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“I don’t know. That’s all he said, at least I think those were his words. It was difficult to understand him.”
“Nothing else?”
She shook her head. “That was it. The next thing I knew, I was being grabbed from behind. I got one good look at the man who grabbed me, the one who must have shot Botkin, but I didn’t say anything to him. He didn’t give me a chance. And then you came in.”
“‘They knew,’” Blake repeated in a murmur. “Who knew what? And the paintings he mentioned—was he talking about the paintings that were stolen from Jackson Willfort’s apartment? The ones scheduled to be put on display?”
Since Tara had no answers for him, she remained silent.
Blake stared thoughtfully at the wall in front of him, musing aloud. “Willfort originally purchased the stolen paintings from the Pryce Gallery. He buys most of the art for his private collection from Liz Pryce.”
“Liz Pryce?”
“Hmm. Liz Pryce owns the Pryce Gallery. She’s the wife of Avery Pryce.”
“Avery Pryce, the attorney?”
Blake nodded. “Right. The Avery Pryce, Atlanta’s premier barrister. He’s years older than his third wife. They’ve been married almost ten years. He set her up in the gallery almost immediately after they married. With his money and influence, she’s been very successful. Jackson Willfort is one of her most loyal patrons, which has gone a long way toward establishing her with the rest of the art-buying community.”
“How do you know all of this?”
He shrugged. “Someone called and said they had information about the Willfort burglary. I made a point to find out everything I could about the players before I got involved.”
“So Jackson Willfort bought a couple of paintings from the Pryce Gallery that he intended to put on public display. The paintings were stolen. Someone from the gallery knew something about that robbery that he intended to share with you, but, presumably, he was murdered first. What could he have known? Who is now in possession of my name and address, and what do they think I know that could be dangerous to them?”
“I don’t know what Botkin was trying to tell you, but we’re going to try to find out. Our ‘friends’ are now after you because they think he told you too much. And they don’t want you telling anyone. As for me—they aren’t sure who I am or how much I know, but they’re probably hoping the cops will lead them to me, and then they’ll be able to take care of both of us at once.”
“Do you think they’re still in my apartment?”
That seemed to bother Tara almost as much as everything else. He wrapped her hand in both of his. “I don’t know,” he said gently. “But we can assume it isn’t safe for us to go there for now.”
She took a deep breath and again spoke firmly. “So what do we do now?”
He smiled and lifted her hand to his lips, brushing a kiss across her knuckles. “Looks like we’re about to be partners in an investigation, Tara McBride,” he said in the Texas drawl he sometimes affected. “Think you can handle it?”
SHE COULD handle it, Tara told herself dazedly. She could deal with the knowledge that someone wanted to find her—for deadly reasons she didn’t understand.
But she wasn’t at all sure she could handle Blake. Not if he kept smiling at her that way. Holding her hand. Kissing her.
In his own way, Blake was as dangerous to her peace of mind as the man who might even now be pawing through her things in the apartment.
“You didn’t get much sleep,” Blake said, finally releasing her hand. “Would you like to crash for a while longer?”
Feeling oddly bereft without the comfort of his touch, she ran her hand through her hair and shook her head. “I couldn’t sleep now. What I’d really like is a shower.”
He nodded, then frowned. “You don’t have any clean clothes to put on.”
“I don’t have anything,” she said simply. “Shampoo, hairbrush, toothbrush, underwear.”
Blake stood. “Okay,” he said, reaching for his duffel bag. He tossed her a plastic bottle and a man’s denim shirt. “Here’s some shampoo. You take a shower and use that shirt for a bathrobe. I’ll go out and find a twenty-four-hour discount store, pick up a few basic supplies, as well as a change of clothes and a pair of sneakers for you. What are your sizes?”
Surely he wasn’t thinking of buying her underwear, she thought, biting her lips as she stared at him.
“Tara,” Blake said patiently, “we’re in a difficult situation here. We’re going to have to be practical. Until we get this resolved, we’ll be spending a lot of time together. It’s the only way I can protect you. You’ve trusted me this far. Don’t stop now.”
Annoyed with herself for acting like a schoolgirl, Tara nodded. “I do trust you. I’m sorry, I just don’t quite know what to do. I’m completely out of my element.”
“Believe me, sweetheart, I know the feeling.” There was an ironic twist to his words that she didn’t quite understand. “What are your sizes?”
