Page 75 of Disarming Caine

Antonio hit the button to roll his window back up and turned to me. His pinched mouth and rare lack of words told me this wasn’t some random acquaintance who thought she had a chance with the amazing Dr. Ferraro.

“Oh, shit.” My stomach fell and I ran a hand over my face. “She’s in the Calendar Club, isn’t she?”

He shrugged and raised his hands like he was trying to grab an excuse out of the air. “We met at a friend’s party and got along well—not as well as you and I, of—”

“Spare me the details.” No wonder she was offering aprivate tour.

“One date, I swear. Then I found out she was engaged.”

“Even better. She disqualified herself.” I moved to the door and pulled on the handle to open it. “And she’s a cheater.”

He launched out of his door and hastily opened mine. “Have I told you yet today how beautiful you look?”

The petty pang of insecurity was ridiculous. He flew all this way for a week and a half with me. No one else. He closed the door behind me, and I leaned in to kiss him. It was a small peck on the mouth, but he grabbed the back of my head, holding it longer.

My brain and nether regions had a brief argument, but the brain won out and I eased away. “Don’t kiss me for her sake.”

“You’re going back to work tomorrow, so I need to take all the opportunities I can.” He gripped my waist tight against him and lowered his voice. “We have little time to plan, so what’s the goal now?”

“Full tour. Master bedroom for the Constable, living room for that frame, and… I don’t know… anything that looks suspicious.”

“Are you coming in, Antonio?” came Irene’s voice from the walkway. She paused before adding, like an afterthought, “And Mrs. Ferraro?”

“Mrs. Ferraro,” hummed Antonio. “That has a nice—”

I rolled my eyes at his ridiculous smirk and maneuvered myself out of his grip. But there was the image again. Us and our kids. A life together. “You know, I got top grades at the Academy for slipping into a fake identity.”

“I’d accept a fake marriage with you.” Antonio slid his hand into mine and we headed up the sloped walkway. He let go of me to hurry the last stretch to the door and take the plastic tote from Irene. “Are these staging materials?”

She smiled and nodded, opening the door. “The photographer should be here in fifteen or twenty minutes, so we’ll have to be quick. We can start upstairs. The master ensuite is stunning.”

After hanging up our jackets and placing boots to the side, she led us up the stairs, reviewing the highlights of the house.

“I’m surprised you’re selling your place.” Irene walked with Antonio into the master bedroom, and I became a long-distant memory. She stopped between the two of us. “You sounded so happy with it.”

“We are, but Samantha—” He looked over her shoulder at me, and she turned around to do the same. Long enough for him to wave his hands, directing me to check around. “—wants a yard. So, here we are. I like this tile in the bathroom. You said they installed it recently?”

I hovered in the doorway and casually closed the door over, inspecting the space. No painting, no nothing. Just a blank wall.

No, wait.

I leaned against the wall and scrutinized the surface. There was a slight indentation where I would have expected the hanger. With Antonio and Irene in the ensuite, I pulled out my phone to run its flashlight over the surface. It was hard to be sure, but the indentation and space around it was darker than the wall paint.

It was a patch job. If Felicia’s boyfriend was actually a restorer, you’d think he would have done a better job matching paints. Then again, wall paints differed greatly from conservation paints.

I opened the door fully and meandered about the room, peeking behind the bedside tables and the dresser, keep an ear out for Irene leaving Antonio’s side.

The Constable painting I was looking for was only about two feet high, making it easy to hide.

I scanned the bookcase to see if they could have stashed the painting behind it. Nothing. The walk-in closet was large, with plenty of space for hiding things. The entire house would be perfect for hiding something small. But where would they put it?

We were running out of time before her photographer arrived, so I shifted my focus. Reconnaissance only. No searching for the actual paintings.

I peeked around the door into the bathroom. “I’d like to see the living room.”

“One minute,” said Irene, putting up a vague hand but not turning to look at me. Considering she remembered how happy Antonio was with his condo, he could probably buy me more than enough time.

As I made my way out of the bedroom to the stairs, they laughed. Something about Dr. Steve, a dog, and Valentine’s Day. Was she Miss February?

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