White Heat (3 page)

There was nothing benign about the man standing in her hallway now. He seemed bigger, broader,
dangerous
tonight. Surely he hadn’t been like this when she’d first met him? That Max had looked devastating and unbearably debonair in a stark black tux.

She couldn’t imagine the man standing in her hallway tonight wearing anything as civilized as a tuxedo.

His voice was even, his breathing normal, his hand, and the gun, perfectly steady yet he radiated menace from every pore. “You’ve got ten seconds to tell me what you wanted,
and
who you work for. In ten point one seconds, I won’t give a shit. I’ll kill you.”

Emily believed him. So did the guy.

He struggled for freedom like a fish on a line. Not a chance. It was obvious Max wasn’t letting go until he had answers. Her stomach rolled uncomfortably as Max’s forearm tightened around the man’s throat.
“Uno. Due
. . .”

The guy clearly hadn’t managed to steal anything, although art theft wasn’t uncommon. Which was why the various galleries and museums that Emily did restoration work for insisted on the stringent security systems she had in her first floor studio. But anyone who knew anything in the closely knit art world would know that the Raphael she’d been working on had been picked up by courier three days ago. There was absolutely nothing of value downstairs.

She was going to be on holiday for a month, and she’d managed to finish the
Madonna
commission in plenty of time, ensuring a calm and relaxed vacation with Franco. They weren’t going to spend
all
their time in Seattle. One day with her mother was about all either she or her mother could stand.

This guy
had
no rolled canvases on him. He’d headed straight for her bedroom. If he’d tried the downstairs studio first, the alarm would have sounded, and the police would already be here. A chill ran down her spine.

Had he come, not to steal something, but to
take
something?

Her?

Kidnapping was big business in Italy.

She’d done very well for herself over the years. Both copying and restoration were lucrative fields, and she was extremely good at what she did.

God. Her sister would’ve freaked if she’d been kidnapped. Which she
hadn’t
been, Emily reminded herself. Thanks in part to Max. She glanced away from where he held the man pinned to the wall, and was hit with a pang of homesickness. She couldn’t wait to be in Seattle. Which didn’t even make any sense. Seattle hadn’t been home in years.
Florence
was home. But every once in a while she forgot reality and bought into the dream.

The only home she’d ever had was the one she had made for herself here. And she was damned proud of what she’d achieved. Home was just a word. Every now and then she forgot.

“
Sette
. . .
otto
. . .”

She hadn’t made it to Washington for Christmas because Richard Tillman had put a tight deadline on the
Madonna dell Granduca
commission. In this business, reputation was everything, and she’d worked damn hard to ensure that hers was above reproach. She’d also made a great deal of money doing something she loved doing.

And her mother had been in rehab—again—anyway. Susanna, her older sister, who lived in Boston, hadn’t spoken to their mother in ten years. Emily was the only link between the three women.

“Scusi, sono venuto nella casa sbagliata.”
The burglar gasped as lax kept up the pressure on his throat.

Max wedged his knee into the man’s kidneys.
“Merda.
I think you had the right house. What were you looking for?”

When the man refused to answer, Max tightened his hold. “Slow learner. Start talking. If not, I’ll keep squeezing until your last breath is fucking begging for air”

“He’s going blue,” Emily observed, horrified that Max might actually kill the man right here in her hallway. “I’ll call the police.” Which she should have done long before now, she thought sickly. She turned to go and make the call.

“No. I’ll take care of
it.”

“Don’t—”

Max did something and the man made a horrible gagging/gasping noise just before she heard what sounded like a bone snapping. He was cut off in mid gag. Bile crowded the back of Emily’s throat as she spun around, hand to her mouth. Aghast, she saw the man hanging lifelessly from Max’s forearm.

Had Max broken his neck? “You killed him.”

“He’s not that lucky. He’ll just be out for a while. I’m not done questioning him.” Releasing the man to crumble onto the tile floor, Max secured his hands behind his back with quick efficient movements, never putting down his own weapon. He glanced up briefly as he pulled the ties secure on the other man’s ankles. Why would a man have plastic ties in his pocket?

The million-dollar question was: Why would a man have plastic ties in his pocket
and
scale a wall to get into her home? She put a protective hand over the rapid, telltale pulse at her throat.

“Check in the bedroom. See if anything’s missing.”

She’d wanted him here for his father’s funeral, which had taken place, damn him, three weeks ago.

His attitude was starting to get on Emily’s last nerve. While she was grateful –
incredibly
grateful—that he’d been here to
help
with the burglar, Max Aries wasn’t the boss of her. They’d spent less than a damned week together. And that was almost a year ago. He’d been her first, and last, one-night stand—well, a four-night stand. Which gave him no rights what-so-bloody-ever. Unfortunately, as annoyed as she was with him, she knew she wasn’t being reasonable at the moment.

She sucked up her irritation at his past transgressions, and said as rationally as she could manage, “He didn’t have anything on him when you search—”

“Take a quick look anyway.”

“Okay.” Not because Max asked, but because she wanted to go into the bedroom and get dressed. Her cotton jammies were thin, and she was bare underneath. She needed a few more layers between her body and Max’s penetrating gaze.

Skirting the two men, Emily darted into her bedroom, flicking on the lights as she went. Her rumpled bed was a dim reminder that she’d been snuggled under the covers mere moments ago. If she hadn’t been unable to sleep . . . thoughts of the wrongness and rightness of going away for a month with Franco . . . If she hadn’t gotten up to get that glass of milk .. . If Max hadn’t arrived …

Quickly dressing warmly in jeans and a cream cashmere sweater, she went in search of the shoes she’d worn the day before. She found one under the clothes piled high on, and hanging off, the antique Portuguese rococo Fauteuil a la Reine chair in the corner. It was carved walnut, gilded and as uncomfortable as sitting on a rock, but it was beautiful. When she could clear it of cast-off clothing. A quick search now didn’t uncover her shoe.

She’d kicked them off while finishing packing last night. As she neared the bed, she stepped on something with her bare foot.
“Ahi!”
Bending she picked up a small glass vial, then straightened and held it up to the light. Nothing in it, and no stopper. She’d never seen it before. Odd.

“Find something?” Max asked, strolling into the bedroom, looking rough, tough, disreputable, and far too appealing for his own good. How could a voice be seductive and deadly at the same time? Damn it, she’d barely caught her breath from the last time he’d knocked her off her feet, and now here he was, to steal it again. The man was a menace.

Franco. Franco. Franco.

The last time they’d been in this room together they’d torn off each other’s clothes. Now
there
was a pair of shoes she’d never found. They’d left the party early and come straight to the bedroom, shedding their clothes as they went, stopping when they couldn’t see to walk because their mouths were fused, and their hands hadn’t wanted to stop exploring.

“It’s nothing.” She held the small vial out to him.

Max didn’t take it. Instead he gripped her wrist hard enough to leave a bruise. “Drop it.
Now.”

Automatically responding to his implacable tone, she tossed it on the floor, even as she protested his rough treatment. “Wha— Hey!”

Face grim, he pulled her out of the room despite her protest. “Where’d you find it?” He was still gripping her wrist.

She twisted free, she suspected only because he’d let her, then rubbed the red marks with her other hand. “On the floor by the bed. Stop manhandling me. I understand simple sentences, Max. What the hell’s going on?”

“See anything like that vial before?”

He’d answered a question with a question. Infuriating man. “No.”

“Shit. Go downstairs and wait for me, we’re going to have to get out of here fast. I have a call to make, then you’re coming with me until I figure out what the hell
is
going on.”

She shot him an annoyed glance. “You waltz in here and demand I come away with you? Get over yourself. You weren’t that good. I’m not going anywhere with you, Max. My bags are already packed. I’m leaving for Seattle toni—”

“We’ll talk about it later. Your guy wasn’t stealing, he was
delivering.
That vial could have contained gas or some other biohazard—” He pulled out a small cell phone, raising a brow as if to say—get
going.

Emily stood her ground. No contest who she was more afraid of
right now The burglar was tied up. Max gave her a look that should have sent her running from the room as if her hair was on fire. Instead of bolting, Emily lifted her chin and folded her arms beneath her breasts.

He didn’t scare her. Much.

Even though she had mixed feelings about going to see her mother and spending a month with Franco, she wasn’t going to postpone her trip now because Max Aries suddenly decided that he was in charge.

He’d barged back into her life at the most inconvenient time. Did he have radar to pick up when she was feeling her most vulnerable? If he’d come when she’d called three weeks ago, she’d have been prepared to fend off any residual attraction. Showing up on the very freaking day she was about to make a monumental
ljfe
change, and weeks late—three weeks late—left her swinging in the wind and far too susceptible to his particular brand of sex appeal.

“Send a hazmat team to 16974 Piazza Santa Croce,” he instructed into the phone. “One. No. Alive, but incapacitated. Have them suit up. The intruder deposited a vial of God only knows what, near Emily Greene’s bed.” He paused to listen.

She did not like the sound of
hazmat
team.

He gave her an are-you-still-here look, and broke off the conversation to bark an order. To her. “Downstairs. Now.”

Sit? Stay?
“Who the hell do y—This
my
home, and that’s
my
intruder. I’m staying right here until—”

“No. We’ll be gone. Shit. Good point. Yeah, right. We’ll wait,” he said coldly into the phone before shoving it back in his pocket. He met her eyes and Emily rubbed her arms through the soft yarn of her sweater as a chill seemed to permeate her very bones.

“This guy probably put something into your bed, thinking you were in it,” Max told her grimly. “Not some cuddly something, but a potentially
lethal
something. That vial could’ve contained
anything.
Want to hang around with bare feet to find out if it’s animal, vegetable, or mineral?”

That gave her pause. For half a nanosecond. Frowning, she shook her head. Talk about overreacting. “Stop trying to scare me. The guy’s a burglar, not some kind of . . .
terrorist.
I’ll call
la polizia.
They can deal with him.”

She took an involuntary step back as the guy on the floor opened one eye and reared up.

“No
poliz—”
He choked as Max pressed his foot to his throat without looking down.

“You don’t get a vote, asshole.” Max’s attention hadn’t shifted from her, and she found his one hundred percent focus unnerving under the circumstances.

“Any number of toxins can leech and kill on contact. What would be your guess as to what was in that thing, Emily? Five ccs of perfume?
Not.
The possibilities are goddamned chilling. Biochemicals, flesh-eating bacteria, a transdermal poison of some kind—Christ. Any one of a thousand toxic substances can be carried in that small a vial. Whatever was in it is now somewhere in your bedroom. Likely in your
bed.

“Do you really want to stand there and put it to the test just because you’re pissed at me?”

“Who
are
you?”

He gave her an exasperated look. “Right now I’m a man with his foot on what could possibly be Typhoid Tommy’s throat. Get cracking, Emily. I’m not kidding. We could be breathing in spores as we speak. Move it.”

EMILY MIGHT BE STUBBORN, MAX THOUGHT. BUT SHE WASN’T STUPID.
Once she grasped the magnitude of the situation she went downstairs, leaving him to wait for backup.

The intruder still wasn’t talking. He would eventually. They always did. Within fifteen minutes a full garbage team arrived and the guy was unceremoniously hauled out, strapped to a stretcher. While the hazmat team went in to sweep Emily’s bedroom, Max and the medic went downstairs.

He’d never seen her studio before. He was impressed. The enormous room was brilliant with artificial, full-spectrum light that reflected off the whitewashed walls and ceiling. It was a working studio, crusted with paint and well-worn furniture. How the hell she found anything in here, he had no idea. There wasn’t a clear inch of flat surface to be seen.

Simple wood shelving bulged and bowed with the weight of countless art and art history books. She seemed to own tomes on every artist, living or dead, that he’d ever heard of and many he hadn’t. She also collected auction and museum catalogues.

Pinned to every vertical surface were sketches, gesture drawings, and notes. Stretched canvases leaned haphazardly against the far wall in groups of tens and twenties, and in various sizes. Many others, removed from their stretchers, were simply stacked on the floor. An empty easel stood in the center of the room, and a long table nearby held paints and brushes and various boxes of charcoals, pastels, pencils.