His hand shook when he tried to open his door and get out.

  “Hey. Take your time,” Drew advised. “It’s okay to be scared.”

  “I am,” Elliot admitted. He might have wanted to step outside his routine, make himself leave his comfort zone, but he hadn’t reckoned on any of this. “Drew, I know you’ve been working this alone, but maybe it’s time to call your bosses in on this case now.”

  “Yeah, about that.”

  Elliot knew he didn’t want to hear what Drew looked reluctant to say, but he had to.

  “I’m working alone because I’m working unofficially. I got suspended from duty for going after Kysliak.” Drew’s lips flattened into a line. “So I have to see this through and nail the bastard or I’m out of a job…which will be the least of my problems if I’ve taken a shot at the king and missed, as my partner pointed out to me. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, but I’m on my own with this.”

  Elliot was glad he was sitting, because now he knew what it felt like to have the rug pulled from under him—if he’d been on his feet, he would have crashed to the floor. “So you lied to me. Again. Just like you did at first, not revealing you were a cop investigating an incident I was a witness to. You remember, when I thought you wanted to meet me for me, not because of needing something for your job.”

  “Elliot.” Drew’s voice went a little way toward calming him. “You can’t be in any doubt how much I enjoy seeing you. Spending time with you. We have something real and hot between us.”

  He thought so. He hoped so. “So give it a chance. Give us a chance, Drew. Let’s really spend some time together, without all this.”

  “This? How?” Drew looked wary.

  “Hand this over. All of it. Your investigation, the paintings, everything. To Scotland Yard or the SAPD. Hell, Interpol. Any official body who can take it over. It’s the sensible, safe thing to do, anyway. And you’d be free here in the city—”

  “Hand it over? I can’t do that.” Drew looked scandalized. “I have to see this through. You know that.”

  “I know you think that. Well, I’ll leave you to it, then. I’m sure you can stash this in the hotel safe for the night, and I’ll notify the bank that you’ll be there first thing to use my safe deposit vault.”

  “Elliot.” Drew caught his hand. “I meant what I said. We have something special.”

  “I…” Elliot sighed. “I’m not in the right frame of mind to discuss this now…but I want to believe it.” Oh, how he did. “Could we meet for lunch tomorrow? I’ve shown you I’m prepared to invest in a relationship, in us, and I want to see you’re going to do the same.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Who the hell does Elliot Douglas think he is? Drew scowled again, exasperated that Elliot’s handsome face, with his big tawny eyes and silvering hair, kept getting between him and the case notes he was updating the next morning. Not the morning after, sadly, following Elliot flouncing off to his car and his own bed.

  For a guy with such submissive tendencies, Elliot was a pushy bastard. Oh, why did I have to think of those submissive tendencies? Drew groaned and shifted on the chair at his desk, then turned the chair itself so he didn’t catch a glimpse of the other seat, the armchair where Elliot had kneeled to take a spanking. His cheeks had colored so well, and God, that ass of his, so tight and hot.

  Drew didn’t know what he’d loved reaming the most, Elliot Douglas’ sweet ass or his even sweeter mouth. Elliot had taken a skull fucking better than any other partner Drew had ever played with, even the twinks who wore eyeliner and mascara, so it ran down their faces as tears trailed from their eyes. Although, mascara would make Elliot’s yellowy-brown eyes pop. But then the cute gold tips to his eyelashes would be lost.

  Drew checked himself. He hadn’t realized he’d studied Elliot’s face in that much detail when they’d eaten supper in this room, or lunch at the place near Elliot’s store…or when they’d shared Elliot’s bed. He’d been hoping they’d sleep together last night too, after another round of sex…possibly with Drew taking his leather belt to Elliot’s toned, responsive ass cheeks.

  Shit! He had to concentrate. He normally had no trouble focusing on work and pushing everything, relationship included, to the back of his mind. To the deepest recesses of his mind, he supposed Ash and most of his exes would say. This, this cocktail of emotions swirling in him—longing, regret, hope—distracting him from his work, showed why relationships were not compatible with work. And he had to work. Had to solve this or— Well, career-wise and maybe every other-wise, there was no ‘or’.

  He dragged his pen down the chain of evidence he’d documented that connected Kislyak to the paintings. That was one thing and the chain of custody the other. He’d taken charge of the evidence—the priceless evidence—and had chronologically documented its retrieval, being careful to record and photograph every stage, even that of placing it in the bank deposit, but was well aware that the latter, being outside the remit of law enforcement, might not withstand a legal challenge.

  The case needed more than just the retrieval of all three paintings to prove that these were the same ones Kislyak had flaunted in his penthouse and that Drew had photographed there. It also required more than the man having been in the same city at the time the works of art had been stolen to prove that he’d been involved. Would recovering the third painting strengthen Drew’s case?

  He studied a photocopy of it, Sisley’s Wheatfield near Ponthierry, then the photograph he’d taken of the painting he was sure was being used to cover it, a softer, hazier landscape awash in shades of blue. How could he find that?

  The ringing of the room’s phone had Drew groping for the receiver. Still buried in his thoughts as he was, it took him a few seconds to place the voice and the name. Patrol Officer Darrell Williams was the partner of the younger assistant at the antiques store, wasn’t he? When Drew understood why the guy was calling him, he sat bolt upright in his chair, his hands clutching his research notes.

  “Sorry, please tell me again?” he begged Darrell.

  “The local accent’s hard to understand, right?” Darrell gave a quick laugh. “Let me repeat—the paintings you said you were at that arts fair looking for, the ones that were stolen when the stall was robbed? We think we got one of ’em.”

  “Really?”

  “Well, we’re not sure. So I was wondering if you could come into the station, see if you can identify it? And authenticate it? Is that the word?”

  “Of course.” Drew’s heart thumped hard. “I’d be glad to.” He strained to hear something muffled in the background. “Make sure I’m not charging for the consult?” he repeated bemused.

  “Excuse my partner.” Darrell’s voice sounded exasperated. “Officer O’Hara’s…”

  Drew supplied the rest of the sentence for himself. He’d worked with funny-guy types too. “I’d be pleased to come and provide whatever help I can,” he assured the policeman, gathering his research together as he spoke. His phone dinged—a message from Elliot. Well, no time now. “My pleasure.” And an answer to a prayer that I hadn’t quite gotten around to making. “Give me the address?”

  * * * *

  It was Patrol Officer O’Hara who came into the reception of the police substation to meet Drew. With his rusty-red hair and wiry build, he looked so like some of the guys Drew worked with in London that he felt almost homesick for a moment.

  “You’re Officer Williams’ partner?” he asked, shaking hands. “I think I heard your voice on the phone earlier.”

  Officer O’Hara eyed him up and down. Drew had dressed a little flamboyantly, donning a brightly patterned vest and even a tie, wanting to look as if he belonged in the art world and had nothing to do with law enforcement.

  “Call me Drew,” Drew instructed.

  O’Hara spluttered. “Because you’re an artist? Geddit? Draw, drew?”

  Drew laughed. “As in Andrew.”

  “Oh.” The man seemed disappointed. Maybe he thought everyone involved with art had a tag, like graffiti artists did. “I’m Sean.”

  Drew resisted making any of the quips he wanted to at this statement, merely casting a long glance at Sean’s luxuriously thick and visibly unshorn hair. “How did you acquire the piece?” he asked as Sean led him along a corridor.

  “The gun?” Sean put a protective hand on his Glock. “It’s standard issue. Oh yeah, cops aren’t armed in London, right?”

  “Sorry, I meant the piece of art,” Drew clarified. “And no, they’re not as a rule, but each force does have a firearms unit on call.”

  “Unbelievable.” Sean whistled through his teeth. “Hey, Laurie,” he said to a fellow officer who passed them. “You know cops in England don’t carry guns?”

  She rolled her eyes and continued with her duties.

  “The painting?” Drew prompted.

  “Oh yeah. In here.” Sean nodded at the officer inside the evidence room. “Right here, in fact.” It lay on a table, not far from the door.

  “You’re just logging it in now.” Drew understood. “May I?” He helped himself to disposable gloves from a box and donned them, keeping his face expressionless and his breathing steady…even when he pulled open the mouth of the big drawstring bag someone had put the painting into.

  “Could you…?” he asked Sean and tried not to flinch when Sean grabbed the end of the bag and yanked it free of the object it held.

  The metallic gray and fluorescent white light of the crowded, chaotic room did the painting no favors, but Drew had never seen such a luminous sight—not the muted serenity of the body of water that met the gentle sky, but what he knew must be underneath. He compared it to the photo on his phone just to double check, but he knew.

  “It’s the same Alfred Thompson Bricher I saw at the antiques fair, yes,” he confirmed. “I can’t say if it’s authentic without doing some tests…?” If they left him alone with the painting…

  “Thanks.” Sean scribbled in his notebook. “Not at this stage, I guess. I’ll check.”

  “You know, this could be a rare early work and so extremely valuable,” Drew invented. “You’ll make sure to keep it firmly under lock and key and keep a strict track of it, won’t you?”

  “Can do. Marv, stash it in the back with those keys of coke?” Sean ordered the other office behind the desk.

  Drew’s phone rang and he silenced it with an apologetic grimace. Elliot again. “So you caught the gang who raided the fair?” Drew asked, sounding as casual as he could.

  “Not exactly. The leader, if you can call him that, Ramon Wells, perp known for these smash and grabs, like on ATMs? He came in with that this morning!” Sean gave a chuckle. “I know, right? Just waltzed in and gave himself up. And asks if we can keep him in—says he’ll be safer in custody!”

  “Safer?” Drew prompted.

  “Than he is at large with these goods after stealing them. Said he heard it was the kiss of death or something.” Sean looked a little nervous now. “I guess he means it’s cursed, right? I hate all that stuff.”

  “Well, the art world is superstitious.” Drew thought fast. Kiss of death—could that be a reference to Kislyak? He’d thought that before—the phrase had come up when a trail went cold. “Oh, but he means it as a nickname, doesn’t he? At least, I’ve heard it, for that famous art dealer. Kis-something. Rich guy. Business owner.”

  “Kislyak? Roman Kislyak?” Sean took the bait. “I know the name. Who doesn’t?”

  “As I said, he’s an art dealer to the rich.”

  “He’s rich. Owns business all over, yeah? Including in the States. In this state, even. Think he has property here too.”

  “Oh, the super-rich do that, have houses in places they visit. Saves booking a hotel, I suppose.” Drew willed Sean to spill more. “What businesses does he have here?”

  “Nothing like an art gallery, if that’s what you’re thinking. Nothing concrete, either. But the rumors that fly around that guy…” Sean took a look up and down, but no one was listening. “I remember, a few years back, it was said he had his fingers in a lot of tacos in Austin. They even said he was ‘in business’ with Yuriy—you heard of him in England? Real crook. Nasty. Boss type—you know what I mean, right?—but a has-been now. Like, Yuriy used to run things for him?”

  “Organized crime?” Drew’s heart rate picked up the pace. “Racketeering? RICO stuff?”

  “I guess.” Sean gave him rather a surprised look. “’Course, could be all talk. Yuriy’s an old man who hangs out in a rundown bowling alley now, talking of his glory days, you know? Well, thanks.”

  “Yes, don’t let me keep you.” Drew beat the hastiest retreat he could, because he was going to Austin, following up on the garrulous Sean’s information. In his car, an internet search into bowling alleys in that city showed him a very high number. Adding Yuriy’s name to his search terms got him an article with a picture of a winning bowling team posing with a trophy. The team, Bowl U Over, were based at Yuriy’s lanes, Big Bowling.

  He noticed Elliot had called again. This time, Drew replied.

  Sorry—got a lead and checking it out. Might be my one shot at getting close to the target. Back later.

  He had to do this, didn’t he?

  An hour and a half later, Drew was on the outskirts of Austin, heading for what he could easily see wasn’t the best part of the city. Big Bowling, when he found it, fitted the area. The outside was shabby, and its orange plastic and faded wood interior décor spoke of a heyday long gone. Big and empty bowling, Drew thought, seeing how few lanes were in use and how many of the lights on the low ceiling flickered.

  An air of sad neglect hung over the place. A case on the wall, just inside the doors, held the same trophy he’d seen in the article, and not many others. He walked down the aisle between the rows of seats to the score tables near the lanes. “Hey, man,” he called to a guy wiping down the far one. “Yuriy about?”

  “In the back.” The kid flicked his cloth toward a small door between the final lane and the wall. He didn’t look as though he were running security or would ask Drew his business.

  Drew gave him a nod of thanks as he passed. The door was marked ‘Private’ so he knocked before he shoved it open—to see a man exiting via the fire door on the opposite side of the small room.

  “Yuriy?” Drew called, hurling himself across the cluttered, crowded office. “I want to talk to you!”

  The man was in his late fifties and limped, so Drew didn’t have him to chase him very far through the parking lot before he was on him. “Police!” Drew said. “So I wouldn’t go for your gun, if I were you. Turn around slowly.”

  When the overweight man did, Drew held out his Metropolitan Police badge.

  “’S that? Like Interpol?” Yuriy wheezed, peering at it.

  Drew gave a sort of nod, sort of shrug. “Relax. I don’t want you. Just information on your business partner, Kislyak.” He almost staggered under the curses raining from Yuriy at the name and switched on his recording device.

  “Ex-partner, I take it?” Drew tried, leading the man inside.

  “I cut him in on my empire, and the bastard took over and cut me out. Cut me the fuck up too.” Yuriy rubbed his leg, stretching it out as he sat.

  “Business can be tough,” Drew agreed, wanting to leap in elation at what he was finding out. He’d suspected all this and more. “What was it, different ideas on expansion versus consolidation?”

  Yuriy scowled. “So I was skimming a little off the top. He didn’t need it!”

  “Talk me through the business. Your empire. How you built it, what happened…” Drew invited.

  It made bleak listening, not just the illegality of the guy’s acquisitions and holdings, but how Kislyak had encouraged him to ditch his long-standing crew and partners, including his wife and her family, to go in with him and his ideas, then dumped him once he’d established himself.

  “I got nothing,” Yuriy finished. “Spent my life working, building, and got nothing. Because of getting near that vicious bastard. He don’t even need all this!” He gestured around. “He just likes it. Likes somewhere to play. Enjoys that.”

  “Enjoys…?” Drew queried, thinking of what he’d sensed about the thug. That coiled, misdirected energy.

  “The enforcement. He’s into some weird shit. Those hardcore clubs? He’s a member of all the extreme ones. Likes to play hard, wherever he is. Filth.”

  Drew agreed, even if for different reasons. “I was never here,” he said, getting up to go.

  With a bitter “Yeah? Fucking wish I wasn’t,” Yuriy flipped him the bird.

  There’d be no point asking him to go on the record, even if Drew had the authority to. Which he didn’t, because he was pursuing this, well, illegally. The parallel with the man he’d come to interview struck him hard. A guy who’d lost everything because of getting close to Kislyak.

  Drew sat in his car, looking around the ruins of all Yuriy had worked for and hoped for and thought shit. Had he done that? Destroyed whatever chance he had with Elliot? He picked up his phone—the message Elliot had sent after Drew had missed lunch would suggest so.

  Normally Drew would have shrugged at a guy not fitting into his life. What life? You mean work. Like Yuriy. He gave a hollow laugh. But there was more. Or should be. Elliot was taking steps to have one—couldn’t Drew be brave enough to do the same? Elliot had been patient and given him a change after learning Drew wanted him for his connections and the help he could provide for the case. He gave us a chance.

  And Drew wanted that. Wanted Elliot. Wanted a relationship. Which meant he had to work for it—if it wasn’t too late, or he’d be left obsessed and bitter…and alone.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Elliot not only opened the door to him but did so in his bathrobe, looking so soft and fluffy in the white toweling that Drew’s heart leaped. But when Elliot folded his arms and put up a wall like the ones he’d been trying to come out from behind, everything in Drew plummeted.