Page 55 of Caper Crush
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m really sorry. Next time, I’ll pick up.”
He snorts. “Thanks for that. Then I can have a remote, play-by-play listening session without being able to do anything.”
“What would you have wanted to do?” I lean closer to him. He doesn’t pull back. My heartbeat skips, and I hold his gaze. Again, I want to run my hands through his straight hair. And then run my fingers over his cheekbones and his lips. Slowly. His gaze seems to be equally intent on me. I feel my face heating up. I smell the sugar of the donut and Sora’s dog scent. My hand curls around the hard wood of my chair. Sora barks.
He looks down at her and scratches her between her ears. The spell is broken. The thing is, I am attracted to him. I like poking holes in that brick wall he’s put up.
He reaches for a donut. A chocolate-covered one. With sprinkles. There’s hope yet.
For what? Even if opposites attract, they don’t last. Take my parents, for example. Two more different people could not be found. My tough, uptight, glamorous mother and my sensitive, emotionally open, complete-mess dad. Which sounds a bit like me and William. Not that he is necessarily tough or uptight, but he is hard to read. And definitely good-looking. I shouldn’t even be thinking about him. It’s probably just the stress of the loss of my painting and the fact that we’re investigating it together, creating camaraderie.
He asks, “Did you learn anything?”
He’s dodged the question.
“No, not really.”
“So you put yourself in danger for nothing?”
This criticism is more in line with what I expected.
“I wasn’t in danger. I do know self-defense.”
“Really? It was a friendly chat?”
“Well, not exactly.” Sora gives up on getting any donut crumbs and pads over to her dog bed.
“How unfriendly was it?”
“There were moments of tension,” I say. “He was an extremely muscular guy. I wonder if whoever plotted this held a casting audition and chose the most muscular beefcake they could find.”
“You think this was a setup?” William asks.
“He had a fake mustache. Officer Johnson also said this didn’t seem professional.”
William looks at me, surprised. “You’re sure about the mustache?”
“I’m sure.”
“What do you deduce from that? Do you think Uncle Tony’s colleagues are involved?”
“No,” I say, surprised. I hadn’t thought of Tony’s colleagues at all. Even though the disguise had been well applied. “If I think it over, one time the guy looked at Edmund like he was looking for instructions, although Edmund did look surprised when the guy grabbed the briefcase. The whole escapade makes me think it’s Edmund who stole the paintings. Or orchestrated their theft. Edmund is involved. That’s one of the reasons I went. Because if I spend time with him, he’ll reveal something.”
“Maybe he just looked at him as the person who first contacted him.”
“That too. But there was something else there.” I don’t expect William to believe me.
“Okay, let’s say it’s Edmund,” William says. “He did give your sister a package. Did your sister help him, maybe unknowingly?”
“And she did tell him that I said she shouldn’t marry him. That may be enough of a motive if we’re thinking it’s personal. But it’s not like Annabelle and I are that close—and he knows that. He knows she wouldn’t follow my opinion blindly. It’s still her decision.”
“But this gives him a convenient excuse to blame you instead of facing the fact that she’s not interested.”
“That’s true. And I’m not entirely sure Edmund is the most rational person.”
“You haven’t set up an assignation with the actual art ring now where you hand over the money and they hand over the paintings?” William asks.
“No, because I thought it was a con and refused to pay for any more information. And I didn’t feel that safe.” I describe the fight over the briefcase.
