The Pleasure Chest

He patted the file. “We’ll copy the background information for you. The main thing is that mystery surrounds the work, and that increases its value for us.”

“How much?” Tanya asked.

“The canvas isn’t in great shape, but it should be sold, as is. The buyer will want to oversee restoration and treatment.” Eduardo shrugged. “With some buzz, and auctioned in the right lot, I’d say you’re looking at the one-five range.”

Tanya gasped. “Fifteen thousand dollars?”

Eduardo’s lips lifted in a smile. “One-point-five million,” he said slowly. “Maybe two.”

She staggered backward, needing to sit. The only thing that had ever made her knees feel this weak was the gaze of the man in the painting. Somehow, her backside found a chair, and she sank into it. Two million? Had he really said that? She thought of her credit card balance and of her need to move, so James could renovate. Then she thought about the magnetic pull she experienced every time she looked at the man in the painting. He’d watched her work all week…watched her touch herself. She knew it was crazy, but it was as if they’d formed some sort of…well, relationship.

Eduardo was pushing a piece of paper in her direction. “If you’ll just sign here, Tanya,” he said, “we can accept possession of the painting now, photograph it for a catalog immediately and begin the process of selling it for you. Within a week, you’ll be a millionaire.”

“I’m sorry,” she heard herself say. “But…can you promise not to tell anyone about this?” When she heard her own voice, it seemed to come from a far-off place, as if someone else was speaking. “I…have to think,” she continued. “I can’t sell yet.”

Vaguely, she was aware she’d just turned down a sale that could generate two million dollars. That’s when she knew she’d joined ranks with those people associated with the painting who’d gone stark-raving mad. Still, there was something so very special about the work. She could feel it. And she simply couldn’t let it go.

2

AT A CAFÉ across the street from Treasured Maps, an elderly gentleman shrugged out of a polyester jacket, draped it over a chair, then rested a tour guide next to his espresso. He raised an old thirty-five millimeter camera to his eye, trying to look like a tourist. In reality, he knew every inch of Manhattan, including Twenty-Third Street in Chelsea and this view of Treasured Maps. Adjusting the lens, he snapped pictures as if the facade of Tanya Taylor’s building was of architectural interest.

And it was. The two-story brownstone had wide steps and curving scrolled handrails that met in a quaint gate. Both levels had floor-to-ceiling windows, decorated with autumnal wreaths, although the weather still felt more like summer. While lovely, the windows were covered with bars, and a computerized keypad on the front door was too complex to disarm. He hadn’t dared go inside the downstairs shop during shop hours, in case he was detected by surveillance equipment.

Tanya lived upstairs, and while she opened the blinds, presumably to get better light when she painted, he’d only glimpsed her. She had her own entrance, separate from that of the shop, reached by rickety steps attached to the building’s side. Probably, her interior door was equipped with formidable locks, too. Over the past few days, while staking her out, he’d thought he’d learn something about the place, or her, that would tell him how to break in. He supposed he could try to date her, but she didn’t go out for drinks much, and when she did, it was with girlfriends. Besides he was too old.

But he needed that painting. As far as he was concerned, it belonged to him. Yes, Tanya had an O’Flannery inside the shop, and not just any O’Flannery, but one he’d sought for years. He hoped she’d taken it upstairs to her apartment, but with his luck, she’d locked it in a safe with her boss’s precious maps.

“Of course she did,” he muttered. If she wasn’t going to protect it, she’d have left it in Weatherby’s. She knew what it was worth. But why had she refused to sell? Had she guessed it was…special? Worth more than Weatherby’s would ever ask?

He glanced around. Rays of twilight were shining down Twenty-Third Street, and from where he was seated, he could see to the river. Beyond cars streaming down the West Side Highway 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 had coerced her to take dance classes. With practiced agility, she was able to limbo under his elbow. Eluding his grasp with a pirouette, she tumbled downstairs, running hard now, leaping over the bottom five steps.

She hit the floor running. You’ve got to get to the front door! The second it opened, an alarm would sound. Neighbors would come. Cops! But footsteps thundered behind her. She threw the platform to slow him down. He’d turned on the lamp at the bar before, so dim hazy light illuminated her steps. She had no time to wonder what he’d been doing downstairs. She was fifteen feet from the door. Then ten. Then five…

Gratitude filled her as she swept her arm wide, a splayed hand ready to grab the knob. Something pulled her back! A hand grasped her shirt! She lost her footing! Lunged! She couldn’t gain traction. He pulled her backward, and viselike arms circled her waist. Turning, she wrenched hard as he brought her down, then gasped as he rolled with her to the floor.

He landed on top. The door was less than five feet away. Maybe she could still reach it. Punching wildly, she hit his face while he tried to catch her flailing hands. Her pulse skyrocketed as the masculine scent of him filled her lungs. He writhed against her as she squirmed, his weight crushing her. “Get off me!”