Kingdom by the Sea (Romantic Suspense) (34 page)

After
that, he seemed to lose all interest in Nicole, and instead turned his
attention to the contents of his duffel bag.  Savagely he pulled out one
wrapped painting and then another.  The first one was the painting of Alyssa
that Nicole had already opened.  Wait, there were only
two
in his bag,
Nicole observed, as she watched him fearfully.

With
thick, greedy fingers, he tore the rest of the brown wrapping off, his eyes
literally gleaming with lust, his upper lip curling off his teeth.  Nicole
swallowed down a hard lump of disgust, watching him, not knowing what he was
about, or what he might do next.  “What the...” he began and pushed the
painting aside.  He tore the wrapping off the other one  and scanned it
feverishly.  His face screwed up in a confused, angry kind of wonder.  “What
the hell!” he yelled.  “Where is it?”  Then he squinted and looked closer. 
Puffed out a sigh that sounded like he'd abruptly sprung a leak.  Then held up
the painting to Nicole and said, “Does this look blue to you?” 

Taken
aback, she hadn't been prepared for conversation of any kind—yet he seemed
genuinely to be expecting her input.  Once she looked at the work, she
recognized her sister, Linda, in it.  As with the painting of Alyssa, this one
captured Linda from years ago, back when she was around eight or nine, with her
black hair hanging in curls the way she used to wear it and the green checkered
dress their mom had made for her, swaying in the breeze.

“Well?”
he demanded.  “Is this goddamn blue or not!”

“No,”
Nicole replied quickly, hoping that was the “right” answer.  “No...it looks
green to me,” she said truthfully.

His
face turned ferocious.  “What the fuck!” he shouted.  “Where is it?!”  With a
clatter, he dropped the second painting on top of the first.  “Did Corso take
it already?”  Nicole didn't dare say anything; the man was probably insane or
schizophrenic or delusional.  At this point, who knew what he wanted to hear? 
Fury boiled over as he slammed his hand on the kitchen table and yelled,
“Answer me!  Did Corso take it?”

“Take
what?” she replied feebly.  “Who's Corso?”

That
made him even more impatient.  “Oh, whatever the fuck you call him!  Mike,
Michael, whatever.”

“Michael...?”
she repeated, confused. 

“Yeah,
Michael,” he barked.  Then, with unmistakable cruelty, he gave a short laugh;
his eyes seemed to mock her as he shook his head.  “You didn't really think he
was here to be your
buddy
, did you?”  The shock must have flooded
Nicole's face because she felt her cheeks burn and her lower lip fall.  “How
stupid can you be?” 

She
didn't answer, because she honestly had no answer.  It couldn't be true what he
was implying.  That Michael had—

“This
was all that was up in that tree?” the man asked her now, and jerked his chin
toward the two paintings on the kitchen table. 

Nicole
shook her head.  “There was three,” she admitted. 

Like
a shot, the man was back out the door.  He'd thrown it open so hard that it hit
the wall and rebounded back, clicking shut.  She could hear the man's footsteps
thundering down the porch steps.  Why was he so determined to get the third
painting?

A
sickening, cold feeling slithered over her as she realized that the third
painting was of her.  It had to be; it only made sense. 
Linda, Alyssa, and
me
, she thought.  The Three Sisters.  Three original works that Aunt Nina
had created and hidden away for her nieces.     

It
still begged the question: what did this man want with the painting of Nicole
as a child?  And what did Michael have to do with it?  What had he called
him—“Corso”?

Futilely,
Nicole tried to move over so she could lock the back door before the man
returned, but the table was too heavy.  She barely managed to shimmy and scrape
over a few inches when suddenly, she heard the doorbell. 

Thank
God!  Someone was at the front door.  Except...

Nicole's
eyes squeezed shut.  She couldn't even get there. 

Her
breath was coming up short as she tried to think this through, tried to come up
with a plan, something so she would feel more in control of what was
happening.  The doorbell rang only twice and then stopped; whomever it was must
have left.  A fresh wave of tears filled her eyes then, and poured out, running
down her cheeks in hot rivers.  What now—

The
door burst open again, startling her.  Her attacker was back, carrying the
third painting, which he had already torn open outside.  He set it on the table
beside the others and Nicole was able to get a brief look at it.  More tears
gushed from her then, her cry overwhelming even though it was silent. 

She
recognized herself in the painting; she recognized the blue dress that had been
her favorite.  It was navy with a white collar, and looking at it now, Nicole
fondly recalled that it was the sweetest, most demure thing.  

In
Nina's painting, Nicole was sitting, carefree, in front of a tree.  She was
pretty sure that she had never posed for a painting specifically, but that it had
come from the inspirations of her aunt's memory.  Emotions threatened to engulf
her, then.  Warring emotions, terror and sadness.  Her attacker noisily went
about his business.  Barely spared Nicole a glance, but went straight for the
duffel bag.  Filled it with the other two works, and this last one, he set on
top.  He had just zipped the bag shut with a screech when the back door flew
open again.

Michael!

Relief
washed over her, changed her whole face.  The same man who had saved her once
before—then she realized: should she even be relieved?  Who was Michael
really? 

“Nicole!”
he exclaimed.  “Oh Jesus...” 

“What
the fuck are you doing here, Corso?  I thought you were meeting me at the diner
right about now.”

“What'd
you do to the dog, Lucius?” Michael demanded. 
Puddle!
  In all her
terror, Nicole had forgotten that Puddle had been outside at the same time
that—

“Nothing,”
the ugly one called Lucius scoffed.  “Doped him, no big deal.  What, you think
I'm gonna kill a dog?  I'm not a monster.”  Then he patted the duffel bag.  “As
you can see, I had to do your job for you.”

Michael
hesitated.  His jaw hardened.  “You got the painting?” he said.

Nicole
swallowed hard, feeling sick again.  So it was true.  Michael was involved in
some way with a scheme against her—a plot to steal from her.  It was worse than
she'd thought.  This morning, she had feared that maybe all this talk of
treasure had gotten the better of him, made him greedy.  But this confirmed
that their whole relationship had been disingenuous from the start.

When
he glanced at Nicole, she couldn't keep the hurt out of her eyes—she could feel
it, hooded in her gaze, beaming straight through the filmy dew of her tears. 
Michael just looked at her, his expression unreadable.

“Yeah,
got that one and two more for myself.”

“Huh?”
Michael said.

Lucius
grinned with satisfaction.  “I think 40% of a Demberto, and 100% of two more
ought to keep me happy for awhile.  Fuck, I can retire.”

Michael
came closer and reached for the bag. 

Lucius
tried to block him, but Michael was more forceful, knocking Lucius's arm out of
the way.  “Let me just see for chrissake,” he said and unzipped the bag.  He
lifted one, then the other, taking a glance at all three. 

“Three
fucking original Dembertos, and two of them are all mine.  By the way, don't
try to get smart and shake me down for my bonus action, because my contacts on
the market are some fierce shit.”

What
language was this? Nicole thought, stymied.

“These
aren't Demberto,” Michael said.

“What
do you mean?  The other two are just like the third, they must be by the same
artist—”

“Nina
Corday,” Michael supplied, pointing at the small signed “NC” in the bottom
right corner.  “These are original works all right, but from Nina Corday.  Not
Arturo Demberto.”  

Arturo
Demberto? Nicole's mind echoed the unfamiliar name. 

“Face
it, Lucius, you've been had.”

“Huh?”

“Don't
you see?” Michael said, and gave a brusque laugh, as if he was just getting it,
too.  “There was never a Demberto here.  Whoever you're working for just said
that to draw you—and by association, me—into this whole mess.”

“Bullshit,”
Lucius barked.  “You're just trying to trick me.  To get me to give these up.”

“All
right, then go,” Michael told him, lifting his hands up from the bag, the
paintings.  “You got what you want, so take it and go.”

“Right
and you're just gonna forfeit your cut?  Why don't I believe it'll be that
easy?”

Impatiently,
Michael shook his head.  Then he motioned to the painting resting on top that
was visible through the yawn of the open duffel bag.  “This is the one he was
after the whole time.  The little girl in the blue dress—”

Me
, thought Nicole,
feeling that sickening chill again, feeling her stomach churn, but not daring
to speak.

“Painted
by Nina Corday,” Michael continued.

“But...that
doesn't make sense,” Lucius said, twisting his face up again in a contortion
that was apparently concentration.  “I mean...this shit can't be worth what a
Demberto would be.”

“I
guess it is to somebody,” Michael said.  “Wanna tell me who?”  Lucius stood
there, appearing angry and uncertain.  Finally Michael said, “Look, why don't
you just take your merchandise and go.  You have what you came for.”  Except,
even Nicole could surmise, Lucius really hadn't.  It seemed he had been diving
for a pearl and come up with a lovely, pretty seashell instead. 

As
she watched, she struggled to understand what Michael's role in all this was. 
Why would he do all this and then let his partner take the paintings and go? 
Just because they had been misled—by someone—that what they were after in this
house was an original work by a more famous artist than Aunt Nina had been,
still—money was money, especially to crooks, and that was what she was
beginning to realize that Michael was. 

Nicole
knew that her aunt's paintings had fetched around $40K or $50K when Nina was
alive; with her death, the value would multiply.  With these being new,
undiscovered paintings, not even brokered through a gallery—well, to a crook
they should still be worth hanging onto. 

So
why was Michael seemingly turning his back on the three? 

He
seemed more intent to get Lucius to leave than to come to any kind of terms. 
Was this another trick? Nicole wondered now.  Another staged confrontation,
like that one on the beach must have been? 

How
stupid can you be?
  The man's taunting words echoed in her mind.  Now she
noticed that Lucius was eying the corners of the room, darting his pupils from
one side to another.  “All right.  I'm outta here,” he said finally, and turned
to go. 

Or
seemed to, but suddenly reeled back and in one violent motion, grabbed a
decorative glass bottle from the window sill, stretched it over his head and
crashed it down.  It just missed Michael, who veered back, and then lunged
forward again, wailing a hard punch straight into Lucius's nose.  Arm raised,
Michael came at him again, delivering a bone-cracking blow to the side of
Lucius's face. 

Lucius
tripped backward, knocking against the back door as he fell.  The duffel bag
collapsed with him and the painting of “the little girl in the blue dress”
skidded out, and skated across the floor.

Trembling,
Nicole suddenly became aware of her own frantic breathing.  This was not the
Michael she had known; this was a dangerous man she had never seen.  Though he
had shown a glimpse of this fierceness that night on the beach, that had been
fake, she realized.  But now, there was nothing artificial about the defeated
lump that lay on the kitchen floor.

Nervously,
her eyes moved back to Michael, who was breathing hard himself; he wore an
intense expression on his face.  What would he do next?  With his partner down,
he could simply take the paintings himself.  Nobody in town knew who he really
was—this Corso person—did they?  He could just leave. 

But
would he leave her there tied up, to have to deal with this man, Lucius, when
he came to?  She panicked.  And what about the fact that Nicole could tell the
police all about Michael?  He looked at her now and in two steps, knelt beside
her.  “Are you okay?” he said as he worked on the cord. 
No!
her mind
wailed.  How could he ask that of all things?  “I'm sorry, Nicole,” he
murmured.  “I'm so sorry.”

“How...how
could you do this to me?” she blurted then, as more tears spilled over her
lids.  Not that it mattered what he said anyway; if she lived another fifty
years, she would never understand.  How could anyone be that good of an actor,
to contrive the kind of intimacy and friendship that they shared?

“I
never thought it would go like this,” he said.  “I thought it would be easy.” 
Up close, his eyes appeared contrite—but he could barely make eye contact with
her.