a pull that strong. He couldn’t drag his gaze away from her. He felt trapped. But he couldn’t seem to summon up the will to fight his desire.
“What is it?” Guthrie’s voice was closer now. Gabe felt Guthrie’s hand on his arm. But it wasn’t until Nicola turned away that he was able to draw in a breath. Or gather a coherent thought.
“What’s wrong?” Guthrie asked.
“It’s this case.” Gabe was surprised to find his voice worked. He was still looking at her as she picked up a file and leafed through it.
What the hell was wrong with him? No woman had ever affected him this way before. All that had happened was that their eyes had met. She was standing a good twenty-five feet away and she’d made him feel weak, winded.
What would she do to him when she was closer? When he kissed her? When he touched her? When he was inside of her?
No.
Ruthlessly, Gabe reined his thoughts in and turned to face the man he called a friend. “I want some answers. I don’t have any idea why someone is using parts of my father’s M.O.” But there was a reason. He was sure of it.
“The announcement cards are easier,” he continued. “This particular thief craves attention. Which means that he may strike again to get more.”
“I wish we weren’t thinking along the same lines,” Guthrie said in a grim tone. “That brings me to the reason I asked you to come in today. I figure you’re going to be working on this case and I’d like you to agree to share any information you come up with. My office will do the same. What do you say?”
Gabe managed a smile as he held out a hand. “I say two heads are always better than one.”
Guthrie glanced toward the painting again. “I hope that we’re both wrong about another robbery.”
Gabe hoped so, too. But his gut told him they weren’t.
As he left the FBI offices, he noted that more people had reported to work. And in spite of his determination not to, he glanced once more in the direction of Nicola Guthrie’s office.
Her head was bent over a file.
Gabe wasn’t sure it was relief or disappointment he felt as the elevator doors closed and he descended to the street level.
1
Two and a half months later, February 12
“TURN LEFT IN point nine miles.”
The calm voice of her GPS system had FBI special agent Nicola Guthrie gripping the steering wheel of her car and peering through the windshield into thickly falling snow. Easing her foot off the gas, she narrowed her eyes to study what lay in the beams of her headlights.
Not much. She was finding it more and more difficult to distinguish the narrow mountain road from the treacherous ditches that bordered it on either side.
The storm had been steadily increasing in intensity ever since she’d left Denver at 6:00 p.m. And her little Volkswagen Beetle convertible was not known for its winter weather capabilities. The one-hour drive to the church of St. Francis had stretched into nearly three.
And counting.
But it was going to be worth it. The moment that Father Mike Flynn had walked into her office and showed her the note, she’d gotten that tingling feeling deep inside of her—the same one that had guided every important decision she’d ever made. And it had never failed her.
Tonight, she had a good chance of finally identifying the art thief who’d been leading the FBI on a merry chase for the past three months. On each holiday since Thanksgiving, he’d relieved one of Denver’s art collectors of a priceless painting. And if she unmasked him tonight, her father would finally have to relent and take her career choice seriously.
Nicola glanced at her speedometer. She could walk faster than this.
“Turn left in point five miles.”
Not much longer. Her decision to join the FBI had not set well with either her father or her stepmother. Her father’s tendency to be over-protective she could understand. Her mother had been an agent who’d worked with him, and she’d died in the line of duty when Nicola had been a toddler.
Her stepmother was a different kettle of fish. Marcia Thorne Guthrie had been born to wealth, and her ideas about a woman’s role in society were slightly and almost lovably medieval. Marcia thought women should study art and literature, marry, run a lovely home and spread her largesse through the community by doing good works. And by throwing huge charity balls like the one Marcia gave every year at Thorne Mansion on Valentine’s Day.
In fact, that’s exactly where Nicola should be right now—at Thorne Mansion helping her stepmother make the final dessert selections for the ball.
The problem was Nicola didn’t want to follow in her stepmother’s footsteps. She wanted to follow in her father’s. But she dearly loved both of her parents—enough to get a Masters in Fine Art degree before she’d secretly applied to the FBI. Throughout her life, her rebellions against her parents had ended in eventual victories, but they had always been hard-won. And actions had always spoken louder than words. Eventually, she’d win them over.
Which was why tonight was so important. If she could just catch herself a thief. And if that thief turned out to be who she thought it was? Well, her father would have to give her bonus points for that because he thought Gabe Wilder was as innocent as a newborn babe.
She didn’t.
“Turn left in point three miles.”
“Where?” Nicola frowned into the swirling snow.
Then she saw it—just the outline of the church steeple. Ahead and to her left. She might have missed it if not for the headlights of a vehicle parked nearby. When a sudden break in the wind gave her a better look at the silhouette of the parked car, Nicola’s pulse jumped.
It was an SUV and it looked familiar. Could it be …?
The tingling sensation moved through her. She’d felt the same way when Father Mike had visited her office and shown her the note announcing that the statue of St. Francis was going to be stolen tonight. Gabe Wilder might very well be here.
“Turn left in one hundred yards.”
One step at a time, Nicola. First, you have to find the driveway. Then the thief.
During the long drive from the city, her practical side had been cautioning her that a semi-retired Franciscan priest like Father Mike didn’t fit the profile of the previous wealthy and socially prominent victims of Denver’s well-publicized art thief. However, during the twenty years he’d served as the director of the St. Francis Center for Boys, Father Mike had certainly rubbed elbows with the movers and shakers of Denver.
And the thief always delivered a note to his next target on the day he struck. Father Mike had received his note today. She’d read it.
I’ve always admired the statue of St.
