Both men looked like they could kill Zeke, but were smart enough not to try. At least not right now in front of the boss.
“I don’t want those two in the alley,” Landry said. He knew the best thing he could do right now was to go along with Freddy D.’s plan. But it was too late in Landry’s life to do the best thing. Far from it.
“Think about it, these two hanging out in the alley behind a fancy art gallery?” Landry said. “First off, anyone who sees them is going to call the cops, thinking they’re staking out the place. Secondly, if your source is right and Simon was a cop working with the feds and had made a disk he planned to hand over, then the feds are looking for this disk, too.”
Freddy D. narrowed his eyes at him, and for a moment Landry thought he might tell T and Worm to kill him. “While not eloquent or wise, you do make a good point. You’re saying that Simon might have gotten the feds word where he hid the disk.”
Landry doubted it. Otherwise the feds would be busting down the doors right now, guns blazing. “I think it would be a mistake to underestimate Simon. I know if I was him and I spotted these two behind me, guilty or not, I’d do whatever I could to cover my ass.”
“I’ll cover the alley,” Zeke said. “Or better yet, I’ll go to the art show and let Landry wait in the sidelines.”
“Like you know squat about art,” Landry said, then pretended not to care. “Whatever.”
Freddy D. raised a hand. “Landry goes in. Zeke, you take the alley. T and Worm won’t be far away just in case.”
Just in case any of them thought about double-crossing him. “I want that disk,” the boss said.
“If it exists,” Landry added, and Freddy D. gave him a warning look before turning again to T and Worm. “What do we know about this artist where Simon said he hid the disk?”
The thugs exchanged confused looks.
“The painting he had on him was signed W. St. Clair,” Worm said. “Simon said her name was Willow.”
“Or something like that,” T said. “He wasn’t talking too clearly.”
Freddy D. groaned. “What about the artist? Is it possible she’s his contact?”
“You hear sirens?” Zeke asked sarcastically. “If the feds had the disk we’d all be facedown and handcuffed.”
“Zeke’s right,” Landry said. “So what does this painting look like? You did get that, right?”
Worm looked like he was itching to punch Landry’s ticket. “It’s a painting of a sailboat. It had a red and white sail and the boat was blue. The boat is at full sail and there is a blond woman at the wheel. Her hair’s blowing back and she’s kind of hanging off to the side like she’s having a great time.”
Landry stared at Worm, amazed they’d gotten that much information out of Simon about the painting but weren’t sure about the artist’s name. He wanted to believe that Simon had made up every word of it. But Landry had seen T in action and knew that few men could withstand that form of torture. Even Simon.
“I’ll find the painting,” Landry said.
“I also think it would be wise to find out what the woman knows about Simon,” Freddy D. said. “Either way, she’s a loose end.” Freddy D. was looking straight at him. “You have a way with the ladies, Landry. Take care of her.”
WILLA ST. CLAIR GLANCED around the gallery at all her paintings hanging on the walls and could no longer suppress her excitement. She still couldn’t believe it. All the hard work, the long hours painting then framing, had finally paid off.
Just when she thought that her life couldn’t get any better than this, she saw the handsome dark-haired man standing by the door.
He’d caught her eye several times earlier, lifting his wineglass and giving her a nod. She’d felt herself warm, complimented by his attention.
Now he smiled and she saw that the crowd had thinned. Clearly he was waiting for her. Her heart beat a little faster.
Several of the stragglers came over to congratulate her. Like her first two openings, this one had been an incredible success. She still couldn’t believe it. Almost all of the paintings had small red dots on them, indicating they were sold.
Her dream had come true. She tried to calm her runaway heart, took a deep breath and turned to look toward the door.
He was gone.
Her disappointment pierced the helium high she’d been riding on just moments before. She’d taken too long. He’d gotten tired of waiting.
She couldn’t help feeling regret. He’d made a point of getting her attention during the show. But each time she hadn’t been able to get away to talk to him. She’d hoped he would find a way to talk to her before the evening was over.
“Great show, sweetie,” the gallery owner, Evan Charles, said, coming over to give her an air kiss beside each cheek. “Everyone was just raving about your use of color. You’re a hit.”
She thanked Evan and promised to let him know when she had enough paintings ready for another show. Taking her wrap from the closet by the door, she stepped out into the Florida night air, closed her eyes and breathed it all in as he locked up behind her.
You’re not in South Dakota anymore.
She smiled to herself. She would never tire of breathing sea air. She could hear the cry of the gulls and the lull of the surf not a block away. She loved Florida. And Florida, it seemed, loved her.
“Beautiful night,” said a male voice as warm and silky as the night air. “Beautiful woman.”
She opened her eyes and turned already smiling, knowing it was him. He had waited for her.
“Congratulations,” he said. “I was hoping all evening to get a chance to meet you. You were much too popular. And I was much too shy.” He grinned and extended his hand. “Landry Jones.”
He was anything but shy, she thought as her hand disappeared into his large one. His touch was gentle but there was raw power behind it. She shivered as she looked into his dark eyes, and he grinned as if he knew exactly what she was thinking.
Amazingly, he was even more striking up close. Not classically handsome. Too rough around the edges for that. He wore khaki chinos and a palm-tree-print short-sleeved shirt and deck shoes. He was tanned and the fingers on his left hand were scraped as if he’d been in a fistfight. He looked like a man who could hold his own in a fight, she thought, as a niggling worry wormed its way into her perfect night.
Landry Jones wasn’t the type of man a woman met at an art showing. Especially not hers.
“So, you’re interested in Florida landscapes?” she asked, cocking her head to one side. “You don’t seem the type.”
He feigned hurt, laughed and gave her a sheepish grin. “Actually I’m more interested in the artist, although I find both intriguing.”
She
