Mad About You

might discuss something with you, either purposefully or in innocence."
    She shrugged. "Too far-fetched?"
    Scrubbing his hands over his face, he shook his head. "Maybe not. Is anything else going on right now, something internal to the gallery?"
    "Well, there's the IRS audit, but Guy approves all expenditures, so no one would have a reason to do something behind my back, like forge my signature."
    "Do you approve selling prices?"
    "Yes."
    "Could someone be skimming?"
    "It's possible, I suppose, but they would have to dispose of Guy, too, since he countersigns the sales slips."
    "Unless it's Guy who's doing the skimming."
    His eyes were closed, but she knew he was awake. "But then why rehire me? I was ready to walk away."
    "But the auditors would subpoena you no matter where you went."
    She shuddered. Could she have worked for a man all these years who would commit cold-blooded murder?
    He inhaled deeply, then blinked wide, obviously trying to concentrate in spite of his exhaustion. Kat felt a rush of appreciation—and love—for him. Every woman should be so blessed as to have a brush with a real, live hero, she decided.
    "What about something you do as a regular part of your job?" he asked. "Something no one else does?"
    She frowned and started to shake her head, then stopped. "There is one thing," she said slowly.
    He opened his eyes and turned his head toward her. "What?"
    "The painting vaults are inventoried every three years. I was just getting started last Friday."
    He sat up straight. "And the burglary interrupted you."
    "Right." Then her eyes widened. "James—one of the reasons Guy hired me back was to finish the inventory."

Chapter Fourteen

    "IT’S THAT ARTSY-FARTSY, long-haired Wharton guy, ain't it?" Tenner's voice barked over the phone.
    "So it would seem," James said, trying to summon the elusive thought that kept nagging the base of his brain. He shifted the receiver uncomfortably, tired and keyed up at the same time. "My guess is he's creating forgeries and storing them in the vault, then selling the originals."
    "And Ms. McKray was on the verge of finding them when she started the inventory, so he framed her for the break-in to get her out of the way?"
    "Right."
    "Hmmm—guess he wasn't as dense as I thought. How's he been smuggling in the fakes?"
    "According to Kat, Andy supervised the construction of the restoration center based on her father's plans. My guess is he had a secret closet built in and that's where he's doing the work."
    "Damn—right inside the gallery. Want me to pick up Wharton?"
    James glanced at his watch. "No. Send someone else to arrest Wharton, and send an officer to stay with Kat. Then meet me at the gallery in forty-five minutes." He depressed a button to disconnect Tenner, his mind racing. Then he slowly punched in a London number. "Bernard, it's James Donovan. I'm in the States, and I need your help....Yes, anything to connect the name Andrew Wharton with the Webster art gallery in London." He spelled the last name. “Call me the minute you find something.” Then he ended the call.
    "I just can't believe it."
    He looked up. Wrapped in a robe and sporting her fuzzy house shoes, Kat stood in the kitchen, shaking her head. "I thought Andy was a friend of my father's... a friend of mine."
    "Don't blame yourself," James said, pushing to his feet. "Some people only show you the side they want you to see." He tingled, feeling like a hypocrite, considering that was how he had behaved around Kat, afraid to let her see how deeply he cared about her.
    His heart filled at the sight of the abrasions on her body—she'd nearly been killed for the sake of someone's greed. The thought flashed through his mind that he'd been given a wake-up call: seize the opportunity to plan a future with Katherine. But the old concerns were still there. Could he move in and out of the daily routine of being a husband for the next forty years with a smile on his face and sincerity in his heart? Did he have the strength to relinquish control over some parts of his life? He'd been completely independent of other people for so long, he simply didn't think he could incorporate them into his life at this late date.
    "I made some coffee," she said, pushing a mug toward him.
    "Thanks," he said, striding forward to take a great, hot gulp, then turned back to her bedroom. "I'm waiting for a phone call, then I'm meeting Tenner at the gallery."
    "I heard." She followed him into the bedroom, and when he shrugged