When Things Got Hot in Texas Page 2

  this was one of the weirdest conversations she’d ever had. She cocked her head. “I do know a couple of Emilys.”

  “There you go.” The woman pushed up from her yoga ball. It bounced against the cubicle wall with a soft thwap. “Follow me.”

  Allie glanced around at the other people waiting for an interview. Several of them glared at her. This wasn’t fair, cutting in line, and pretending to know Lila Emily. “I can’t…I shouldn’t…”

  “Do you want a shot at this job?” Ennui hiss-whispered.

  “Yes, but I don’t want to cheat anyone else out of a chance.”

  Ennui straightened, her uber-red lips shining in the light dripping in through the plate glass window behind the cubicle wall. “Never mind. This was a mistake. Fill out the application and get in line.”

  Allie thought of having to call her mom to tell her she needed to move back in. Imagined how happy her mom would be, hovering, cooking her meals, washing her clothes, snooping through her cell phone. Compared that loser feeling to the triumphant coup she’d feel when she took her parents out to dinner at Del Frisco’s to tell them she’d finally landed a job in her chosen field.

  She didn’t understand what was going on with this weird interview, but she desperately needed the job, for her mental health if nothing else. “Please don’t write me off. I want a shot.”

  “Well then, come along.” Ennui tossed her head and guided Allie past the other applicants who were shooting eye daggers at her.

  Why was she getting special treatment? Had her folks pulled strings? But how could they? She hadn’t told them the details of her job interview, precisely because she didn’t want them pulling strings.

  Gulping, Allie ignored the urge to slump guiltily past the other interviewees. She tossed her head like she belonged, and kept her eyes straight ahead, aloof as a runway model. Jumping ahead of the line went against every egalitarian bone in her body, but when life handed you an advantage, it was dumb not to take it.

  Right?

  It wasn’t like she hadn’t had her share of disadvantages. Still, guilt had an uneven weight, a thorny texture, and the pasty taste of cold oatmeal.

  “This way.” Ennui turned to crook a finger, stopping briefly in front of a columned entryway leading into a vast darkened room. She switched on her cell phone, using it as a flashlight, and crossed over the threshold.

  Allie hesitated at the sill where the bare concrete they’d been walking on merged into mahogany hardwood.

  Shadows stretched before her, thick and mysterious. The intoxicating fragrance of oil paints on canvas dizzied her head. She curled her fingernails into her palms, giddy with the pelt of scents—the woody aroma of pencils, the ashy odor of charcoal dust, the earthy essence of clay. It smelled like art school. Felt like coming home.

  Her heart beat a little faster.

  “C’mon,” Ennui prodded, sounding faraway and ghostly, the beam from her cell phone bobbing several yards ahead of Allie.

  This was the direction life was guiding her. She’d learned a long time ago not to fight the current, to surrender to the flow. Taking a deep breath, she exhaled slowly, and hurried to catch up with Ennui.

  Lumps of things loomed on either side of the pathway cordoned off by thick velvet ropes—pallets stacked high with boxes, sheets covering exhibits, the spindly bones of metal scaffolding. An eerie, unsettled sensation crawled and wriggled down her spine. Weirdly, she was having a hard time inhaling. The darkness was too heavy, almost solid.

  Breathe. Trust.

  At the far end of the room shimmered a faint filter of light, coming through what appeared to be a door cracked ajar. It seemed like something from a recurrent nightmare where she was running from toothy monsters she couldn’t see and got mired in honey-slicked floors.

  She knew construction workers were in the midst of setting up the makeshift museum, but you would think someone would turn on some lights, or take down the heavy curtains and let the sunshine in.

  “Hurry,” Ennui’s voice snapped sharply. “I don’t have all day.”

  Spurred, Allie picked up the pace, her heels clicking loudly against the hardwood floor. She reached Ennui just as the woman turned toward the thin beam of light.

  Indeed, a door was propped ajar, wedged open with a thick, hardcover edition of a classic art textbook.

  Ennui paused and took hold of Allie’s arm. “Piece of advice—if he thinks Lila sent you, you’re much more likely to get the job.”

  Um, so keep up the lie? Allie shifted her weight, felt guilt roll up the back of her throat. What if she lied and the “he” in question called this Lila person?

  Before Allie could respond, Ennui knocked on the open door. “Dr. Thorn,” Ennui called. “I have found a suitable candidate.”

  The door swung all the way open, and Allie blinked against the stun of sunshine. A middle-aged, professorial man pushed a pair of leopard-print reading glasses up on a ski-slope nose. His forehead was oversized, his ears undersized. His hands were tiny, fingers stubby, but his feet were long and wide. Both tall and stout, he duck-walked toward them with an uneven gait, his knees bowed from the weight of his girth. He was oddly assembled like he’d inherited the wrong combination of ancestral DNA.

  “This is Allie Grainger,” Ennui said and shot Dr. Thorn a meaningful glance. “Lila sent her.”

  And then Ennui disappeared like some fairytale sprite. One second she was there, the next she was gone. It was creepy, and frankly, a little unnerving. Especially now that Allie was alone with the strange-looking man who eyed her up and down with a speculative stare.

  “Hal Thorn,” he said and stuck out an extraordinarily dry palm. On his pinky finger, he wore a big gold ring.

  Allie didn’t really want to shake his hand, but she did. His palm was almost as small as hers.

  “Have a seat.” He waved at a folding chair surrounded by books and boxes and stacks of empty art frames. Beyond a wealth of bookcases there was no other furniture in the room.

  She stepped over a pile of unopened packages, and perched on the edge of the metal chair with her knees together, her purse clutched in her lap.

  “So,” he said, and squatted in front of her so they were eye level. She was surprised that he could crouch, and wondered if he was going to be able to stand up afterward. It was stuffy in the room, and far too warm, but he wore a nubby brown cardigan and he wasn’t perspiring. “Lila sent you.”

  His ice water blue eyes pierced into her, his gaze a clinical laser. Exact. Sharp. Dangerous.

  Allie cleared her throat, and extended her resume, which was pitifully short, toward him. “Actually, I—”

  “I don’t need to see a resume,” he said. “If Lila vetted you, you’re in.”

  Stomach churning a cocktail of thrill and chill, Allie cocked her head. “I’m hired?”

  “Can you start tomorrow?”

  Wow. Okay. Yes. “I work at the Visitors’ Center from ten to four-thirty,” she said. “But the job listing did say you were looking for evening help.”

  “That’s right. From five until we close at ten p.m. If things work out, I’ll consider offering you a permanent job traveling from city to city helping me put on these popup art galleries. Would you be interested?”

  “Yes!” she said, holding her purse to her chest and jumping to her feet, forgetting for a moment she had essentially lied to get the job. “Yes, I accept.”

  Hal Thorn laughed, showing a row of crooked, eggshell teeth. He straightened, rising up from the squat with the amazing agility of a yogi. “While I love your enthusiasm, Ms. Grainger, I’d be remiss if I didn’t bring up salary before you accepted.”

  “Oh, right.” She pressed three fingers over her mouth to keep from giggling. She wasn’t expecting much. It was an entry-level job in a competitive field.

  “Twenty dollars an hour.”

  That much? Was this for real? The job listing had quoted half that salary.

  “The wages might be more than you were
expecting,” he said, his frost-colored eyes drifting back to her face.

  She nodded.

  “That’s because you’ll have special duties.”

  Uh-oh. Allie bit her bottom lip. Was that code for something unsavory? “What do you mean?”

  His lips thinned into a shifty smile. “Besides being a guide at the museum, I’ll need you for courier duties. Driving things back and forth from the main museum to the popup. Do you have a car?”

  “Yes.” She let out a soft sigh. Whew, there for a minute she thought he was going to suggest an indecent proposal.

  “Would you also be available on your days off from the Visitors’ Center, and before your ten a.m. shift?”

  “Yes, absolutely.”

  “No other demands on your time?”

  “Other than the Visitors’ Center, I’m all yours.”

  “No boyfriend?”

  Ick, was it getting creepy again? “No boyfriend.”

  “Good. No distractions. I can see why Lila recommended you.”

  Allie cringed. Did she come clean now and kill the job offer, or keep her mouth shut?

  “Welcome aboard, Ms. Grainger.” Dr. Thorn shook her hand again. “We’re happy to have you. I’ll walk you out.”

  Instead of taking her out the way Ennui had brought her in, Dr. Thorn ushered her to a side entrance. He leaned in close, his freaky blue eyes pinning her to the spot as he stared into her like a human lie detector. “Tell Lila I said hello.”

  Allie gulped, hitched her purse up on her shoulder, nodded. “Will do.”

  Dr. Thorn reached out to squeeze her wrist, gave her a curly smile. “Report to Daphne at eight a.m. tomorrow morning. She’ll get you set with Human Resources and show you the ropes.”

  “Daphne?”

  “The young woman who escorted you in.”

  Oh, yes, Ennui. “Will do.”

  He waved to her and went back inside. Allie turned to head back to the Visitors’ Center with two minutes of her lunch break to spare.

  And there, leaning against the pecan tree and drinking a bottle of iced tea, was the shirtless, sweaty cowboy who’d saved her from being trampled.

  His sultry gaze met hers, dark eyes shimmering black in the heat of the noonday sun as he stared at her as if he knew her most shameful secret and every lie she had ever told.

  Chapter 3

  Kade watched Thorn touch Allie’s wrist, and his blood cooled twenty degrees. Since he’d seen her go into the Cowboy Hall of Fame, he’d convinced himself it was a coincidence, and she had nothing to do with Thorn.

  He liked her. His gut liked her. And Kade could usually trust his gut. Neither he nor his gut wanted her to be mixed up with Professor Thorn.

  But there she was, looking suspiciously chummy with the man suspected of orchestrating the thefts of valuable works of art across eleven states. Just because she was looking chummy with Thorn didn’t make her one of his confederates.

  Maybe not, but hanging out with Thorn put her squarely in the FBI’s crosshairs.

  Over the course of the past three years, eleven minor masterpieces had been stolen from the popup museums at festivals, holiday celebrations, and street fairs across the country, the originals replaced with flawless forgeries.

  So flawless that the thefts had gone undetected until number eleven this year during Mardi Gras in New Orleans.

  Putting Thorn on the FBI’s radar.

  Art expert, and frustrated artist himself, Professor Harold Thorn was the architect of the trendy popup museum concept. The idea was to pair up and coming local artists with regional masterpieces, and hold the events in diverse and unlikely settings with the stated aim of bringing art to a wider audience.

  Thorn had a flair for dramatic staging and the events had been an unqualified success. Overall museum attendance had shot up following the popup events. But with the discovery of the forged George Rodrigue in New Orleans, Thorn had fallen under suspicion. It wasn’t until the FBI started digging into his background that the thefts of the other ten paintings were discovered.

  The FBI was almost certain that Thorn was involved, or if not him, one of the people in his employ, but they had no proof and his credentials were impeccable. Thorn came from old money, and seemed to have no motive to steal the paintings with a total worth of less than three hundred thousand dollars.

  Thorn had several art degrees, was a sought-after lecturer, and had never been in trouble with the law. He had tenure at a private university in upstate New York, and several of his students had gone on to become renowned artists. Why would he steal lesser works of art?

  As of yet, none of the stolen paintings had been found on the black market, at least not that the FBI had been able to track.

  The museums that had been hit were mortified that they hadn’t discovered the forgeries at the time the thefts occurred, and were reluctant to go public. Only the stolen Rodrigue had been in the news.

  Which led to Thorn’s next stop in Fort Worth.

  The most valuable painting scheduled to appear in Thorn’s Stockyard gallery was a Remington worth somewhere in the neighborhood of half a million dollars, the most valuable artwork to appear in a popup. The Sid Richardson Museum was willing to let the FBI use the Remington as bait to catch the culprit or culprits as long as they had enough agents on the ground to prevent the theft.

  Lack of media attention made for the perfect set-up for an undercover sting on Thorn’s event during the long Fourth of July weekend. The FBI had enlisted help from the Fort Worth PD for around-the-clock surveillance of Thorn, his employees, and the popup art gallery.

  Based on Kade’s undercover experience in vice, and his stint as a bull rider in the PBR, he’d been selected for the assignment of posing as a cowboy in the living diorama outside the Cowboy Hall of Fame.

  His goal?

  Be the one to nail the art thief.

  Why did he care so much?

  He was up for promotion and vying against four other candidates. Doing well on this assignment with the Feds would give him a leg up on the competition. And he was itchy for the position. He was tired of vice, tired of being in the field, tired of making his living in the world of lies and deception.

  Once upon a time, he’d enjoyed living behind the mask of a made up identity, thrilled to playing cat-and-mouse games with criminals, but four months ago, his world was turned upside down.

  He’d been undercover as a bouncer, investigating gang activity operating out of a local strip club, but he’d been unable to penetrate the group’s inner circles until he befriended one of the strippers, who was the main gang leader’s girlfriend.

  Angi was a sweet kid who’d started stripping her way out of poverty and got caught up with the wrong crowd. He’d felt badly about deceiving her. It ate at him like an ulcer, ugly and raw. She vouched for him with the gang, and because of her, he was able to infiltrate them and get the evidence he needed to put the gang leader behind bars. After the gangster was arrested, Kade promised Angi protection if she testified against her boyfriend. She was terrified, but agreed to do it.

  Tragically, before he could get her to a safe house, she jumped from a fifth story window to her death. Kade knew it wasn’t suicide, but he hadn’t been able to prove it. The gang leader was still awaiting trial, but Kade was worried that without Angi’s testimony, the gangster would go free.

  Guilt had been his constant companion ever since Angi’s death, and he couldn’t help feeling responsible. Undercover felt more and more like a straightjacket, and he was desperate to Houdini his way out of vice.

  Thorn was his ticket to out.

  One last lie, nail Thorn, and he could be free

  Kade pushed away from the pecan tree, holding the iced tea bottle between his finger and thumb, and casually strolled toward Allie.

  They’d made a connection. He had an edge. This was his chance to get close. See what he could find out about her association with Thorn.

  She stopped short, her eyes widening, fac
e going pale, teeth sinking into her bottom lip like she wanted to bolt.

  Why? Was she feeling guilty about something?

  “Hey there,” he said.

  “Um…” She raised a hand with a faint smile. “Hey.”

  “You okay?”

  “Yes, why wouldn’t I be?”

  “You had a scare with the longhorns.”

  “Are you okay?” She nodded at his shoulder, still wrapped with the red bandana she’d tied there. “You’re the one who got poked.”

  He shrugged. “I’ve had worse.”

  “Thanks again.” She smiled that dazzling smile that got tangled up inside his head. “For saving me.”

  “My pleasure,” he said, and meant it. This was the best day he’d had in a long time, and her smile was the reason why.

  She started walking again, and he fell in beside her.

  “What are you doing?” she asked her tone shifting from friendly to curious.

  “Making sure you get safely across the street.”

  “I appreciate the concern.” She hitched her purse up on her shoulder, notched her chin in the air. “But you don’t have to worry about me.”

  “It’s no trouble.”

  “The street’s clear.” She spoke in a quick clip that matched her steps. “The cows don’t come back until four.”

  “The cattle.”

  “What?”

  “The cattle. Cows are strictly female and that herd is mostly steers.”

  “Oh,” she said. “Good to know.” She was outpacing him, already to the curb, but his legs were twice as long as hers and it only took two serious strides to catch up.

  “Listen,” he said, unnerved by how breathless he sounded.

  “I gotta go.” She stared straight ahead, watching the road, which was good, but he wanted to see her eyes so he could get a read on her. “My lunch break is over. I’m late getting back to work.”

  “Where do you work?”

  “The Visitors’ Center,” she said, then added with a sidelong glance in his direction. “And now at the popup gallery.”

  His stomach dipped, flipped. So Thorn had hired her. What did that mean? He narrowed his eyes, trying to figure out if she was part of Thorn’s crew or a hapless victim.