And that was the next thing he had to find out. Who in the hell was this Jane Carlysle? Watching the slick way she’d neutralized Campbell during the bidding, he’d figured her to be a player for sure. After seeing her up close, talking to her, he’d thought, okay, not one of the bad guys-CIA, maybe. Even, God forbid, the FBI. He’d been thinking maybe it was time for a little team effort, a limited pooling of resources. As long as the good guys won, right?
Now, though, after seeing her with Campbell, he was beginning to consider a whole new possibility. One that made the bad taste at the back of his throat even more bitter. What if Jane Carlysle was exactly who and what she appeared to be-an innocent antiques lover who just happened to have fallen in love with that particular painting? What if-jeez, stranger things had happened-Campbell really had fainted? Sure wouldn’t be the first time an innocent had gotten caught in the crossfire of someone else’s war…
Enough. The grimace with which he banished that thought was more of annoyance than pain. God, he wanted a cigarette.
The young woman at the reception desk looked up as he approached, elegant eyebrows arched in welcome. “Yes, sir, may I help you?”
Hawk glanced at his watch and made his smile as charming as he knew how. “Sorry to bother you, but I wonder if you can tell me-I think this is where I’m supposed to meet my wife. She called me this morning-major crisis-apparently she’d gone off without her credit cards.”
The woman laughed in mock dismay. “Ooh, a real disaster.”
Hawk did his lopsided smile again, accompanying it with a chuckle. “For me it’s more of a disaster when she has ’em. Anyway, I don’t seem to be able to locate her.”
“Have you taken a look inside? Perhaps she’s gone back to the auction.”
Hawk nodded. “I checked a while ago. Didn’t see her, but it’s a pretty big crowd. I wonder, would you mind checking her registration card for me? Just to make sure she’s checked in.”
“Certainly. Name?”
“Carlysle-Jane.”
“Carlysle…let’s see…how is that spelled?”
Hawk’s heart lurched. Shoot. Well, hell, he had a fifty-fifty chance. He had his mouth open to take a stab at it when the woman said, “Oh, yes, here it is. Jane Carlysle-from Cooper’s Mill?”
Hawk exhaled and put the smile back on. “That’s the one.”
The receptionist plucked the card from the file and placed it on the desk in front of her. Hawk tried not to crane too obviously. “Well, according to this, your wife plans to pay for any purchases by check.”
“My wife? Can’t be! Let me see that…” And as he’d been certain she would, the receptionist obligingly turned the card around. He leaned over and gazed at it long enough to commit Jane Cartyste‘s-with a Y-North Carolina driver’s license to memory, then straightened with a sigh. “That’s her, all right. Well. I guess I’d better find her and see what she wants to do. Maybe she’s already paid up and gone. Is that possible?”
“For that, you’d have to check with the office-that’s through the auditorium, door to the, um, right of the stage. She’d need to pay for her purchases there, then pick them up in holding. That’s in the backstage delivery area-there’s a loading dock there, for large items. I suppose your wife might have gone out that way, if you-”
Hawk muttered. “Thanks, I’ll check,” as he turned away. He pushed through the auditorium doors on a surge of adrenaline, nerves already kicking in to full battle readiness. He was pretty sure he knew now where Campbell had been going in such a hurry.
“Look. there he is again,” Jane said in a loud whisper, tightening her grip on the shopping bag containing her precious Roy Rogers cap pistol as if she expected an imminent mugging. “The man I told you about, the one who was bidding against me, the one who tried to-to bribe me.”
Connie’s slightly protuberant blue eyes glittered dangerously. She shifted, moving closer to Jane, her stocky body lending unspoken support. “Yes, yes, I see him. Never mind, dear, stand fast, don’t let him intimidate you. You won the battle, fair and square.”
“Right,” said Jane, breathing through her nose. She watched, hovering anxiously, while a Rathskeller’s employee carefully wrapped the painting of the ballroom dancers in layers and layers of brown paper. It was the last of the lot, thank God. Connie’s purchases-and there had been a good many of them-had already been loaded into her van, which was conveniently parked near the foot of the loading ramp.
It was there that Jane had spotted the ubiquitous Mr. Campbell, leaning against the fender of an anonymous black sedan, arms folded and ankles crossed, seemingly oblivious to the cold and wet. Watching. Waiting.
Jane shivered and turned her back to him. “I wish he’d just give it up,” she said crossly to Connie as she accepted her wrapped parcel from the young employee. “I’ve already made it perfectly clear to him that I’ve no intention whatsoever of selling this painting. I love this painting. You know, people like that seem to think they can have anything they want if they just pay enough money. He gives me the creeps-oh!” Turning with the painting in her hands, she’d clumsily barged right into someone. “Oh-I’m so sorry. Please excuse me, I…” And then she stopped, bemused, completely forgetting what it was she’d meant to say.
“We meet again,” Tom Hawkins said with a smile.
Well, okay, so it wasn’t much of a smile-a lopsided quirk of the lips that didn’t soften the forbidding terrain of the rest of his face one iota. She found it oddly endearing. “Mr. Hawkins,” she breathed, her own smile blossoming without reservation. “Tell me, did you ever find your friend?”
He gave his head a rueful waggle. “The girl at the front desk suggested I try back here, but…” His shrug had the same elusive charm as his smile. “I don’t see her anywhere, so I guess I must have missed her. Oh, well…”
“I’m sorry,” said Jane, which was a bald-faced lie.
“Me, too.” He gave another little c’est la vie shrug, then, as if suddenly remembering his manners, stepped forward to take the paper-wrapped parcel from her. “Here, let me give you a hand with that. Where are you ladies parked?”
“That won’t be necessary,” said Connie in her iciest and most dismissive upper-crust British.
It was a tone designed to give frostbite to a penguin, but its effect on Tom Hawkins seemed to be quite the reverse. By no stretch could the smile he turned on Connie be considered rueful or lopsided. And it did affect the terrain of his face-all of it. It touched his features like the sun coming up on an Arctic landscape, squinting his eyes and lighting his skin with color and warmth. Jane didn’t know about Connie, but her own reaction to that smile was about the same as if she’d taken a slug of Canadian whiskey, neat.
“Thanks,” she gasped over the beginnings of Connie’s protest. “That’s very kind of you.” She edged around her friend with a whispered, “It’s okay,” and fell into step with the man, who was already starting down the ramp with her burden.
“That’s us right there, the dark blue van.” She waited while he wedged the painting into the back of the van. She surrendered the bag containing her Roy Rogers cap pistol when he turned to ask for it. When he had tucked that away, as well, she heard herself witlessly babbling profuse thanks, saw herself poking out her hand with a lamentable lack of grace, realized that she was as out of breath as if she’d been the one doing all the toting and lifting.
“My pleasure-glad I could help.” Without the smile, his face was once more grave and careworn, though not so forbidding, perhaps, as she’d first considered it. And his handshake was firm, and very warm.