to keep up with every single one.
Now I’m going to do a little more snooping while Miss Renoir sleeps.
THE AFTERNOON HAD GROWN warm, and Mike slipped out of his jacket and carried it over his arm. The French Quarter was bustling during what he’d come to view as a typical Friday morning as tourists made one more attempt to seek out the delicious food and the flavor of the old Quarter.
He’d had a restless night, endlessly going over Liza Hawkins’s expression when she’d seen him in the window. The predominant emotion had been fear. But beneath that, there was something else. Something that made his own body respond in a way he’d long forgotten.
She was a beautiful woman, and desire for her would not have been unusual. There was more to it, however. Desire and something electric. They had a past, of that he was certain. What kind of past, though? That was the question.
He was tempted to stroll by her gallery again, but thought better of it. He’d frightened her badly. Chances were she had someone on the lookout for him.
For several weeks he’d confined his activities to shadowing her. He knew her daily habits, the place she bought her groceries, the restaurants she frequented, dining mostly alone. Except for the tall blond man. A cop. He was a plainclothes detective—Mike hadn’t had any trouble finding that out. Trent Maxwell was well known in the French Quarter.
The first time he’d seen Liza with the cop, he’d felt a stab of jealousy so visceral he’d felt his hands clench into fists and his body tense for action. It had been a gut reaction and he’d been able to control it. But he hadn’t been able to explain it. Not to his satisfaction.
He felt things for Liza Hawkins, but he didn’t understand why. The answer was buried in the past, and today he’d decided to stop watching and start getting some answers.
He picked up a Times Picayune newspaper and hurried back to his apartment. The article about Liza’s opening was on the front of the art section, a splashy story with several photographs that lauded Liza’s talent and her “meteoric rise” to success.
Anita Blevins was the art critic whose byline headed the story, and Mike picked up the phone, dialed the paper and waited for the switchboard to connect him with the critic. Her voice was stiff, cultured and impatient, just as he’d anticipated.
“My name is Mike Davis and I just read your article on a New Orleans artist, Liza Hawkins. I’m interested in collecting some of her work, but I wondered if you might have more details about her.”
“I’m not the woman’s biographer,” Anita Blevins said sharply.
“But as a journalist with a great degree of talent, as demonstrated in your article, I was hoping you might give me an unprejudiced opinion and a bit of history. Of course, if you’re too busy, I understand.”
“A bit of history?” Anita’s voice warmed. “Okay, a thumbnail sketch. New Orleans artist, watercolorist, single, had a tragic love affair with a businessman, very reclusive and eccentric. Pretty standard fare for artists of all types, I’d say.”
Mike wasn’t the least bit interested in the value of Liza’s work, but he knew that was the tack to take. “Do you believe her work will increase in value?”
“No doubt. Are you an investor or a collector?” Anita’s interest was aroused.
“Both. I collect what I like, but I also like to turn a profit.” Mike was almost surprised at the ease with which the words came. He didn’t remember investing in anything except cattle feed and fertilizer. Or sometimes a good bull. He’d seen hefty returns on two prize Herefords.
“Buy her now. She’s going straight up. And the pictures are a bonus. They are quite beautiful, aren’t they?”
“I think so.”
“Are you a native of New Orleans, Mr. Davis? You don’t have the accent, but then our city is so culturally rich that diversity is almost a trademark.”
“I’m visiting,” Mike said carefully. “Why does Miss Hawkins paint only New Orleans scenes?”
“That’s a good question. When I interview her, I’ll ask. You can read the answer in my profile of her for the Sunday paper.”
“I’ll look forward to it.” He could tell she was about to bolt off the telephone. “You said she was involved with a businessman. What happened?”
“He disappeared. You asked for facts, but do you want supposition?”
Mike’s hand clenched at his side. “Facts are wonderful, but a report with intuition can sometimes ferret out the truth even when it can’t be proven.” Anita Blevins was a woman susceptible to flattery, and he used it without shame.
“There are two theories. Duke Masonne was murdered and the body will never be found or…he was involved in illegal deals on the docks and he disappeared.”
“What did this Masonne do?”
“He imported art and antiques from Europe. Quite the complement to our artist. It was an odd match in some ways, a conservative businessman and an artist. That kind of difference breeds gossip. And don’t think I’m going to repeat any of it. Use your imagination.”
“You’ve been more than helpful. I’ll look forward to your profile,” Mike said.
“You’ve piqued my interest, Mr. Davis. It might be fun to do an article on an investor who collects local artists. What about it?”
“And ruin my cloak of anonymity? Not today. But if I change my mind, I’ll give you a call.” He hung up quickly, hoping the newspaper didn’t use caller identification. He’d been foolish to call from his apartment.
“Duke Masonne.” He said the name softly. At last he had a place to start.
LIZA CLOSED THE SCRAPBOOK and found herself staring into the golden gaze of Familiar. The cat had sat on the arm of her sofa as if he’d guarded her all night long. Incredible, but she did have the strangest sense that she was safe as long as he was there. Either it was that sentiment or the sleeping pill, she wasn’t sure which, but she’d actually slept better the past night than she had in weeks.
Her fingers traced the leather cover of the scrap-book. “It was real,” she said to the cat. “No matter what anyone tries to tell me, the love Duke and I shared was real. He didn’t leave me. He didn’t run off. Something happened. And now he’s back here to explain.”
Even to herself, she sounded pathetic—a woman jilted who can’t accept the fact. If Duke was alive, then he’d left her. Five years. Why hadn’t he called? Why hadn’t he simply said he was leaving? She wasn’t the kind of woman who clung to a man. She’d never been. If he’d asked for his freedom, she would have let him go without a scene or a recrimination. He knew that.
At least she would have been spared five years of hell. Five long years of wondering, of imagining. Of hoping.
She stood up and put the scrapbook on the coffee table. To her surprise, it was almost dusk. Not even Pascal had called to interrupt her sleep. He must be inordinately worried about her, she thought wryly. Normally no one’s problems or concerns came before Pascal’s. He’d been known to browbeat an artist for a
