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  “Arcoletti had a two-track mind. His art and my brother, although art had the inside track. He wouldn’t let a little thing like death stop him.”

  Luke crossed the room in two stiff strides and slapped the check on the mantel. “Here. You need this more than I do. Get a psychiatrist. Or a good detox program.”

  Franklin’s eyebrows met his hairline. “Easier to believe your friend’s a forger, is it?”

  This time, Luke couldn’t stop the derisive laugh. Because as stupid as it was, as crazy as it was, it was almost easier to believe in a ghost. “If Arcoletti’s been haunting you since you were eight, why would he suddenly start producing paintings from beyond the grave?”

  Franklin jutted his chin, eyebrows bunched. “Use your head, boy. Arcoletti can’t paint the pictures himself. He doesn’t have hands anymore. He needs an agent. And now he’s got one.”

  “If that’s the ghost of Jeremiah Arcoletti, he’s doing a damn good impression of Stefan Cobbe,” Luke muttered.

  “Always right, are you?” Franklin pointed his cane at Luke’s face. “Tell me this. How’d your friend forge a painting nobody outside my family knew existed? That nobody but me has seen since 1945?”

  Luke shook his head. “There’s bound to be a rational explanation. Always is.” He shoved aside the memory of his inexplicable, near-miraculous rescue from death on a dark Italian mountain. “An old newspaper article. Family photos. Maybe your decorator granddaughter needed a tchotchke to park over someone’s fireplace.”

  “Told you. No one’s seen it but me for nearly seventy years.”

  “Sorry, but that woo-woo shit is not worth my time.”

  “Heh. Big talk. But you’re shooting blanks.” Franklin drummed his fingers on the head of his cane. He leaned forward and smiled, his wrinkles a chevron on his cheeks. “Hernandez.”

  Luke flinched, shoulders hunching, his hands rising as if he could ward off the memory of his Waterloo. One look at the desperation in Hernandez’s face, at the hollow-eyed fear of his children, and Luke had allowed his ethics to drift into a gray area rivaling the clouds outside Franklin’s picture window. Were a handful of fake pottery shards worth condemning a man to prison, his children to virtual slavery or starvation? It was a damn sight different than exposing a million dollar scam at an auction house. He hadn’t been able to do it.

  “There were extenuating circumstances.”

  “Bet the curator of that museum in Bogotá didn’t think so.”

  “Not so much. No.” And Hernandez had gone down anyway, taking Luke’s reputation along with him.

  “By my way of thinking, you don’t have much to lose. Stick with the job and I’ll throw in a fifty percent bonus. Commend you to all six museums I support.”

  Jesus. A chance to live down the Hernandez debacle. To get back in the game for real. Luke clenched his sweaty palms and licked his dry lips. The bonus alone would give him the capital to be selective about his next job and pull himself out of his current professional hell-hole. But if the price was facing Stefan again, shoving him deeper into the cesspool he’d made of his life? “Not worth it.”

  Franklin’s onyx eyes glittered, pinning Luke like an insect on a pastel board. “What if Morganstern Art Investigations could announce the unveiling of Arcoletti’s last canvas? Would that be worth a trip up the hill?”

  “I…” Luke’s heart pounded in his ears. A chance to cop an undiscovered Arcoletti. Nobody had done that. Ever. He could rebuild his name overnight with the announcement. That insidious inner voice whispered that the possibility of proving Stefan innocent was the greater temptation. Did it matter? Screw it. He’d decide later. “Sure,” he croaked.

  “Good.” Franklin nodded, his face relaxing into the smile of a jovial rattlesnake. “Text me your updates. Not too early, though. I’m an old man. I need my rest.” He laid his cane across his knees. “And remember, Morganstern. Just because you don’t believe in something? Doesn’t mean it’s not real.”

  Chapter Six

  Stefan awoke on a choked cough, his mouth tasting of rancid meat. His shoulder and hip ached from his awkward fetal curl on unforgiving tile, the slick ceramic chilly against his skin, the bathtub inches from his nose.

  Ah, Christ. Naked on the bathroom floor. Again.

  He rolled to his hands and knees, shivers chasing over his body. His brain tried unsuccessfully to beat its way out of his skull, the relentless thump ten times worse than the last blackout, twenty times worse than the one before. That Scotch was evil. Never again. Not. Freaking. Ever.

  He hooked his fingers on the edge of the sink, levered himself up, dashed his face with frigid water, and rinsed his mouth. He pressed the heels of his hands against his temples to counteract the throb and realized the pounding wasn’t only inside his head.

  Someone was knocking on his door.

  The police. His trembling increased and he clenched his teeth against their clatter. He hadn’t believed Luke would turn him in, not really, not so soon, and surely not without more evidence.

  On the other hand, could prison be worse than this? Never knowing whether he was certifiably insane or just a garden-variety, blackout drunk? Funny how his life hadn’t seemed nearly so pointless and empty before Luke had shown up like a self-righteous yardstick of success.

  Stefan stared at his reflection—reddened eyes, pale cheeks, haystack of ill-kempt hair. Yeah, that guy looked capable of anything, up to and including hawking a bad forgery of Whistler’s Mother to Whistler’s father.

  His throat tightened and he took a deep breath. The hell if he was going to prison looking like a naked scarecrow. The art police could damn well wait until he got dressed.

  He cleaned up, pulled on a pair of sweats and a flannel shirt, and staggered through the living room. When he yanked the door open, ready to brazen it out with his piss-poor I-don’t-remember defense, Luke was the only one on the porch, a grocery bag in one arm and a determined set to his mouth.

  Stefan’s stomach lurched and he squinted in the pale light, scanning the clearing and searching for the trick, the trap. But Luke’s rental car was the only vehicle in sight and no posse stood at his back.

  He mustered up some bravado. “Here to beat a confession out of me?”

  “Jesus.” Luke shifted the paper bag on his hip. “How’d you manage to lose another ten pounds since last night?”

  “If that’s your best pickup line, it needs work.”

  “I get that a lot.” Luke grinned, flashing his dimples.

  Unfair. Accusatory assholes shouldn’t be allowed dimples. Stefan nodded at the bag. “Your collection of interrogation tools?”

  “Trout.”

  Stefan swallowed against another hit of stupid desolation. Trout. His favorite. A reminder of their best times. Luke couldn’t have picked a better torture device if he’d thought about it for a month. Stefan would have preferred the classic rubber hose or a little friendly water-boarding.

  He rubbed his gritty eyes. “Why bother to feed me? I’m sure they have food in prison.”

  “Stef. Look at me.” Luke’s voice dropped to his deepest register, the one full of heat and gravel. The one Stefan could never resist.

  He met Luke’s hazel eyes as ordered. Although the promise in Luke’s voice didn’t reach his eyes, at least they weren’t hard and narrow with anger anymore.

  “I’m sorry. Can we start there?”

  Stefan lifted his chin. “Groveling would be better.”

  “How’s this?” Luke dropped to his knees, wincing, and offered up the grocery bag. “Forgive me for being a dick and allow me to make dinner for you, because you look like a goddamn skeleton.”

  “You were doing okay until that last bit.”

  “Please?”

  Stefan wrapped his arms tighter across his chest. I’m sorry didn’t equal I was wrong. “Still think I’m a forger?”

  “Let’s say I’m willing to entertain other…” Luke waggled one hand back and forth. “Possibilities.” A gri
n. God damn it.

  “Oh, get up.” Stefan took the bag and peeked inside. String beans. A thread of warmth sneaked up his spine and he couldn’t help the tiny flutter of hope in his belly. In spite of last night’s insults and accusations, Luke wanted to make dinner for him and had gone to the trouble of finding the out-of-season vegetables because he remembered Stefan loved them.

  Luke rocked side to side on his knees. “Shit. Damn fucked-up hip. Give me a hand?”

  Stefan ditched the groceries inside the door, grasped Luke’s hand, and pulled him to his feet. Luke overbalanced and grabbed Stefan’s shoulder. For a moment they were eye-to-eye, hands still clasped, chests almost brushing.

  This close, he couldn’t miss Luke’s pupils widening, his lips parting. Stefan had a horrible feeling his were doing the same, because his cock started to perk up.

  Oh, hell no. Bad idea. Terrible idea. Colossally, suicidally stupid idea.

  Stefan freed his hand, stepped back, and pointed at the counter. “Stove’s propane. Matches are in the drawer. I’ve got to shower.”

  He made it a cold one.

  Afterward, shivering but in control of his libido, he pulled on a fresh set of clothes and followed the aroma of browned butter and sautéed onions into the main room. Luke had lit a half-dozen oil lamps and the soft golden light suited him. Caught the copper threads in his chestnut hair. Warmed his hazel eyes when he glanced up from the stove and caught Stefan staring.

  Stefan shuffled into the kitchen, fidgeting with the buttons on his shirt. “Smells good.”

  “It’ll taste better.” The grin Luke flashed undid the work of the cold shower.

  Shit. Going commando could be damned inconvenient. Stefan opened the refrigerator to hide his misbehaving groin. If he didn’t end up in jail, first thing he’d buy after he sold a painting? Underwear. Tight underwear. Because you never knew who might drop by. “You want a beer?”

  “Got anything stronger? The hip could use some anesthetic.”

  “Only Scotch. Want some?”

  “Depends. Show me what you’ve got.” When Stefan flourished the bottle, Luke cocked an eyebrow. “Fifteen-year-old single malt. Not bad, Stef.”

  “Don’t thank me. I just run the tab.” Maybe someday he’d be able to pay it. He splashed a couple of inches in a highball glass and set it on the counter next to the stove.

  “Thanks.” Luke picked up the glass and saluted Stefan, his eyebrows lifting when he saw Stefan pour a glass of water. “Not indulging?”

  Stefan shuddered. “Hell no.” He sat on the rickety wooden stool at the counter, leaned his chin on his fist, and gave himself permission ogle Luke.

  The muscles of Luke’s back bunched and flexed under his blue Oxford shirt as he tossed the onions in the sauté pan. His hips swiveled as he moved from stove to sink and from cutting board to pan, an unconsciously sensual dance.

  Stefan could watch him forever. After yesterday’s fiasco of a reunion, he’d never expected to see Luke again, and yet here he was, puttering around in Stefan’s shabby kitchen. “Luke, what are you doing here?”

  Luke cast a grin over his shoulder and took another swig of Scotch. “Cooking dinner.”

  “No, I mean what are you doing in Oregon? You never said.”

  “Yeah. Guess not.” He busied himself with the trout, dredging them in flour.

  “Do you have a show somewhere? On the coast? Portland?”

  Luke’s hands stilled for an instant. He took a gulp of Scotch and grimaced. His thumb left a floury print on the glass. “I’m not an artist.”

  “You’re not?” Stefan frowned, puzzled. Luke had had more passion about painting than anyone else in his class, his intensity often overwhelming. The other students had been terrified of him.

  Luke wiped his hands on the kitchen towel tucked in his belt-loop. “Nope. Haven’t lifted a brush since I left the conservatory.”

  “I thought…isn’t that why you went to Europe? To study at a school there?”

  “I studied. But not painting. I’m certified in cultural property protection, preservation, conservation, and security.” He dropped the trout into a deep cast-iron skillet in a sizzle and spit of hot oil.

  Stefan’s empty stomach clenched. “Security? Christ. You’re not just an informer. You’re the art police.” He struggled out of his chair. “Are you here to arrest me?”

  Luke took a giant stride across the kitchen and grasped Stefan’s wrist. “I’m not a cop. I’m only an investigator.”

  “But that’s why you’re here, isn’t it?” Stefan’s teeth began to chatter in spite of the heat from the wood stove. “Because you think—”

  “Calm down. Yeah, I’m here on an investigation, but I had no idea I’d run into you. Tonight, I’m here to make dinner.” Luke ducked his head and peered up into Stefan’s eyes. “No judgments. Okay?”

  Stefan jerked a nod and took a giant swallow of his water. “Yeah.”

  “Good.” Luke let go of Stefan’s wrist and returned to the stove. “Because I haven’t made this recipe in a long time and I need to pay attention.”

  Yeah, pay attention, Stefan. He didn’t show up yesterday because he was looking for you. The water turned into a lump of ice in his belly. “It’s a good recipe. Why didn’t you make it for anyone in Europe?”

  “Jean-Pierre hates seafood. I got out of practice.”

  “Jean-Pierre.” Much classier name than Stefan Cobbe, even with the silent e. The icy lump grew spines. “French?”

  “Belgian.”

  “What’s he like? Other than anti-fin?”

  “Blond. Blue-eyed. A competitive downhill skier.”

  “Ah.” Christ. A thrill-seeker. Stefan couldn’t even face walking into his own freaking studio. “Intrepid.”

  Luke tossed a spoonful of minced garlic in with the onions. “Maybe. Or maybe just foolhardy. He certainly had no patience with caution. Or fear.”

  “‘Had’? What happened to him?”

  “Same thing that happened to my hip and my femur.”

  Guilt washed through Stefan for indulging in petty jealousy when Luke must be grieving. “Oh, God. I’m sorry, Luke. Was he—”

  Luke held up a hand. “No. He’s still swanning around Vienna as far as I know. He left me. After the accident. Hospitals and rehab? He didn’t sign on for that.”

  “I’m still sorry.”

  “Thanks.” Luke stared at the floor, scuffing his loafer against a worn spot in the linoleum. “I’m sorry, too. About Marius.”

  That made two of them, but not for the reason Luke probably imagined. “It’s okay.”

  “No. It’s not. I should have been there. Stood by you at the funeral.”

  “I doubt you’d have gotten any closer to the funeral than I did.”

  Luke’s brows drew together over his Roman nose. “What?”

  Stefan drew circles in the condensation on his glass. Zeroes. His total worth to Marius’s family. “The Prescotts wouldn’t let me past their fancy wrought iron gates.”

  “They blocked you from the funeral? Seriously?” Luke knocked back his drink and poured another double.

  “They weren’t exactly onboard with Marius’s…well…everything. That’s why we lived in Indio, about as far away from Connecticut as we could get. Maybe that’s why his sister didn’t have a problem locking me out of the house. I wasn’t a person to her. Just one of Marius’s less respectable possessions.” Something to pack up and remove from the house, along with his clothes and books and half-empty liquor bottles.

  Luke flung the beans into the pan with the onions and garlic. “Jesus. How could she kick you out of your own home?”

  “Wasn’t mine anymore. Not with Marius gone.” Stefan laughed, the sound broken and mirthless. “Hadn’t been for a while, actually.” He met Luke’s somber gaze. “I was about to leave him. Car packed. Ready to walk. Made it so freaking easy for her. All she had to do was impound the car.”

  “She took your car, too?” Luke’s voice rose in
outrage, and he sucked back more Scotch.

  “My theoretical car. It was a gift. Everything was a gift, right? But still in his name. He never could let go of anything, even when he gave it away.”

  “Jesus, Stef.” Pity flickered across Luke’s face and creased his forehead.

  Stefan ducked his head so he didn’t have to see it. “I don’t care about the car, the clothes, the Rolex, or the damn ring. What matters are the four paintings I finished the month before the crash. For all I know, she burned them.” Possibly the last pictures he’d ever remember painting.

  “Listen—”

  God, deliver him from another well-meaning, humiliating offer of monetary assistance. If he’d learned one thing in his years as Marius’s appendage, it was that nothing sucked away self-respect faster than financial dependence. The arrangement with Thomas didn’t count. Stefan had to believe that. Thomas would get all his money back, with interest, when Stefan’s work started to sell again. Stefan nodded at the stove. “Your fish are burning.”

  “What? Shit.” Luke spun around. “No. It’s okay. They’re supposed to look like that.”

  He lifted the fish onto a platter and scattered the crisp dark skin with diced lemon. He picked up the pan of browned butter. “Ready?” The sizzle of the butter as it hit the trout echoed the buzz in Stefan’s blood at Luke’s grin.

  Luke slid the beans into a serving bowl and set it on the table along with the fish platter and a bowl of rice pilaf. “Soup’s on.”

  Stefan settled at the table. “This looks great.”

  Luke sat down adjacent to him, and by the glint in his eye and the jut of his jaw, he hadn’t finished with the subject of Marius. Christ. No more. Stefan needed a diversion. He picked the one that scared him most. “Tell me about this Arcoletti.”

  It worked. Luke’s eyebrows shot up. “You’re the second person today who’s said that.”

  “Who was the first?”

  “My employer. William Franklin. Apparently, his brother Edward was Arcoletti’s lover.”

  “He’s your information source?”

  Luke shook his head and shoveled a half-bushel of green beans, fragrant with garlic and caramelized onions, onto Stefan’s plate. “I saw Arcoletti’s one publicly owned picture in Amsterdam after I left the conservatory. He fascinated me. His personality. His disappearance. The lost collection. His mystery is what got me started as an art investigator.”