Brenda Novak - The Perfect Murder

“You like art,” he said.

She’d followed him into the room to watch him look in the closet, the bathroom and under the bed. “Yes. But it’s actually a fairly new passion for me. I never really thought about it or noticed it much before, but since Oliver…I don’t know. It helps me cope with the ugliness of the past.”

“This is nice,” he said, gesturing at the painting. “What is it, watercolor?”

“Yes.”

“You have excellent taste.”

“I’m no expert,” she said with a self-deprecating laugh. “I just buy what I like.”

“I don’t recognize any of the artists.”

“Because it’s all new talent. I can’t afford the more established painters and I don’t want replicas.”

“Only the real thing.”

“For me, it has to be original.”

“Then I’m especially impressed you were able to spot such gems.”

“I like helping new artists get started,” she mused. “As far as I’m concerned, they make the world a better place. Art is another way to fight back, to fill the world with beauty and inspiration instead of hatred and anger. Don’t you think?”

“I’ve never thought of it in that way, but I guess you’re right.” He turned to face her. “Where do you find new pieces?”

“I visit galleries wherever I go. I check eBay. Lots of places, really. I love the discovery process. You could say it’s become my hobby-my only hobby now that I’m working so much.”

He indicated a blown-glass piece on her dresser. “That looks expensive.”

“It was about three hundred dollars. Not bad, considering how much it’ll be worth someday.” She smiled. “If the artist makes it big, of course.”

He jerked his head toward the watercolor. “This painting had to cost more.”

“It did. I used my tax refund to buy it. I should’ve been more conservative and put the money into savings, but…I just had to have it.”

He could see why it appealed to her. The painting depicted two halves coming together to make a perfect whole.

“The blues suggest peace and tranquility,” she said.

The painting suggested a lot of things. But, at this moment, it was the sensuality of those figures that struck Sebastian most deeply. He wanted to make love to Jane in her own bed. “Is Kate at your in-laws’?” he asked, instead of commenting on the colors.

“Yes.” She was no longer at the door; she was standing right beside him. Within reach.

He turned to watch her expression while she gazed at the painting and found her watching him instead. Caught up in the artist’s vision and the energy that crackled between them, they stared at each other for several seconds without speaking.

Demanding honesty of himself, Sebastian refused to mask what he was feeling. He wanted her again, but this time he planned to make love to her tenderly-to take all night, if necessary. He wanted her to relax and to trust him.

But just as he was leaning forward to kiss her, she stepped back and shoved a self-conscious hand through her short hair. “Thanks for checking the place. I-I know I shouldn’t let Lucifer rattle me, but it’s a bit unnerving.”

It took so much effort to put those barriers up again. He didn’t understand why she bothered. What was she fighting?

Instead of filling the silence, he waited, hoping she’d change her mind. When she gave no indication that she might reconsider, he was disappointed, but he didn’t push. It wouldn’t be what he wanted if he had to pressure her into it. “Will you do me one favor?” he asked.

She seemed hesitant to commit herself. “What’s that?”

“Will you tell me what the tattoo is on your breast so I can sleep tonight?” He grinned by way of enticement.

“My tattoo? It was dark when…in your motel room. How’d you see it?”

“I didn’t see it then. I saw the edge of it above the neck of your sweater when we were in the car yesterday.”

Her chest rose as if she’d just taken a deep breath. “I-it’s nothing. Hard to explain.”

His eyes riveted to hers. “Then why don’t you show me?”

He expected her to refuse, but she didn’t. She gave him the kind of smile that said she’d take that dare and unfastened her blouse, parting it so he could see the portion of the tattoo that extended above her bra.

Suddenly he understood why she hadn’t been able to explain. It wasn’t a rose or a character or a butterfly. It was a beautiful, artistic decoration-so ornate that he almost didn’t see the letter R scrolled among the curving loops and lines.

When he did, he lifted his hand and, encouraged when she didn’t step away, ran a finger over it. “A lover’s name?”

“No.” She wouldn’t meet his eye.

Taking it one step further, he lowered the lace of her bra far enough to see the rest. The R wasn’t the only letter. There was an I and a P. “Rest in peace,” he said. “This is for Oliver?”

Her breathing had gone shallow. He wanted to kiss her-but she chose that moment to move out of reach. “No. Someone else. Someone who wouldn’t be dead if I hadn’t been stupid and lonely and weak.” She’d said it with finality, as if she wouldn’t elaborate, but her words triggered a memory, a snatch of something she’d told him before. He left me for dead, lying beside his murdered brother.

“Another member of the family?” he asked.

She started to button her blouse. Her fingers worked quickly as if she’d exposed too much-of her body and her pain.

He took her hands, which were ice cold. The fact that she was trembling suggested there was more to the story. “What happened, Jane?”

She shook her head. “Like I said, I was stupid.”

“Oliver thought you were having an affair with his brother?” Was that why he’d tried to kill her?

Tears swam in her eyes.

“Jane?”

“Yes.”

Yes, he thought it? Or, yes, it was true? “Was he right?”

“I was so lonely,” she whispered miserably.

That was another yes. Sebastian wasn’t sure how he felt about this revelation. It certainly wasn’t what he wanted to hear, wasn’t what anybody would want to hear. “How?”

She pulled away to finish buttoning her blouse. She had to feel for the buttons with her fingers because she kept her head high, almost challenging him to see the monster she believed herself to be. “Oliver came from a wonderful family. He had a brother, Noah, who was everything Oliver seemed to be but wasn’t.”

Her eyes glazed over. He could tell she was remembering and hating herself for what those memories brought to life. Seeing her emotions made Sebastian regret asking. The subject was too close, too private. He didn’t even plan on staying in Sacramento. He had no right to pry into her pain. “Jane, I’m sorry. This is none of my business-”

She held up a hand. “No, now that you’ve asked, now that you know this much, you might as well see how terrible I am.”

He could barely hear the last two words. “Jane-”

“Let me finish,” she said.

Realizing it was too late, he deferred with a slight nod.

“None of us really knew Oliver wasn’t what he appeared to be. He could make you believe he was Santa Claus, if he wanted.” She wiped a tear that rolled down her cheek and blinked away the rest. At that point he could almost hear her backbone snap into place. She was approaching this as one might approach a firing squad-determined to face her executioners with some dignity. “After he attacked Skye the first time, he was convicted of attempted rape.”

“Did he go to prison?”

She buttoned her top button, the one she usually kept open. “For over three years.”

There was a photograph on her dresser next to that glass sculpture-a young girl who had to be her daughter, Kate. “That left you and Kate where?”