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“How would you know it was me?” I ask. “I’m not the only one who’s seen this.”
He frowns. “Actually, I haven’t show this to many people. The woman who cleans this room is an Indonesian immigrant who probably knows nothing about this artwork. And even if you weren’t the snitch, I’d want you killed anyway to be on the safe side.”
I pale. Now I’ve got to hope someone else doesn’t try to inform the cops or I pay the price? I never even asked to see this painting!
As if he senses I need a drink, Rafe walks over to a sideboard and pours a glass of wine. He walks over and hands it to me. “Since you passed on dessert, try this Sauternes.”
Scared and in self-pity, I accept the glass and take a much bigger sip than I intended. Maybe I could be safe in the FBI’s witness protection program?
Rafe is studying me. “You don’t know much about me or theJing San Triad, do you?”
I shake my head.
“We have law enforcement at all levels on our payroll,” he says. “We’d find you eventually.”
He speaks with such calm, it’s hard to doubt his confidence. So much for witness protection, I guess.
“Here’s the other Degas.”
He walks over to another wall with three paintings. The Degas, hanging in the middle, is not of ballerinas but depicts men and women at a horse race. The hues remind me of his other painting,The Absinthe Drinker.I would probably appreciate the work of art more if I weren’t so bummed by what Rafe recently said. Does this mean I’m a dead woman regardless of what happens?
Rafe shows me the other works in the room by Albrecht Dürer, Francisco Goya, Renoir, and Mary Cassatt. But I’ve had too much to drink, so much so that I almost don’t recognize a Gustav Klimt.
Rafe notices. “You better have some water and more to eat.”
I nod and stumble over my shoelaces. I bend down to tie the loose laces, but that makes the room tilt even more, so I straighten back up.
Taking me by the arm, Rafe leads me to a settee and sits me down. Even in my inebriated state, his touch sends flutters through me. I don’t know if its nerves or...something else. Going down on a knee, Rafe ties my laces for me. This is embarrassing. I’m getting my shoelaces tied like I’m a toddler. Plus, there’s a hole on the top of my shoe where my big toe is. Guess it’s time for a new pair of sneakers. If I make it out alive.
“Ginger tea,” Rafe instructs over an intercom. “Bring it out to the West Patio.”
He then pulls me to my feet. “You are not throwing up in my gallery.”
I nod, agreeing that it would be a travesty to have vomit sitting below a beautiful Alphonse Mucha. He walks me outside, sits me down on a plush sofa, and turns on the fire pit in front of me. I breathe in the dry summer air.
A server appears with a tray of tea, sliced ginger, lemon and honey. She mixes the items into a cup and hands it to me before departing. She seems nice. Maybe I could slip her a note sometime, asking her to call the police? But what if she hands the note over to Rafe? While he’s been oddly polite, I can tell he’s not someone to mess with.
Whyishe being so nice to me? He could have just thrown me into the basement and kept me alive on bread and water.
“Drink,” he orders.
I realize I’ve been holding the teacup for a while. I take a sip. I don’t mind ginger in stir fry, but it’s not my top choice for tea.
“Finish it,” he directs when I set the cup down.
Reluctantly, I pick up the cup again and take another sip. I guess he really wants to make sure I don’t upchuck on his fancy house.
“You really going to kill me if you don’t get your Morelli?” I blurt. “I mean, I can steal you something else or give back your money and then some.”
“I’m a man of my word.”
“But it’s not fair! I didn’t do anything wrong.”
He cups my chin, igniting that fluttering sensation again, and meets my gaze. I sense humanity in the depths of his eyes. He’s not just a cold-blooded criminal. But what he says next does nothing to comfort me.
