her body shaking with each thump and crash. “Not to me. I follow rules, Mr. Murphy. Rules.”
“Forget the rules,” Cullen said, his Irish accent on hard-drive. “And lock this door behind us. Right now, we need to find a way to stay alive.”
She secured the door, knowing it wouldn’t matter but it might buy them some time. Then she motioned to her studio. “We can hide in there. It has another entrance. To St. Peter Street. We might be able to get away and double back.”
He guided her to the old garage. “It looks rickety,” he said on a sharp breath. “And we don’t have time to get to the exit door. They’ll spot us.”
“Do you have any other ideas?” She heard more precious items breaking, more doors slamming, then the echo of excited voices. “Maybe we can make a run for it.”
“Let’s go,” he said, his hand on her arm. “We might be able to wait them out or we can take the side-street exit.”
He hurried her into the growing dusk but kept her close to the courtyard wall, without regard for her bougainvillea vine or her beloved ferns and begonias.
She didn’t know about him, but she wasn’t waiting around. She intended to get away from those goons and Cullen Murphy, too. And she would go to the police. Her shop was open now and vulnerable to looters. She had to do something.
Esther tried the door of the studio, her hands shaking. Cullen put his hands over hers, the heat of his skin shocking her. “Which key?”
She looked down at the big ring. “The silver one with the fleur-de-lis,” she said on a scattered whisper.
Cullen grabbed the key ring and fumbled with the door. They heard voices and more shouting and crashing.
Then across the way, the heavy back door to her storeroom and attached miniwarehouse crashed apart like a tinker toy. Esther squeezed her eyes shut, waiting for the bullets. But Cullen had her inside the studio and back behind a work bench before she could catch her next breath.
“Don’t move,” he said, his body guarding her, hiding her, holding her. “Don’t even breathe.”
“That won’t be a problem,” she said between gasps. “I’m too scared.”
Even though she didn’t know the man and even though he’d brought trouble to her door, she said a silent prayer, thanking God that Cullen was here and blocking her from these people.
They waited, crouched on the floor, the shapes of her whimsical, mismatched sculptures all around them looking more like gargoyles and monsters than art. To calm herself, Esther thought back over her day. What about that nice couple from Illinois? Patt and Dave, yes. They loved antiques and also collected ceramics and glass, and had purchased several pieces, including a set of Roseville Bleeding Heart vases and an exquisite Depression glass pink bowl.
Esther heard voices followed by heavy footsteps. She was back inside the nightmare. So she prayed. Over and over.
Cullen tightened his grip. “Hold on.”
She did, her hand grasping his arm, taking in his strength. She had to depend on him to help her through this. But later, she’d let him have it with both barrels.
I’m strong, she thought, fear and shock making her want to giggle. I’ve managed to survive and keep on going, even when I’ve had no one. Well, not exactly no one. I have Aunt Judith at least. And sweet Mr. Reynolds and his wife from next door. And Harold the lonely saxophone player down the street. I have Ted, of course. Her one loyal employee and occasional dinner companion. Ted had been sick today, but he sure wouldn’t be happy come tomorrow. Their insurance would skyrocket. Ted had been her father’s right-hand man. He always focused on the bottom line.
Esther prayed while she waited. Please, Lord, let this be a dream. Let me wake up, right now.
The footsteps drew closer and from her vantage point inside the old workroom, Esther could see that the two men searching for them did indeed have guns. Ugly, skinny-barreled guns. She prayed Cullen’s sleek but ancient weapon would at least scare them.
“They have silencers,” he said on a whisper, probably to remind her of the danger. Then he looked at the empty gun in his hand. “While I love this sweet Remington, I think I’m gonna need to use my 9 mm SIG-Sauer. It’s fully loaded.”
The man had two guns? She supposed that was a good thing. Or maybe that confirmed that he was truly a bad person.
Cullen put a finger to his mouth to warn her and then he placed the Remington back in its case and set it out of the way. She watched as he pulled out another gun and did a few clicks and loads. What all did he have in that travel bag?
Because she had no one else to turn to right now, Esther stayed there beside him, her gaze hitting on the banana-leaf fronds swaying in the humid air, her nostrils taking in the sweet scents of jasmine and wisteria, mingled with the faint scent of perspiration. She heard the steady trickle of water coming out of the twisted metal fountain sculpture she’d made three years ago. Her courtyard had always been her haven.
Now she’d never look at it in the same way again.
The men kept coming until they’d reached the glass-paned doors of the studio. One of them, looking like a hulking giant, pressed his big nose to the door and stared in. Esther hissed, but Cullen held her tightly against him behind the big sturdy work bench, as if his body would keep her invisible. She found that rather endearing in spite of her wobbly heart and weak knees.
“Hey, Murphy, you in there?”
“They speak,” she said on a low, trembling whisper. “And, surprise, they know you.”
“Yes, they know me,” he said, bobbing his head. “They want the diamond. Must have followed me across the globe. As if I’d hand it over to Hogan and his men.”
Hogan. Why did that name sound familiar? Esther closed her eyes, wishing for her hot tea. Wishing this hot diamond hunter shielding her would go away. But not until he made those bad guys go away, too.
Tugging at his shirt, she asked, “Who is Hogan?”
He shoved the Remington case at her. “I’ll explain later.”
When the other man rushed to the door and shook the knob, Cullen turned toward her and opened the case. “Remember, this might buy you some time. Where is the street entrance?”
She motioned with her head, then whispered, “Behind us to the left.”
“It’s locked?”
“Of course.”
“We need a distraction.”
He glanced around and saw her blow torch.
Esther’s gaze followed him. “Oh, no. You can’t do that.”
“I can and I will, to save your life.”
And then, he was up and like a gunslinger, swinging around in a poetic kind of warrior way to grab her blow torch and wield it high in front of him.
While the doors to her studio burst
