Before she could wonder why that should be so, before she could even begin to wonder how to go about it, she saw the man’s eyes shift and darken, foreshadowing the touch she felt an instant later on her elbow.
“Excuse me, miss, uh, ma’am?”
Turning, Jane recognized the very same individual who, only a short time ago, had been bidding furiously against her for her precious painting. The man she’d last seen stretched out on the auditorium floor surrounded by curious auction-goers and concerned employees of Rathskeller’s. The “Arab terrorist”-though at the moment he didn’t look capable of terrorizing anyone. His hair was mussed, his tie askew and his olive-toned complexion had a decidedly greenish tinge, all of which played strongly to her compassionate nature and mother-hen instincts.
Reftexively, she put out a hand to touch his arm and, in a voice husky with concern, said, “My goodness, are you all right?”
The man waved that aside with an impatient grimace. He glanced around, then took Jane’s elbow and maneuvered her a couple of steps closer to the auditorium doors and away from the third party present. That accomplished, he lowered his head and said in a low voice, “Can I talk to you a minute? About that picture…”
Jane’s heartbeat quickened. Chilly little currents of unease stirred across the back of her neck and shivered her skin with goose bumps. For some reason, she found herself looking over her shoulder, searching for the unsmiling stranger named Tom Hawkins, as if he represented some sort of haven, or rescuer. She was relieved to find him over near the windows, only a polite distance away, scowling at his watch.
She turned back to the “terrorist,” mentally fortifying herself the way she did when she was forced to be firm with one of her daughters. “Sir, I’m sorry about what happened to you, but-”
“I’d like to buy it from you.” Keeping his hold on Jane’s elbow, the man reached inside his jacket and pulled out a wallet. The fingers on her arm were tense as wire. “I’ll pay you cash. What was the final bid? I’ll top it by a hundred.”
Jane’s breath caught; jolts of alarm shot through all her nerves and muscles. Instinctively, she took a step backward, jerking her arm free. “I don’t want to sell it. I just bought it.”
“Please.” The man held up both hands, palms out, almost, it seemed to her, in supplication. “I know you probably think I’m nuts. Maybe I am nuts.” He made an unconvincing attempt to smile. “The thing is, well, darn it, I really wanted that particular painting. See-it’s my fiancée-she just fell in love with it. I was going to get it for her as a surprise. That’s why money’s no object, okay? I was willing to go as high as it took.” Another of those stiff, almost painful-looking smiles. “If I hadn’t passed out like that don’t know what happened. I mean, I’ve never had anything like that happen to me before.”
“Maybe it was the excitement,” Jane suggested, her natural compassion now struggling with an inexplicable sense of guilt. It made her feel awkward, almost embarrassed. “You know, if you’re not used to auctions…”
The man’s smile was wry, and much more believable than his previous attempts. He snorted and said, “Maybe,” in such a tone of gloom and disappointment that Jane began to feel sorry for him.
But dammit, she loved that painting, too. It was hers-she’d won it fair and square. “I wish I could help you,” she said with a helpless shrug. “I really do. But I just-”
“Ah, come on,” the man pleaded, opening his wallet. “I told you, money’s no object Try me-name your price.”
Jane gave an incredulous laugh. This whole thing was just so bizarre. Again she glanced over her shoulder, searching for the tall, angular form of the man called Tom Hawkins. Yes, he was still there, over by the windows, standing with his back to her, looking out at the rain, restlessly jingling things in his pockets. And yet, she had the strangest feeling he was listening to every word, missing nothing.
“I’m sorry, Mr…”
“Campbell-Aaron Campbell,” he offered eagerly, as if he hoped the name might head off the inevitable.
Campbell? “I’m truly sorry,” she said, making her refusal as kind and as firm as she knew how, girding herself against her own generous instincts. “I wish I could be unselfish about it, but it happens that I’ve fallen in love with that particular painting myself. I know how much you must want it, but I also know that if I did give in and sell it to you, I’d very much regret it. I’m sorry…” She was backing away from him now, a hand upraised as if to physically ward him off. “I’m sorry.”
Still he persisted, following her beseechingly, holding something out to her-a business card. “If you should change your mind-”
“I won’t. Really. Please… I’m sorry,” Jane gasped. Discovering that the auditorium doors were there at her back, she groped for the handle and pushed through them, throwing out one more anguished, “I’m sorry. ” The last thing she saw as the doors swished shut was a look of black and impotent fury.
Inside the auditorium, the auctioneer’s voice droned on.
“There you are,” said Connie, appearing at her elbow. “I wondered where you’d got to. Everything all right, dear? You look a bit whacked.”
“Oh, I’m fine.” Jane was already finding it hard to recall what it was, exactly, that had been so unsettling about the confrontation with the persistent Mr. Campbell His eyes, perhaps. Something about his eyes…
“You won’t believe it,” she said to Connie with a short, incredulous laugh. “That man-the one who was bidding against me for the painting? He just offered to buy it from me. He told me to name my price. Can you imagine?”
Connie’s glasses tumbled from their customary perch on the end of her nose, coming to rest before reaching the limits of their tether on her ample, sweatered bosom. Her eyebrows shot up. “You didn’t sell it to him, did you? Oh, my dear, after all that!”
“No, of course I didn’t,” Jane assured her with a huff of indignation. “Are you kidding? I love that painting. I’d never sell it. So-how are you doing? Buying lots of good stuff?”
She straightened as she spoke and pushed away from the doors, but the nerves on the back of her neck and between her shoulder blades still prickled with a strange awareness-she’d never felt anything like it before and couldn’t think what else to call it-awareness of the two enigmatic and vaguely upsetting men she’d left on the other side of them.
Hawk turned away discreetly as the gentleman he’d just heard identify himself as Aaron Campbell plunged past him, through the glass doors and out into the rain. Under different circumstances, he might have allowed himself a smile; to say Mr. Campbell was pissed was like saying a hurricane might be a little windy. Hawk half expected to see steam rising from under the coat collar the man had hastily turned up against the drizzle.
He considered following Campbell- But it was the Carlysle woman who had the painting, and judging from the fire in his eyes, Campbell didn’t seem like the type to give up the game so easily. A sudden vivid image of the shopkeeper Loizeau staring up at the ceiling with his three vacant eyes wafted through Hawk’s memory. An image of the tall brunette in those same circumstances wanted to follow, but he blocked it with a reflexive rejection that surprised him. For some reason, the thought of those sea-gray eyes clouded and empty of all light and life made him feel queasy, like a bubble of indigestion lodged at the back of his throat. He told himself it was only because he couldn’t see her as Loizeau’s killer, and if she wasn’t, then she didn’t deserve to die. No matter who she was, or where she fit into the picture.