Deceptive

A
picture may be worth a thousand words, but a missing Monet painting is worth millions in cold hard cash...

Freelancer Zoe Hunter specializes in living in the moment and keeping her options open so she holds back when her ex reappears, wanting to reboot their relationship. Zoe’s not sure she can handle a second crash and burn in the love department, but that issue takes a backseat when one of her clients dies.

Zoe discovers the death is linked to a stolen Monet painting, and she’s being set up to take the fall for both the murder and the black-market art sale. To clear her name, Zoe plunges into the shadowy world of art theft, teaming up with a former goth girl hacker, a persistent reporter, and a retired FBI agent turned cruise ship enthusiast.

With the help of her ragtag crew and her sexy ex, Zoe’s hunt takes her from Paris to sun-drenched villas on the Mediterranean coast. As she finds her way through a maze of lies and deceit, Zoe discovers that staying alive is a fine art.

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“T
horoughly entertaining. The author’s smooth, succinct writing style enables the plot to flow effortlessly until its captivating conclusion.”

—Romantic Times Book Reviews (four stars)

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“S
parkling...”

—Publishers Weekly

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“...k
eeps readers moving down some surprising paths—and on the edge of their chairs—until the very end.”

—Cozy Library

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“T
ightly constructed with many well-fitted, suspenseful turns...”

—Shine

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M
arch 10, Paris

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T
HE woman with long red hair appeared to be leisurely browsing one of the clothing racks in the Paris boutique, but her attention was less focused on the fabric and cut of the dresses than on the art gallery visible through the shop’s front window. When a couple, obviously tourists—easily identifiable because of their camera case, sensible tennis shoes, and bright jackets—exited the gallery and wandered away to explore more of the Seventh Arrondissement, the woman abandoned the boutique and quickly crossed the narrow Rue André to the arched doorway under five stories of iron balconies.

It was close to seven in the evening, and the woman interrupted the owner on his way to lock the door. A rotund man in his late forties with circular glasses and thinning dark hair combed straight back from his high forehead, he stepped back and waved her inside the shop, which contained paintings, bronze sculptures, furniture, and rugs as well as antique jewelry and snuffboxes. “
Bonjour, Mademoiselle
.”

“
Bonjour
.” She smiled apologetically and asked if he spoke English, even though she knew the answer.

“Of course. I am Henri Masard, the owner. How may I help you?”

“I have a painting I’d like to sell. A friend recommended you.” She pulled out a folded magazine page from her heavy leather handbag. He reached to take it, but she didn’t release it. “It requires discretion.”

He tilted his head in a small bow. “I understand. I can assure you, all transactions are completely private.”

She released the paper. He opened it, and the glossy paper reflected the light from a nearby lamp onto his glasses. He adjusted the glasses, and the opaque reflection disappeared, revealing a sharp gaze. After a quick glance at the paper, he looked at her, eyebrows raised.

“It’s true,” she said. “I have it.”

He locked the front door then refolded the paper. “May I?” he asked, gesturing to the interior pocket of his charcoal gray suit.

“Yes, keep it.”

“Let’s discuss this in my office.” He led the way to the back of the shop. They passed through an archway to a work area where a young woman with wheat-colored hair and a bright scarf bent over a table wrapping a vase. The man picked up several envelopes and spoke to her in French. She took the envelopes, reached for her purse, and headed for the front door.

He crossed to a wrought-iron spiral staircase in the back corner. “This way,” he said over the noise of his footsteps ringing on the iron. “My retreat.” He walked into a room with a large worktable positioned in front of a kitchenette. A heavy wooden desk sat on the other side of the room along with an ornately carved armoire, several file cabinets, and two chairs that were angled toward a small fireplace.

“Now,” the man said as he gestured to one of the cracked leather chairs, “what shall I call you?”

“Zoe Hunter.”

Half an hour later, the woman with the red hair left the gallery, took a taxi to Orly, and went directly to a restroom where she locked herself in a stall. She removed the red wig and shook out her black, chin-length asymmetrical bob. She stuffed the wig in her Gucci bag and left the restroom, her phone pressed to her ear as she headed for the gate where her departing flight to Naples was boarding. “He’s in. He’s making inquiries.”

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F
our days later, Dallas

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Z
OE entered the kitchen, scrubbing her hand across her eyes and gave a visible start at the man pouring coffee into two mugs. “Jack Andrews, here in my kitchen. Still surprises me every time.” She accepted the mug he held out.

“You wound me.” He leaned back against the counter and took a sip from his own mug. “Am I so uninteresting that you’re not even aware I’m here?”

“Oh, I’m aware, all right.” Hard not to be aware of him with his dark slightly wavy hair and silvery blue eyes that took on an even deeper hue because of the cobalt dress shirt he wore. His gray dress pants and a yellow tie were at odds with his bare feet. Altogether, very hard to miss.

Jack raised an eyebrow, and Zoe buried her nose in her coffee. He had made it strong and black, just the way she liked it, and she needed that jolt of caffeine to make sure any other inanely revealing remarks didn’t slip out. She pulled the cream cheese tub from the refrigerator and grabbed the package of bagels from the pantry on her way to the central island.

“So it’s more that you expect me to disappear again without a word?” he asked.

“It has crossed my mind.”

“Not going to happen.” There was a conviction, a firmness to his tone that made Zoe look up from the cream cheese she was slathering across her everything bagel.

“Really?” Her eyes narrowed. “No flitting off to chase mysterious gunmen or pursue crime bosses around the world?”

“Not to point fingers, but you seem to do a lot of flitting around the globe yourself with only the slightest provocation.”

“Slight provocation? You call FBI investigations and people trying to kidnap me, slight provocations?”

Jack waved his mug. “Completely understandable. I’m just pointing out that I’m not the only one setting off on globetrotting adventures. And, don’t forget that I took myself out of the picture here to protect you.”

“Pity that the people with guns didn’t know that.”

Jack turned and rummaged under the cabinet. “You’re not fooling me.” His voice was muted. “I know you better now. Granted, I’m not the fastest learner, but I do detect a pattern. I think I’m beginning to understand why you go on the defensive.” Jack emerged with a skillet. “You’re scared. Eggs?”

“I’m not scared.”

“Not normally. Nothing seems to faze you—twenty foot-climbing walls or massive rollercoasters. But you might as well admit it. You find this,” he pointed the skillet back and forth between them, “uncomfortable. You’re scared of what it might mean. Under all that defensive snarkiness, you kind of like it that I’m back. And that, my dear, frightens you.”

Zoe thumped her mug down on the counter. “Of all the conceited, smug, arrogant statements—”

“But is it true?”

“No, it’s
not
true. I couldn’t care less that you’re back.”

“Of course,” he said mildly and turned his back as he put the skillet on a burner. “I’ll get my coffee pot back from the FBI then you can have the kitchen to yourself again,” he said over his shoulder. “I’ll look for my own place.”

Jack and Zoe had a complicated history. They’d married on impulse and dove into life as man and wife, buying a house almost before the ink was dry on the marriage certificate. Unfortunately, everyday life had turned out to be not quite happily ever after—so much so that they’d divorced, but by then the housing market bubble had burst, and they were saddled with a house no one wanted to buy. Neither of them could afford to take a loss, so they’d divided the house into his-and-hers territories with boundaries enforced as strictly as any iron-curtain state had guarded its frontiers pre-
glasnost
.

Zoe blew out a breath. “I’m sorry. You know I’m not...at my best before my second cup of coffee...and you...”
Look so damn good standing there in your bare feet
, she thought. Zoe gulped her coffee and burned her tongue. To drown out the words in her head, she said, “You’re so wide-awake...and cheerful. It’s annoying. No one should be cheerful before eight a.m.”

“Noted. Gloomy disposition preferred in the a.m.”

Zoe felt a smile tug at her mouth as she downed another gulp of coffee. “I am glad you’re back,” she allowed. “There’s no need to talk about going back to the way we did things before. For one thing, you’re not getting your coffee pot back from the FBI evidence locker—probably for another year or two.” Zoe took another bagel from the bag and popped it in the toaster.

Jack cracked several eggs into the pan. “The turnaround on the FBI investigation does seem to move at the speed of a glacier. You’d have thought it would be closed by now, considering they’re not charging me with anything, and they have all their answers.”

“I’ve given up trying to understand the FBI. As long as they don’t show up here with questions that I don’t know the answers to, it’s a good day.”

Jack nodded as he added chopped ham and shredded cheese to the skillet.

“The other thing is that this is your house, too,” Zoe continued. “You own half of it. We should be able to figure out how to live here together. I mean, not together
together
, but in the same house, sharing the same space. Surely, we’re mature enough to share a kitchen. This is just an awkward stage.” The bagel popped up in the toaster slot.

“You make us sound like we’re in the adult equivalent of the terrible twos.” He deposited the omelet onto a plate, handed it to Zoe, then turned back to make a second one for himself. Zoe spread some cream cheese on the toasted bagel and put it on Jack’s plate as he said, “But you do have a point. I’m afraid moving out would present a few difficulties for me, considering my lack of employment.”

“No word on the applications you have out?” Zoe asked as she dug into the omelet. Trust Jack to know how to make the perfect omelet. He was like that—dependable, knowledgeable, resourceful. He knew how to hang drywall, how to navigate to an address without using a GPS, and how to iron a dress shirt. He could probably even hem Zoe’s new pants. She’d tried and now had pants that trailed an inch longer in the back than the front.

“Not much demand for an ex-spy turned failed entrepreneur with a gap year on his résumé.” Since Jack's return to the United States, he had spent his time alternating between completing home repairs and sending out résumés. He sat down across from her at the island.

“Something will turn up.” Zoe refilled her coffee cup. She raised her eyebrows and lifted the coffee pot. He waved her off with his fork. She returned to the island, and they ate in silence. The coffee had made its way into her system, and the casual intimacy of their situation hit her. Jack glanced up at her as he took a sip of his orange juice, the muscles of his throat working as he swallowed. She became aware she was only wearing her stripy pajama top and shorts. She felt her cheeks flush—her red hair and fair skin meant it wasn’t easy to hide her reactions.

She cleared her throat and concentrated on her plate. “Why the suit?” The jacket was draped over the back of one of the barstools.

He’d been appearing downstairs in T-shirts and jeans while he repaired the gaping hole in the drywall in the kitchen ceiling, a reminder of a plumbing disaster that her meager savings account had only recently been able to cover.

“Job fair downtown. What’s on your agenda today?”

“Three dogs to walk, lunch with Helen at the mall, then I have to drop off real estate flyers at a client’s house.” Zoe specialized in being a “Jill of all trades” and took on a variety of work to make ends meet. Most of her income came from two sources, the office suites her aunt had given her as an early inheritance, which she rented out, and the freelance copy-editing she did for
Smart Travel
guidebooks. Right now, she was between guidebooks and was picking up every odd job she could find.

With his elbows propped on the table, Jack cradled his mug in his hands. He gazed at her over the rim. “Zoe, would you like to go to dinner with me?”

“Of course, I’ll eat dinner with you tonight.” Zoe finished off the last bite of egg then said, “We’ve been eating dinner together for the last week.”

“Not here. Would you like to go out to dinner? On a date.”

“A date?”

He leaned closer. “It’s part of my strategy. I’m going to woo you.”

“Woo me?”

“Court you, whatever you want to call it.”

“Why would you want to do that?”

“We messed things up a bit—rushed into a situation that neither of us was ready for. I’d like to try again, but in a different way. Take things slower.” He put down his mug, picked up her empty plate, and stacked it on his.

She reached for the plate. “I can do that.”

“I’ll get it.” He turned on the hot water and added a shot of dishwashing liquid to the rising water. “Need to earn my keep.” He unbuttoned his cuffs and rolled up his sleeves to the elbows, exposing strong, tanned forearms.

“You didn’t answer my question.”

Zoe realized she was staring at his arms. “Umm—what?”

“Dinner?”

“Sure,” she muttered and fled the kitchen.

***

Z
OE stopped in front of a poster taped to the window of the Run-Bike-Swim store. “Look, the Tough Mudder is coming up. Let’s do it.”

“What’s a Tough Mother?” Helen asked.

“
Mudder
. Tough Mudder. It’s an adventure race with obstacles and challenges.”

Helen frowned at the poster. “Why would I want to crawl through mud, climb huge walls, and,” her eyebrows shot up under her golden bangs, “get an electric shock? People actually
pay
money to do this?”

“Yes. Come on, it will be a blast. Think how good you’ll feel when we finish. What a sense of accomplishment you’ll have.”

Helen gave her a pitying glance. “I don’t need an electric shock to feel accomplished. I’ll just clean house. Ask Jack. He’d probably love it.”

“I don’t know if that’s such a good idea.”

“Why?” Helen asked.

Zoe recounted the conversation Jack and she’d had that morning. By the time she’d finished, they were in the mall’s bookstore. “I was staring at his arms, watching his forearm muscles flex like some love-sick tween,” Zoe said, her head turned sideways as she read the titles on the shelf under the DATING AND RELATIONSHIPS sign.

“So, he had nice forearms?” Helen asked.

“Tanned and taunt and—” she broke off as she looked up and caught Helen’s amused expression. “Go ahead. Laugh at me. I know it sounds stupid. I can’t believe I’m saying it, either. I’d just never noticed what nice, strong arms he has.”

“Yes, I’m sure when you were married you were too busy noticing other parts of him to admire his arms.”