wrists locked into one hand and his other pressed between her shoulder blades, just enough to keep her uncomfortable and cooperative but not enough to damage.
“Now, we’re going to take a little walk. And you’re going to tell me exactly what you stole from those rooms—” he couldn’t help himself, he really wanted to know her secret “—and how you got in and out so fast.”
“I swear, I didn’t steal anything.”
“We’ll see about that.”
WELL, SHE OBVIOUSLY HADN’T gotten away clean. Giselle Monroe wanted desperately to rub the throbbing pain centered right between her eye sockets, but she couldn’t. Her wrists were currently locked together behind her and tethered to a rickety chair. Her mind flashed back to the one other time she’d felt the cold steel of handcuffs against her skin. Not her finest hour.
She’d been sixteen, rebelling against her overprotective father and brothers—all three of whom were cops—and had been caught, breaking into the school gymnasium with her friends. They’d honestly been doing it for a lark, nothing else. The fact that the cop hadn’t found any spray paint or drugs or anything else had gone a long way in getting them community service and two weeks suspension instead of a stiffer sentence from the courts and the school.
Well, that and the pull of her family’s name.
For a teenager, community service had been bad enough. When her father had found out she was the one who’d picked the lock, he’d tacked on six months’ house arrest. Sneaking in and out of the house had become a skill she learned for survival during those months.
Her father would be so proud to see how she’d put those old skills to new use. The sarcasm and cold metal cut into her skin, reminding her she was far away from home, with no father or brothers to save her this time. But she wasn’t about to show the tight-jawed giant who’d unceremoniously dumped her here any weakness, especially the fear snaking through her belly.
Okay, so her assessment of him might be a bit unfair, considering the guy was just doing his job, but he’d locked her inside a closet-size room with stale air and the permeating smell of industrial-grade cleaners. And then left her here. Alone.
She had no doubt that she was being watched. She could practically feel his eyes on her. Waiting for her story to crumble.
The beauty was that it wouldn’t.
By now, he’d probably questioned the guests of the rooms she’d been in and discovered that nothing had been taken…because she hadn’t been lying. She hadn’t broken into the rooms because she’d wanted to steal anything, and certainly not from the guests. Recover what was rightfully hers? Absolutely. Steal? She wasn’t a criminal. There was a difference, not that the Wall of Silence was likely to understand that.
The door squeaked open.
Without turning around, she asked, “Are you going to let me out of here?”
“Probably not.”
“Wha—” she squeaked, craning around in the chair as far as the handcuffs at her wrists would let her. “What do you mean ‘probably not’? I didn’t steal anything. You have no right to hold me!”
Elle rattled the metal rings against the wooden slats of the chair, using their noise to punctuate her protests. “The minute you let me out of here, I’m calling my lawyer. I’ll own this place when I’m done.”
Which would actually make her search measurably easier. For a brief moment, she indulged the vision of booting everyone off the island so that she could run from one room to the other until she found the painting of her grandmother that her sleazy ex-boyfriend had stolen from her four years ago.
The piece was far from priceless, at least in art circles. It had been semivaluable. The man who’d painted it, a lover from her grandmother’s own misspent youth, had achieved a moderate amount of success after their time together. The painting had gone up in value somewhat over the years, but the emotion behind it had always meant more to Elle.
The colors were lush. Burgundy, gold, black, green. Her grandmother, a young woman just beginning to taste the world, was looking over her bare shoulder, caught in the act of dropping her robe to the ground. The mischief and passion in her bright gray eyes, so familiar and yet so different, had always called to Elle. Nana had never married the man. In fact, she’d gone on to devote her life to someone else. Very happily, to hear her tell it, although Elle had never met her grandfather. But caught in that one moment of time, there was no mistaking that the young woman her grandmother once was desperately desired the man staring at her with a brush in his hand.
The painting was the one and only possession of her grandmother’s that she’d had, but it was also so much more. The skill of the painter was evident in the layering of color, the shadow and light. The way he’d captured the hint of daring in the sparkle of her grandmother’s eyes. That image had been evidence to a struggling teenage girl that the world didn’t revolve solely around strict rules and unbreakable laws. It had been proof that there was a world outside her father’s house, one she’d someday get to experience, just as her grandmother had.
Nana had been the only female influence in Elle’s life after her mother had died when she was very young. She’d also been the only one to understand Elle’s reckless artistic bent and had encouraged her to explore her talents. She wished Nana could see the success she’d found in the past few years—the sale of her paintings finally supporting her.
Nana had understood her. And for Elle, the painting represented that bond of understanding, as well.
She’d been heartbroken when, disgruntled over the fact that she’d kicked his sorry, mooching, jobless ass to the curb, Mac had ransacked her place, taking anything in her apartment worth more than a dime. Her computer, TV, DVD player…everything.
Although, all she’d cared about was the painting. It was the only thing that couldn’t be replaced.
Mac had disappeared along with all of her stuff. She’d filed a police report, but she had enough cops in her family to realize her possessions had vanished right along with him. She’d wanted to protest as the officer who’d taken her statement had written down miscellaneous wall art when she’d listed her Nana’s painting.
She’d cried herself to sleep that night, knowing it was gone forever.
But then eight weeks ago, she’d opened Worldwide Travel and seen the glossy picture of a resort and the painting of her seminude grandmother against the backdrop of lush green walls and sparkling ocean. She’d known she needed to get it back.
Her father and brothers had told her the foreign location of the resort made recovery next to impossible. The lawyer she’d consulted had said the same thing. Foreign courts were complicated enough, but she couldn’t even prove the painting was hers. It had been gifted to her grandmother, who’d gifted it to her. There was no paper trail. She could prove that the painting was of her grandmother, but that didn’t mean she’d ever owned it.
She’d thought to reason with the owner of the island. If he’d bothered to return any of her letters, emails or phone calls, she might not have had to resort to treachery in order to recover what was rightfully hers.
She had to assume that the owner knew the piece was stolen and had no intention of returning it to her.
That freed up her moral obligations to
