heart had started to slow. It’s just your imagination, she thought. No one’s here.

      Straining, she heard nothing. Sleeping next to a collector’s item was crazy-making. So was the series of digital snapshots she’d taken of the work. Whenever she compared them, she could swear the figures had moved. Not much. Only a fraction. The man she admired had turned slightly, as if to run into the woods, and the blond man seemed to advance. Tanya’s spine tingled as if spiders were crawling down the ladder formed by her vertebrae.

      She didn’t dare make her deeper thoughts any more conscious, much less voice them because the notions forming in her mind were crazy. Illogical. Impossible. Still, she sometimes thought the painting was…coming alive.

      Another minute passed. She’d been wrong. No one was downstairs. The security was great, she reminded herself, still wondering what had come over her in Weatherby’s. She’d felt leaving the painting in the auction house would be a…well, betrayal. Of him.

      But now, lying in the dark, she knew she was only betraying herself. Selling the painting would generate enough money to change her life. Or someone else’s. A creak sounded, and her heart hammered again. Was the building settling down? Or had Weatherby’s staff leaked information about the rare find? But no. They were professionals. Another minute passed. No more sounds. Good.

      Anyone else would have sold, she realized. Would she ever become what her folks would call a “normal” person? The kind with a good job, stable husband, two kids and a dog? Like her younger sister, Brittania?

      Somebody coughed, and ice flooded her veins. Her hand froze around the shoe. She thought she heard a shot glass hitting the bar downstairs, and she gulped, realizing the door to the stairs must be open. She started to call out, “James.” But he really was on vacation, on the other side of the world. Oh God, she thought, her mind racing as she edged off the bed. Careful. He’ll hear you. Was there more than one intruder? She cursed herself for shutting the blinds so tightly and leaving her phone on the other side of the room. What if she tripped over something in the dark? Biting back a gasp, she saw the door leading downstairs really was open. Just a fraction. He’d been upstairs, already! In her room! Watching her sleep!

      She stifled a whimper. How had he—or he and others—gotten in? Her eyes darted around wildly. She had to close and lock the door between the floors before he heard her and came running.

      Her mind raced. What about the alarm? And the computerized keypad? He—or they—must have come in some way. But how? She decided she’d run to the door, slam it shut and once it was locked, she’d grab her phone and call the police.

      She could barely steady her hands. As she slowly crept toward the door, an explosive curse sounded. A cry escaped her lips. Then everything went quiet. Too quiet. Knowing it was now or never, that he’d heard her, she fled for the door.

      So did he! Footsteps pounded on the stairs. He was coming up! She had to close the door and pull the chain across before he…Grabbing the door’s edge, she tried to force it closed, but it caught on something.

      “My foot!”

      She stared down at a dark boot wedged in the crack. She tried not to panic, but terror consumed her heart. It was racing fast, exploding in her chest. She prayed she sounded stronger than she felt. “Get your foot out of the door!”

      “Don’t you be tellin’ me what to do, miss.”

      She pushed harder.

      He pushed back, and a tug-of-war ensued. It was like arm wrestling, and worse, he was stronger. He was winning. “I already called the police,” she lied.

      “I would ’a heard you on the…” He paused. “Telephone…That’s it.”

      She barely registered his words. Someone at Weatherby’s must have leaked information about the masterpiece, after all. “You can have the painting.”

      “I should hope so, miss. It’s mine.”

      His? His voice was a barely discernable Irish brogue, the words strangely antiquated. The boot had odd buckles, too, like none she’d ever seen—and if there was one thing Tanya knew about, it was shoes. The boot looked strangely familiar, too, as if she’d seen a picture of it somewhere. And what did he mean when he’d said the painting was his? Had the proprietress of Finders Keepers learned of Eduardo’s appraisal, then hired this man to steal the painting, feeling entitled to it?

      At least he didn’t seem to have accomplices. “Get your foot out of the door!”

      “I’ll do no such thing.”

      Instead he pushed again. Harder. Fear paralyzed her as she was forced backward. What if he intended more than theft? People had been killed for less than one-point-five million dollars. Eduardo said the painting might even bring two million. Renewed panic shot through her as the stranger’s dark, hulking body crashed through the doorway.

      Instinctively she hauled her hand back, swinging the platform. As he yelped, she ducked, glad Izzie and Marlo СКАЧАТЬ