Portrait of a Girl Page 3

  She stumbled to the window, raised the blind, and stared at the swirling snow. Tiny flakes, which meant a large accumulation.

  “Looks like there’s already a foot of new snow on the ground.” She shivered and hopped back into the still-warm bed, sliding her feet under Samson’s warm body. After the intruder scare, she insisted that he sleep with her so they could protect each other. “What are you going to do on your snow day?”

  “Laundry, cleaning, bills. How about you?”

  Heather laughed. “Laundry, cleaning, bills.”

  After a few minutes of chitchat, she hung up and pulled the covers to her chin. Unfortunately, the last two months of rising before dawn had cured her of the ability to sleep in.

  Even with the fear of someone breaking in while she slept, she’d been out cold as soon as her head touched the pillow. Now she was wide-awake and hungry. She pulled on thick socks and wrapped up in her heavy fleece housecoat. She wished she had a fireplace like the one in the parlor up the hill.

  She closed her eyes and imagined Tony lounging in front of the fire, perhaps with his shirt hanging open, jeans low on his hips, and bare feet propped on the fender. His short black hair would be mussed from sleep, and his beard stubble would be at its most scratchy stage. She wondered what color his eyes were when he first opened them in the morning. The same light brown? Or something different?

  Shaking herself from her daydream, she pushed the bureau away from the door. It wasn’t the most secure lock, but the best she could do on short notice. Even with the two new dead bolts, her little house didn’t feel as cozy as it once did. She walked down the stairs and turned up the thermostat. It would take several minutes before warmth would ooze from the old radiators. She put the kettle on for tea. Samson wouldn’t appear for his breakfast until the chill was taken off the air.

  With a steaming cup of tea in hand, she went into the living room and stared out at the blizzard. Snow fell in a solid blanket, whipped by a wind strong enough to bend the tops of the giant pine trees lining the drive. A particularly strong gust rattled the windows, and she watched as a large limb snapped and fell. There was a good chance she could lose power. She ran upstairs and jumped into the shower while she still had hot water.

  The boxes piled in the corner of the spare room called to her as she left the bathroom. Her dad’s clothes had been sent to Goodwill. His books had gone to the local library for its annual book sale. All she had left of her dad’s stuff had been dumped in those three boxes. She picked up the top one and lugged it downstairs.

  Sitting by the window, she took a deep breath and opened the flap. Somewhere among the newspaper clippings and receipts she would find answers to her questions.

  The biggest one being, what happened to all his money?

  A few hours later, and two more trips upstairs for the other boxes, she reached the final dented shoe box. Her dad had certainly been a pack rat as far as financial records went. She’d been able to follow the dwindling bank accounts right down to the final dollar. She was astounded that one man could spend so much money. Several of his withdrawals were in the tens of thousands. What had he been spending his money on? Gambling? Drugs? Women?

  It might be best if she didn’t learn the truth. The private lives of one’s parents should remain private.

  The shoe box held a bundle of greeting cards tied together with a pink ribbon. They were cards she’d sent for birthdays and Christmases over the years. Tears clogged her throat as she sifted through the colorful missives.

  He’d saved every one, from a birthday card with her signature scrawled in crayon, to the Christmas card from last year.

  A key fell from the bundle, jingling as it hit the floor. A safe-deposit box key. She flipped it over and saw a four-digit number and nothing else. The bank branch listed on all the statements was just around the corner from the bakery. Maybe the safe-deposit box was there. She had no idea her dad even had a safe-deposit box, and she felt a surge of excitement. Could he have been putting his money in the bank vault, to safeguard it from taxes? She jumped to her feet and called the bank. The automated recording gave the opening time. She glanced out the window at the raging blizzard and jittered with impatience. If it weren’t for the stupid snow, she could be getting answers right now.

  Huffing in frustration, she slipped the key into her back pocket, made another pot of tea, and went back to sorting through the detritus of her father’s life, pausing only to eat lunch.

  The light had faded and she’d just turned on a lamp when she was startled by a loud thud outside that rattled the dishes in her cupboards. It sounded like an entire tree had toppled over, and not very far from the gatehouse. She couldn’t see evidence of destruction from any of the windows, so she threw on a jacket, stuck her feet in her old boots, and went out the back door. She was out of the wind, but had to fight her way through the drifts of snow around the corner.

  Was this one of those “too stupid to live” moments? What was to prevent another tree from blowing over right on top of her?

  Hit from behind, she went flying, her cry muffled as she fell face-first into the snow. The hand she’d put out to break her fall bent at an unnatural angle, and she cried out as pain shot up her arm.

  She wiped snow from her face and looked around. “What the heck?”

  Turning onto her back, she expected to see part of a tree lying nearby. Instead she encountered a big, furry face and a happy, panting mouth a few inches from her nose.

  “Oh great. Sasquatch. Just what I need.” She gritted her teeth and struggled to a sitting position, holding her injured wrist to her chest.

  Damn, that hurt.

  She wiggled her fingers. That meant it wasn’t broken, right?

  The deep, wet snow held her prisoner. Way more than the forecast foot and a half had fallen. Why did the weather people even bother to give an estimate? They’d missed on every storm so far.

  There was no way she could get to her feet without using her good hand, but that would mean letting go of her injured arm, and that would hurt. She was such a baby when it came to pain.

  “Delilah, come here, girl,” a loud male voice called from the other side of the gatehouse. The beast perked up her ears. But she didn’t move, simply wagged her tail a little harder. “Delilah! Come!” Delilah didn’t, but she did bark, an awfully high-pitched sound for such a large dog.

  “I think you’re being summoned,” she said, nudging the dog with her foot.

  “Delilah, what are you…” And then Tony emerged from the snow, big and dark, and dropped to his knees by her side. “Damn, are you okay?”

  She looked into eyes rimmed with black lashes under heavy brows, currently drawn together in a frown. His short black hair was frosted with snow, and water ran down his cheeks in tiny rivulets. The urge to wipe the moisture from his face was so strong she had to look away. Which brought her gaze to the rest of him, and her breath caught. His parka hung open, and the T-shirt he wore underneath had become damp, clinging to his body like a second skin. Strong chest and flat stomach filled her field of vision, and she swayed toward him, seeking his heat and strength.

  The dog licked her face, and she jerked back to her senses.

  “I think Delilah broke my arm.” Her wrist throbbed, and she winced as she heard the whine in her voice.

  “I’m sorry.” Tony brushed snow from her jacket. “She doesn’t know her own strength.”

  “For such a big dog she’s awfully quiet. Is she a spy dog? Or a ninja?”

  He tensed and stared at her like he could see inside her skull. But then he forced out a laugh. “Yeah, she’s a ninja dog. She left her mask at home.” He stood, reached down, and hauled her to her feet like she was a small child.

  Strange reaction to her joke. Did he have something against ninjas? Or maybe it was spies.

  He scooped her up in his arms and headed for the door.

  “What are you doing? Put me down.” She twisted in his grasp, shoved against his hard chest with
her good arm. “This is ridiculous. Ow…shoot.” She grabbed her throbbing wrist, tears pricking her eyes.

  He set her on her feet inside her back door and unzipped her jacket.

  “Look, you don’t have to help me. I’m perfectly capable—crap that hurts.” She hung her head in defeat and let Tony ease the jacket from her shoulders. For such a large man, he was incredibly gentle, doing his best to not jar her wrist. No man had ever taken care of her like this.

  He pulled out a chair at the kitchen table. “Here, sit down before you fall down. Do you have any ice?” He opened the freezer door and pawed through the many boxes of frozen dinners.

  “Don’t you think I’m frozen enough?” she asked, clamping her teeth to stop them from chattering.

  “For the swelling.” He dumped an ice tray out onto a tea towel and carefully placed the pack on top of her right wrist. “I don’t think it’s broken, but it might be a bad sprain.”

  “And you know this because you’re secretly a doctor?”

  “Do you have any painkillers?”

  “In the medicine cabinet upstairs.”

  “I’ll be right back. Don’t move.”

  “And where would I go?”

  His lips twitched, and that annoyed her even more. She hated getting hurt. Hated being vulnerable. Hated that his being in her house gave her a small thrill. She didn’t need his help or his kindness. And she definitely didn’t need the zing she’d felt when he picked her up, like she was weightless, a delicate flower, a—

  A wet nose pushed under her other hand, and she absentmindedly stroked a damp, hairy head.

  “This is all your fault, you know.” She looked down into the large brown eyes of her attacker and couldn’t stay mad for another second. “Oh, I know, you were just helping me make a snow angel, right? Just ask first the next time.” She hugged the large head to her side and was rewarded with a sloppy kiss.

  “Is Delilah trying to eat you?”

  She looked up and met a gaze filled with teasing concern.

  Then something shifted. His eyes darkened, and his gaze traveled over her, lingering at her mouth. Holding her breath, she could practically feel his lips pressed to hers. Her lips parted, tingling in anticipation. Their gazes locked, until he broke the connection, focusing on the bottle in his hand.

  She took a shaky breath. Wow, that was close. She’d been a nanosecond away from moaning.

  “What was Delilah doing out in this weather?” she asked, stroking the big dog’s silky ears to distract her from the crazy attraction. She had no intention of sticking around in Portland. As soon as she sold her dad’s house, she would move on, and there was no room for Tony in her luggage.

  Not that he was falling over himself to get cozy. But if he were, she’d toss him aside like yesterday’s newspaper.

  Yes, indeed. After she’d read it thoroughly, of course.

  “She loves the snow. She’s been asking to get out all day. What were you doing outside?”

  “I heard what sounded like a tree blowing over, and I wanted to check for damage.”

  “I saw a couple of fallen branches on our walk, but that’s all. Here, take a couple of these.” He handed her two tablets and a glass of water.

  “No, thanks. I’ll be fine. I don’t like taking drugs—”

  He laughed. “It’s hardly drugs, but that explains why the bottle was sealed. A couple ibuprofen won’t make you an addict, and will reduce the swelling.”

  “I think I have some herbal tea, meadowsweet, that will do the same thing.”

  He opened the cupboard she pointed to. “Wow, you have a lot of tea. Do you drink all of this stuff?”

  “Occasionally.” She wouldn’t bother telling him that most of the boxes were full, save for one or two tea bags. Frankly, they weren’t that tasty. And she hadn’t noticed the promised benefits.

  “I’m not seeing any meadowsweet tea, sorry.”

  He sat next to her and lifted her injured arm off the table, cradling it in his large hands. She held her breath, anticipating pain, but all she felt was the heat from his body, which warmed her skin and seemed to draw her like a magnet.

  “Can you wiggle your fingers?” His voice was low, deep, sexy, just like George Clooney’s. In fact, from the side, and with his hair so short, Tony kind of looked like George.

  Sighing at life’s unfairness, she moved her fingers a little bit. “I guess there’ll be no baking in my future.”

  “Gee, I was looking forward to more cookies.” He rested her arm gently on the table and replaced the ice pack.

  She swallowed the pills and hoped they really would speed the healing. She needed her paycheck. “I’ll have to owe you some.”

  “I’ll hold you to it.” His teasing grin changed to a frown and he stood. “Well, I should get back home. Call me if you need anything.”

  “Thanks for your help,” she said to his retreating back.

  She glowered out the window, hating the snow, hating winter, hating her life. When she left Portland, she was moving south. There were things to photograph in warm parts of the country. Maybe she’d run into Tony again.

  She waited for the sound of the front door closing, and realized with a start that she hadn’t heard Tony leave.

  …

  On his way out of the house, Tony detoured to the living room. He wasn’t comfortable leaving her alone with an injured arm. But he felt less comfortable sitting in the cozy kitchen looking into her pretty blue eyes, getting ideas that had nothing to do with catching a thief.

  Sam had ordered him to stay close. It would be too easy to get extremely close. Best to keep some distance. Nothing good could come from caring for an art thief’s daughter. Even if she had a cute sense of humor and could bake killer cookies.

  He glanced at the open boxes on the floor. He’d been through them already. Just old receipts and statements. Confirmation that Mr. James had gone through his money like there was no tomorrow. He quickly scanned the top of the small desk in the corner, noting nothing of particular interest. He’d searched the desk earlier, too, but figured it wouldn’t hurt to check again. Maybe Heather had discovered something. Or maybe she had guilty secrets of her own.

  That would be a shame.

  The bottom drawer was filled with drawing paper and several sets of old and crusty watercolors. The next drawer held paper, envelopes, and some old paper dolls. The top drawer contained the usual mess of pens and paper clips.

  He stared out the window and wondered, not for the first time, if he was on the right track. He’d argued that he’d be of more use overseas, but had been shouted down. And so here he was, probably wasting everyone’s time.

  “What are you doing?”

  Shit.

  He glanced over his shoulder and flashed his killer smile. “I thought I should write down my phone number, in case you need help.” As he stood, he eased the drawer closed with his knee.

  “Oh, I’m not sure where I put the paper.”

  “This envelope will work.” He scribbled his number. “Let me know if the swelling gets worse and I’ll take you to the doctor.”

  “I’m sure I’ll be fine. The pain is already better.”

  He moved closer and brushed a lock of hair from her forehead. “See? Not all drugs are bad.” He breathed deeply, inhaling her scent. She smelled like sugar cookies. He eased a step closer, and she didn’t back up. Less than a foot separated him from finding out if she tasted like cookies, too.

  This wasn’t a good idea, despite what his body was telling him. Despite what her wide pupils, flushed skin, and parted lips were telling him.

  “Call me if you need anything.” He trailed a finger along her silky cheek and heard the sharp intake of her breath.

  Then he escaped into the fading storm. Delilah charged ahead, burning off some of her stored energy. He kicked at the drifts as he slogged up the drive.

  He’d vowed to never let a woman get between him and the truth. And he’d come mighty close to breaking that
vow. One more of her injured damsel looks and he would have claimed that luscious mouth and dealt with the consequences when he came up for air.

  He passed by his own front door and kept walking.

  Chapter Four

  Heather popped the last piece of toast into her mouth and gazed out at the fresh snow glistening in the moonlight. The snow had stopped falling some time overnight, and she prayed the main road had been plowed. She had to get to the bank first thing and wanted all the businesses to be up and running on schedule.

  After making sure Samson had enough kibble to keep body and soul together for the day, she dressed in record time. Halfway down the driveway, she paused while slogging through the drifts. As landlord, it was her responsibility to keep the driveway cleared. Damn, where was that money going to come from?

  Hopefully her fantasy about the contents of the safe-deposit box would become reality and she’d be rolling in the dough. Or at least have enough to hire a plowing service, fix up the big house, and plan her next step.

  Too excited to think straight, she did manage to load the giant dough mixers without spilling more than a few cups of flour onto the floor. Babying her injured wrist and working primarily with her left hand added to the challenge.

  At last she had the bread cooling and the final pan of rolls in the oven. As soon as Sally arrived to take over, she set out for the bank, her heart racing with excitement.

  Bursting with impatience, she pushed through the front door of the bank the second it was unlocked. She explained she wanted access to her safe-deposit box. One of the tellers stepped away from her counter, holding a large ring of keys.

  “Certainly, Miss James. Follow me, please.”

  Finding the key had kept her awake for half the night. Would they allow her to look in the box? Would she have to go through a lawyer and deal with probate?

  She silently urged the woman to walk faster. Unlock the door faster. Give her the treasure faster.

  The teller led the way into the vault and shut the cage firmly behind her. She located the sign-in card.

  Heather let out her pent-up breath. One hurdle crossed.