Immovable Objects

She raised her chin a fraction of an inch. “What are you doing here?”

Talk about a cool customer, he mused. This lady certainly took the prize. “I could ask you the same thing.”

“I asked first.”

Bravado, that was the word for it. He felt a kernel of admiration stirring. Growing. “I’ve never met a thief as brazen as you.”

She squared her shoulders, wondering if he was playing with her. Had he called the police? No, he seemed too laid-back for that. Besides, by now she’d be hearing sirens in the distance.

“And you still haven’t. I’m not a thief.” At least not technically, she added silently.

“Right.” His eyes slid toward the sculpture. “Because you didn’t get away with it.”

“I wasn’t trying to get away with it.” She had a feeling that he knew that.

Amusement entered his eyes. “So then, what, you were here to dust it? I have a cleaning crew. They’re very thorough.”

How thorough? she wondered. “Then maybe they’re the ones who took it.”

“Took it?” The amusement faded, replaced by an edge in his voice.

They were shadowboxing. It was time to take a real swing. “Your statue is a fake.”

He was right. She was a professional. “And how would you know that? Being a fake yourself?”

She opened her mouth to answer, and he had this sudden, overwhelming and completely ridiculous urge to sweep her into his arms and kiss her. If he did, he wondered who would be more surprised, her or him. Hormones had never been a problem for him. They’d never ruled him. He enjoyed his passions, but only when he felt like indulging them.

Now, however, he felt that his reactions were in control of him rather than the other way around. He didn’t like that.

“You see,” he said, cutting off any story she might begin to weave. “I met the real Ariel Lockwood years ago.” Crossing his arms before him, he regarded her figure. “If she could have had your body, I’m sure she would have paid any amount of money for it. The woman stands about five foot eleven squared, and on her last birthday there were sixty-three candles on her cake. Now, unless you stumbled across the fountain of youth, I believe it’s safe to say that you are not Ariel Lockwood.”

“No,” Elizabeth agreed with a slight inclination of her head as she conceded the point. “I’m not.”

What she was, Cole thought, was incredibly cool. Here she was, literally busted and yet she looked and sounded as if they were discussing nothing more serious than what she’d had for lunch that afternoon.

She was also not forthcoming with her identity. “Then who are you?”

“Someone who knows that this is a fake.”

He frowned. If she’d noticed, then maybe someone else had, too, although no one had said anything to him. MacFarland had stopped by for less than half an hour, a goodwill appearance on his part, and although he’d only spared a cursory glance at the statue, he seemed to accept it.

“What gave it away?” Cole asked.

Her smile was slow, reaching her eyes several beats after it appeared.

“Then you know.” She looked over her shoulder at the statue. It was beautiful. “It’s flawless, which is ultimately the problem. There should be a nick right about there,” she pointed. She looked back at him and asked guilelessly, “Are you trying to pull off a scam?”

He studied her for a long moment, weighing options. On a whim, he decided to trust her. A little. “I’m trying to buy some time.”

Elizabeth came to the only logical conclusion she saw opened to her. “I take it someone stole the sculpture from you?”

“Before the opening.” His eyes slid over her. It was difficult making an impartial judgment about the woman before him when she was causing some very non-impartial stirrings within him. “If you know the statue is a fake, why are you trying to steal it?”

“I told you, I’m not trying to steal it. I just wanted to find out if I was right.”

He still had his doubts about the veracity of her claim. “So you went to all this trouble, breaking into the gallery, risking getting caught, just to find out if you’d guessed correctly?” His expression bordered on incredulous.

Elizabeth raised her slim shoulders in a half shrug. “I don’t see it as trouble.”

Which could only mean one thing. “You do this for a living.” It wasn’t a question, it was an assumption. Cole saw a barrier come down in her eyes. It came complete with a No Trespassing sign. Who was she? He wanted answers and it looked as if he was going to have to resort to threats in order to get them. “You realize I can have you arrested for breaking and entering.”

“But you won’t.”

She looked pretty damn confident of that. He wasn’t accustomed to being ignored, or outplayed. It got under his skin.

“And why won’t I?”

Leaving his side, she placed herself before a small canvas, a sketch done by Michelangelo, recently discovered and sold in auction for a million and a half. Regarding it for a moment and still not answering him, she turned her attention to another painting. She moved about as coolly as if they were conducting a discussion about the merits of one artist over another.

Finally, she said, “Because you can’t risk the scandal of anyone finding out the statue is a fake. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have gone through this elaborate charade of having a fake—a very good one I might add—in its place.” She paused, then looked back again at the statue. “Whom did you use? Lorenzo?”

By plucking the name out of the air, she’d done it to him again. She’d managed to surprise him. Cole didn’t know whether to take his hat off to her in admiration, or get her as far away from him as possible.

His curiosity tipped the scale for him. “How would you know about Lorenzo?”

They had worked together a time or two. The older master had been her mentor, teaching her how best to make her work pass as authentic. “Let’s just say it’s a small world.”

“Not small enough.” His eyes met hers. “I still don’t know who you are.”

Even if Anthony hadn’t impressed her with the need, time and again, there were some areas where she exercised extreme caution.

“And maybe it should stay that way.” She saw the suspicion in Cole’s eyes. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone about your little secret. I don’t want your reputation besmirched.” She smiled beguilingly. “There’s nothing in it for me.”

He studied her carefully. And made a judgment call. “How about if there was something in it for you?”

She cocked her head, trying to divine just what it was he was getting at. “You’re not talking about sullying your reputation, are you?”

Smart lady, she picked up on that, he thought. “No, I’m talking about preserving it.”

Exercising caution, she slowly waltzed around the subject, neither committing nor rejecting until she knew exactly what he was driving at. “And just how would I do that?”

He’d already decided that he was going to need help beyond what he already employed. That meant bringing in an unknown. No one fit the description better than this woman, who was still an unknown to him. “By helping me find out who stole the real statue. And then getting it back.”

She waited for the other shoe to drop. “And I would do this because…”

“I’d pay you.”

Cole saw a light come into her eyes and found himself struggling not to be drawn in. The situation struck him as rather humorous. He was a six-foot-two man who was discovering what it felt like to be a moth. And her incredibly beautiful green eyes were the flame.