Jeff Abbott - No Rest for the Dead

“Where’d you go? I saw you walk out with a portfolio.”

He turned. Justine was standing there.

Uninvited.

“Most people knock,” he said as he turned away, then took another sip of whiskey. “No, actually, scratch that. Not most people. All people. Everybody.”

He heard the door click shut, then she said, “Most people wouldn’t help you smuggle a small fifteenth-century masterpiece past customs either, would they?”

He turned again, in time to see a small, self-satisfied grin spread across her pretty face.

“Actually, scratch that. No one would. So I guess that buys me some dispensation from the protocol, don’t you think?”

He exhaled slowly, then said, “What do you want, Justine?”

“You’ve been avoiding me. I’m getting worried that our little partnership is going off its tracks.”

His eyes narrowed. “Our ‘partnership’?”

“Hey, I carried the damn thing in,” she said as she stepped closer. “I was the one holding the bag. Literally. You made me risk everything for that damn painting.”

“What risk?” he said, scoffing at the idea. “You saw how easy it was. Just like I said it would be. Besides,” he pressed on, his voice taking on a sharper, angrier note, “I don’t remember forcing you to do anything.”

The flash of doubt in her eyes found an echo in his satisfaction.

“Where is it?” she asked.

“It’s none of your business.”

“None of my business? It couldn’t be more my business if I’d painted the damn thing myself. We’re partners in this, Chris. Remember that. And like it or not, you’re going to give me my fair share.”

“Or what?” he rasped, feeling his pulse quicken as he set his glass down on the table and looked at her with eyes that sizzled with menace.

Justine felt a surge of paralyzing fear. She’d never seen this side of him before and she gasped as he got up from his chair and came at her with lightning speed, crossing the room in four quick strides and taking her by surprise. Grabbing her with both hands, he pushed her backward until they both came to a slamming halt against the inside wall of his office, by the door.

One of his hands tightened against her neck.

“Before you threaten me, darling,” he hissed, “you need to make sure you’ve got what it takes to see it through.”

She froze as his face hovered inches from hers, his breath heating up her cheeks, his teeth bared at her like those of some kind of Gothic beast, his eyes narrowing as they drilled into hers.

Her lips were quivering. “You don’t know what I’m capable of, Christopher,” she whispered, trying to keep a tough edge to her voice but knowing she wasn’t pulling it off.

She felt his fingers tighten even more around her neck, heightening the fear coursing through her. A vein in his temple was throbbing with mad fury, and his gaze was still locked on her as he edged in closer, his lips now brushing against her earlobe, the prickle of his stubble teasing her neck. “Oh, we both know you’re capable of some very surprising things, don’t we?”

The main gallery of the McFall Art Museum was buzzing. The art world was out in force, curators and collectors, artists and dealers, in high-end designer clothes, tattoos-the latest fad, etched across backs, creeping up the arms of young and not-so-young men and women-no one looking at the art, everyone busy reciting his or her résumé, affecting ennui, eyes flitting like hummingbirds seeking someone, anyone, more important to talk to.

Rosemary Thomas stopped a moment to catch her breath, leaned against the wall to survey the blur of mostly black-clad cool cats and sophisticates, many of whom she had known for years, but whom among them could she trust? Did they know? Were they laughing at her?

Poor Rosemary, that husband of hers, well, you know…

The thought of it, that she was a joke, someone to be pitied, unbearable.

Ironic , she thought, fixing on the dazzling and disjunctive centerpiece of tonight’s reception-a ten-foot-long, 1947 Jackson Pollock “drip” painting, the artist at the height of his manic creative powers-the kind of painting that rarely, if ever, became available, a gift that she helped Christopher acquire for the museum.

Their museum as Christopher liked to call it. What a joke. Christopher, a hotshot senior curator of twentieth-century art while she remained a mere associate in Arms and Armor, a musty room that attracted even mustier old men and unwashed teenage boys.

But wasn’t that the way they’d planned it, Christopher’s career to be the one that mattered?

I couldn’t make it without you, babe .

How many times had he said that? And she’d believed him, content to play the quiet, supportive wife with the right pedigree-Shaker Heights family, coming-out party, Wellesley undergrad, New York’s prestigious Institute of Fine Arts.

The museum owed much of its reputation to her. It was because of her family’s long-standing social connections that she’d easily made contact with old European families and had them donate rare pieces to her museum rather than the bigger, glitzier California institutions. And now, Christopher was building the contemporary collection, the cool stuff that brought in a public who didn’t care much for armor and Gothic goblets, hermetic stuff, old and dry, exactly how Rosemary was feeling these days, like a relic, old and uninteresting, once the backbone of the museum, now ignored, ready to be discarded.

We’ve outgrown each other .

You mean you’ve outgrown me .

I want a divorce .

After all she had put up with-the women, the humiliation-and now he wanted a divorce.

I won’t let you divorce me .

How can you stop me?

Christopher’s face, the sneer on his lips, burning in her mind as another man’s face came into focus.

“Oh-” A quick intake of breath. “Tony.”

“Are you okay?”

“Me? Oh, yes. Yes. Of course.” Can he see it, the shame on my face?

“You look flushed.”

“No, I’m… I’m fine. It’s just these events-you know.”

“Yes, hard work for a curator, but it’s surely fun for me to see the museum acquire such a spectacular piece.”

“Thanks to you.” That’s it, the right thing to say .

“Well, not me entirely.” Tony Olsen shrugged, modest, or trying to be. As a generous donor and chairman of the board for the past four years, he had shaped the museum’s direction, and during that time he and Rosemary had become good friends. “Christopher had a lot to do with it. You must be very proud of him.”

“Yes… of course.” She swallowed hard, felt the blood rush to her head, nausea rising.

“Are you sure you’re all right, Rosemary?” Tony laid a hand on her shoulder.

She tried to smile, Christopher’s face still looming in her mind, his words like acid in her gut.

But the children…

They’ll get over it .

“Let me get you a drink.”

“That’s the last thing I need, Tony. We were so busy I skipped dinner, not a good idea, but I’m fine, really I am.”

He looked into her eyes, “Rosemary, we all know how much you helped with this acquisition-it’s not even your department-and Christopher getting all the credit. It isn’t quite fair.”

“Oh, it’s… I’m better at writing grant proposals and soliciting donations than socializing.”

“You’re a lot more than that. You’re the anchor around here.”

The image struck her as unflattering: a weight that dragged things under.

She touched his arm, felt the plush cashmere under her fingertips. “You should mingle, it’s your duty.”