The Black Sheep and The English Rose. Donna Kauffman

arrest wasn’t more of a put off to her clientele.”

      “She was arrested four years ago. She opened this studio just under two years ago.”

      “And already such a success. Interesting.”

      He shifted to look at her, but she kept her attention on the monitor. “I launched Trinity around the same time.”

      “But you said you’re not-for-profit. Your funding comes from investments made from your inheritance.”

      “True, but—”

      “It says here her taxes last year showed her to be in the red by almost a million dollars.”

      “Maybe she had private funding as well.”

      Felicity looked dubious. “And shall we make a bet on the likely method used to secure this private funding?”

      “She could just be a dealer who uses Reese to obtain objets d’ art for certain clients who wish to remain anonymous.”

      “For a hefty finder’s fee. And dealers willing to take risks can make an even better turnaround for their investment.”

      “You sound as if you know something about this.” He looked at Felicity, who’d straightened and taken a step back.

      “Hardly, darling.” Rather than take offense, though, she laughed quite naturally. “Why ever would I want to part with something I worked so hard to obtain?”

      It was a classic Felicity Jane response; confident and self-effacing, all at once. And yet, he wasn’t buying it this time. “Money?” he said.

      “I have more than I could spend in several lifetimes, so that would hardly provide motivation.”

      “Maybe not for you, maybe for the Foundation. It can’t be easy maintaining your ancestral holdings.”

      She tilted her head. “Someone’s been doing a bit of digging, too, I see. But to answer your query, no. The Foundation and my ancestral holdings, as you so quaintly call them, are maintaining themselves as well as can be expected, without my turning to a life of crime to help uphold them.”

      So then why have you? he wanted to shout. He’d already asked her once, outright, but she’d danced around the answer by turning it back on him. Perhaps if he hit close enough, he’d see the truth of it in her eyes. “Maybe it’s the thrill of obtaining the piece, and, once secured, it no longer holds any fascination. So it would only make sense, then, to get rid of it. Enter John Reese.”

      “I told you, we’ve worked together on Foundation business. And his work with, and for, them would pass the closest scrutiny.” She didn’t respond to the rest, other than to say, “I thought we were in a race to track down the whereabouts of one Julia Forsythe? Surely your prurient interest in the motivation behind my recreational pursuits can wait until we’ve located our quarry.”

      Recreational pursuits. “I am tracking. If you worked with John in the past as a client, rather than as a peer hunting the same piece, then it holds that you might know something of Miss Forsythe.”

      She sighed. “I knew of John and his reputation—both good and bad—prior to this little adventure, yes, but, and I say this for the last time, I’ve never purchased anything from him personally, regardless of provenance. I’ve never dealt with Miss Forsythe in any manner. Anything else?”

      She held his gaze with ease, her tone flat, indicating her displeasure with the direction of his questioning, but nothing more. Or less.

      “But you know of her?”

      She shook her head. “I know of her kind. There are a lot of less-than-scrupulous art dealers in the world. In this city alone, in fact. It doesn’t say more or less for her that I’ve not heard of her. She could be quite the big thing in the States, for all I know.”

      Every question he asked seemed to net him no information, other than to add more questions to his list. It was frustrating on several levels, mainly the one that needed to be successful in solving this case in order to do the right thing by his client…and the other part of him that wanted to understand her better. Instead, he was more confused than ever. Instinct told him there was a lot more at play here than she was letting on. But that could be wishful thinking, based on the near constant hard-on he’d been sporting since seeing her again.

      “So, what’s next, Mr. Holmes?”

      Finn turned his attention back to the report. With a little more time, he could get quite an extensive dossier on Miss Forsythe, but time was a commodity he didn’t have. He was also itching to do a more thorough search on his current partner-in-not-quite-crime. Though not so much for the purposes of the case at hand. If he’d been smart, he’d have dug more deeply a long time ago. And he’d been tempted many times over the intervening years to do just that. Mostly it had been fear of what he’d discover, and what it might lead him to do about it, that caused him to opt to leave himself in the dark. What he didn’t know couldn’t hurt either one of them.

      But now that he’d made a more direct connection, one he couldn’t ignore, it was well past the time for burying his head in the sand. Or anywhere else. It was time for answers. One way or the other, he’d get them. Just as soon as he found Julia Forsythe.

      “What’s the next step?” she asked.

      He started tapping at the keyboard again. “Next, we search for any information pertaining to previous visits she’s made to the city.”

      “And you’re going to get this—wow.” She leaned over again as information began scrolling onto the screen. “How in the name of heaven can you access flight information like that? Particularly after 9/11?”

      He leaned forward to get a closer look. “She’s a regular visitor, it seems. Comes to the East Coast, New York City in particular, half a dozen times a year or more. All in the past two years since going into the art business.” He scrolled down. “Bingo. I love the Internet and travel package deals.”

      “Meaning?”

      “Meaning I don’t have to dance around Homeland Security and flight databases. Avalon Travel’s Web site is much less secure.”

      “Avalon Travel?”

      “Small San Francisco agency, it appears. They book her flights and hotel.”

      “Hotel?” Felicity repeated.

      He felt the sudden spike in tension and smiled. “And car rental.” He tapped a few more keys, then abruptly pushed his chair back. “Come on.”

      “You don’t think she’d still be there, do you?”

      “Nope, she checked out earlier today.”

      “But—wait up a second, will you?” She kicked off her heels and grabbed them before hurrying up the steps behind him. “Where are we going?”

      “Airport.”

      “She has a flight leaving tonight? Which one?”

      “Yep.”

      “But airport security, you can’t get out to her gate—”

      “It’s a private airfield, but we’re not going there. At least not yet.” He held the front door for her, never more thankful for Felicity’s limo sitting curbside, awaiting its mistress’s next whim. “She has to return her car first.”

      Felicity paused. “Who rents a car in the city?”

      He gave her a sardonic smile as they climbed in and closed the door. “I don’t know. Someone who wants to avoid using public forms of transportation for whatever reason?” He stretched out his legs. “You tell me.”

      “It’s true, I use my own town car, but it’s not quite the same as driving yourself about in this horrible traffic. Given the alternate forms of transportation, I’m simply surprised Miss Forsythe would choose to squire herself about.”