Deadly Little Secrets Page 0,62
her nose again, just to see the surprise flare, keep her guessing. “I’m looking forward to another dinner. What about tomorrow night? Your car won’t be ready for a couple of days, if I know the dealerships. I’ll pick you up again after work. You can let me know how the warrants are progressing.”
“Oh, but,” she began to demur, bring up her defenses. He could almost see the wariness edge back into her eyes as the heat between them naturally cooled. He knew it was manipulative, but he did it anyway, he claimed her mouth in another searing kiss.
“Just say yes, Ana.”
“Yes.” Having answered, she kissed him back, rocking him to his toes with implied promises and sensual heat.
“Tomorrow then,” he rasped, releasing her, stepping away so he wouldn’t be tempted by the lush curves on that long frame. The need to touch her, everywhere, was nearly irresistible.
With one last kiss, he tore himself away. All throughout the long drive into the hills, he thought about her, wondered if tomorrow night he’d be driving home or if she’d let him stay.
In a daze, Ana stumbled into the apartment. She was so exhausted, mentally, physically, and emotionally, that it was all she could do to feed the cat and fall into bed. She woke at two in the morning when her phone rang.
“Burton, you okay?” Pretzky demanded. “I told you to call when you got in.”
Ana switched on the light, trying to wake up. “Sorry. It’s been a pretty overwhelming day,” she admitted, yawning enough to make her jaw crack. “I’ve been home since nearly twelve. My apologies, Special Agent. I did say I’d call, and I didn’t.”
“Don’t beat yourself up about it. Thing is, with all that’s gone on today, I wanted to be sure,” Pretzky said, and her voice held no rancor. “Get some sleep. See you tomorrow.”
“Good night,” Ana replied, but Pretzky had already hung up.
The blink of a waiting text message caught her eye, and she opened her phone back up, retrieving it.
Sleep tight. See you tomorrow, and no, I won’t let you renege on dinner.
Ana had to laugh at that, since she probably would have tried to call it off. Now, she couldn’t since he’d never believe any excuse she gave.
Despite your sucky day, I had a good time tonight matching wits and programming skills with you. I look forward to more. Gates.
“More what?” Ana wondered in the darkness, cocooned in her bed. She wanted to stay awake, ponder everything. Something teased at her brain, some errant fact that she knew must be important. For the first time in months, with no drugs in her system to help her sleep, Ana dropped with no hesitation back into a deep, healing slumber.
When her alarm went off, Ana leaped out of bed. It was so shocking not to already be awake, already pondering the day’s schedule, that she was shocked into wakefulness.
“Jeeeez,” she complained, rubbing a hand on her chest to still her pounding heart. “I’d forgotten how loud that stupid thing is.”
As she showered and dressed, she went, step by painful step, through the previous day’s events. What had she missed? Or, conversely, what had she found that someone else was afraid for her to find?
Opening her daybook, she found the day’s blank page and listed names.
Carrie McCray/Prometheus. Moroni Gallery?
Pratch/Berlin? Artful Walls/Miami.
She’d contacted each of the galleries that still existed, but the biggest losses had come through those four. In lieu of talking it out, writing it out helped her think. Even though she was alone, she decided Pretzky was right: walking through the data out loud could be dangerous.
She made a list of all the victims she’d contacted, but underlined the five who had lost the most. Dav, a German businessman, and a New Jersey socialite had lost the most, both in money and number of paintings.
“That’s close,” she murmured, noting that the German businessman was in Berlin. Pratch, then, for that one. The Jersey socialite would have been Moroni. “And Dav’s Prometheus.”
A random fact was still pestering her, though. The killings were so different, East Coast to West Coast. “Who knew something?” she questioned, as she underlined Moroni, remembering that one of the women tortured had been a gallery clerk. “And what did they know?”
Knowing she couldn’t do more from home, Ana replaced her daybook in her briefcase and got her phone, so she could call a cab. Before she could open it, it rang.
“Good morning.” Gates’s luscious baritone rolled through the phone to shiver