The Thief of Hearts Read online

  So he was a doctor. Or he had cards that said he was a doctor. Ugh. She couldn’t stop second-guessing herself.

  Ravi had taken out his phone and thumbed across the screen. “I’m getting you a ride share, but it looks like it will be a little while. Can we get you coffee?” Glancing up, his green eyes met hers. He gestured toward the diner.

  That would be safe. Wouldn’t it?

  Enough.

  These were nice guys, and they’d done more for her than any other New Yorker would.

  “Yes. Thank you.”

  Ravi grinned, white teeth flashing, and a dimple appeared on one side of his smile. It lightened his face, and made him look younger than he had moments before. There was still something dark in his eyes, a sadness or guilt she didn’t understand, but the smile helped.

  “Our brothers are there,” Dov explained as she began to follow them and she stumbled to a stop, remembering suddenly the four shadows that blotted out the night sky as she’d lay on her back on the ice.

  “We’re all in town for Hanukkah,” Dov explained. “We were on our way back from our grandmother’s.”

  Shira nodded. Ouch. There was the movement that angered her head so much. “I need to stop doing that.”

  “Can I impress upon you, again, the seriousness of ignoring a head trauma?” Dov stated baldly.

  “What would you recommend if I did have a concussion?” Shira asked, but Dov didn’t answer. He continued toward the restaurant, staring straight ahead, his posture tight. “Dr. Hasmone?”

  “Dov,” he ground out. He turned abruptly, striding toward her quickly. “You can call me Dov. And I’d recommend rest.”

  “Dov.” She liked the way his name felt on her tongue. “I promise you. As soon as I get home, I will rest.”

  Ahead of them, Ravi held the door open. He watched them, brows drawn low. “Are you coming?”

  Without another word, Dov spun toward the restaurant. Shira followed a step behind, her stomach tightening, this time with nervousness.

  The heat of the restaurant was immediately stifling. Even cold and damp, Shira began to sweat. The scent of fried food assaulted her. She was equal parts ravenous and revolted.

  “There.” Ravi pointed to two men in the back. Both men stared at her, holding her hostage with their gaze.

  Physically, these two couldn’t have been more different than the brothers she’d just met. Both were blonde, one with eyes such a piercing blue that they seemed to glow while the other’s were shielded behind a pair of dark-framed glasses.

  But both shared the intensity and seriousness of Ravi and Dov. Their stare never left her as she negotiated the tight restaurant, careful not to knock into diners or waitresses carrying heavily laden trays.

  As she got closer, they both stood. “Ravi. Dov.” The blue-eyed brother spoke, but his gaze remained on Shira. He had an accent like Ravi and Dov, and finally, Shira recognized its origin. Israel. Their native tongue was Hebrew.

  “This is Shira Rose.” Dov gestured toward her, and she waved her hand awkwardly. He pointed to the blue-eyed brother. “My brother, Pascal.”

  “Shalom,” she said in Hebrew.

  “Hello,” he answered. She got the sense he did it just to be contrary.

  “And this is our youngest brother, Yaphet,” Dov said, pointing to the man wearing glasses.

  “Shalom, Shira.” The man held out his hand and Shira took it. Rather than shake it, he held it tightly. “I am so sorry about tonight. You never should have been injured.”

  Another strange sentiment. But perhaps they were new to the city, and such things shocked them. Shira was just glad she was alive, and not in a morgue somewhere. “If this is the worst thing that happens to me, I won’t complain.”

  Yaphet frowned and pushed his glasses higher with one finger. “Dov said you refused to go to the hospital. Why?” He was direct, but his tone wasn’t disapproving. He struck her as merely trying to understand her reasons.

  “Because if I have a concussion, the remedy will be rest. Which I will get at home much sooner than I would if I went to the hospital,” she answered.

  “You also said you had too much work,” Dov interjected, “so your excuse is not quite truthful.”

  Shira’s face heated and she covered it with her palms.

  “Excuse me,” an annoyed voice interrupted.

  Moving aside, Shira made room for the waitress attempting to place cups of hot coffee on the table in front of Yaphet and Pascal.

  “Sit down, Shira,” Ravi said, pressing a hand to her back before gesturing toward the booth. “Please. You’re pale and I’m afraid you’re going to collapse.”

  Grateful, she slid into the booth. She happened to glance up, and met Pascal’s stare. He frowned, his bright eyes examining every inch of her face. For a moment she wondered if she was covered in dirt, but then he spoke. “Ravi is right. You are pale. Can we please get a Coke?” he asked the waitress, who nodded and left. “Sugar will help.”

  The idea of swallowing the carbonated, syrupy sweetness made her stomach roil, but she didn’t reply. Hopefully, the car would be there before it arrived.

  “Are you a doctor, too?” she asked.

  He shook his head. “No. Soldier. But I know enough first aid to know a head injury merits a hospital visit.”

  Ouch. He certainly didn’t think very highly of her. But what did she care? Why was she letting these men she’d just met influence her in any way?

  It had to be the events of tonight. She glanced at her watch, or today as it may be, since it was nearly one in the morning.

  “I fell,” she answered. “And I only lost consciousness a little.” For some reason, she needed to justify herself.

  Yaphet snorted and shook his head. His hair caught the light hanging above the table, highlighting the threads of gold in its depths.“I don’t believe one can lose consciousness a little. You either do or you don’t.”

  Opening her mouth to argue, Shira cut off when Dov’s hand sliced through the air. “Enough,” he said. “Shira has said she won’t go to the hospital, and we have no choice but to accept her decision. Perhaps you’ll allow us to check on you in the morning?”

  “Her ride is here,” Ravi stated softly.

  “Well?” Pascal pushed for an answer. His hand, which rested on the table, was tightly fisted. He leaned forward, as if ready to press her more.

  A waitress walked by with a steaming plate of eggs and vegetables, the smell of which wafted toward Shira, turning her stomach. She needed to leave. “Yes,” she answered distractedly as she stood. “That’s fine. I’m at Lohse and Gottleib House, the auction house and gallery. You can stop by.”

  “You’re going to work?” Dov’s mouth dropped open before he snapped it shut.

  “I’m curator there. We have our first art auction in a week, and I have more work than I can handle.” Why did she say that? She could handle it, of course she could! There was no other choice.

  “Fine.” His lips didn’t appear to move he was so tense. “We will find you there tomorrow.”

  Shira walked toward the door, but stopped and went back to their table. The men were as still as statues, their eyes the only thing moving as they tracked her. “I’m sorry I was rude just now. Forgive me. And thank you. For helping me earlier and for now.” It was amazing actually. These strangers had gone out of their way for her. “Thank you.”

  “It’s the least we could do,” Yaphet answered, and tossed his glasses onto the table to push the heels of his palms into his eyes.

  There was that confusing phrase again.

  “Happy Hanukkah,” she said quietly. She didn’t understand them, but then, she didn’t need to. By the morning, they would forget all about her and she’d never see them again.

  The idea filled her with something akin to sadness. Still, she waved. The car waited at the curb and she gingerly lowered herself in, resting her throbbing head against the upholstered seat.

  “Where are we going?” the
driver asked

  Reciting her address, she happened to glance toward the diner. Inside, four faces remained framed in the window. She lifted her hand once again, but they didn’t reciprocate her gesture.

  Slowly, the car pulled away from the curb. Perhaps tomorrow would bring another introduction, but she doubted it.

  Putting her hair back in a ponytail hurt too much, so Shira left it long around her shoulders. It didn’t help with the rough-night look she was sporting, but from her reflection, there wasn’t much she could do to improve her appearance. Dark circles framed her eyes, and the white around her irises was more pink than white.

  Even her lips were pale. First, Shira tried makeup, but for some reason, her foundation seemed to enhance the lines and bags, and eventually, she just wiped it off.

  White face, black hair, bags. She’d aged ten years.

  Flipping down the bathroom light, Shira shook her head. Ow. The headache hadn’t abated, even after the extra strength Tylenol. If this was what she had to look forward to all day, she might as well get to it.

  Shira made it to the gallery well before anyone else. She’d brought her spare keys from her apartment, and her emergency credit card so she could buy a card for the subway, but she’s was shit out of luck when it came to identification.

  Glancing up, she eyed the camera in the corner of the entrance. Had it picked up the mugging last night? Would the police be by to confiscate it?

  Confiscate?

  Who was she kidding? Unless she went to the neighborhood station and filed a report, maybe pushed for a cop to take her statement, this would die the death of a thousand similar muggings. It wasn’t worth her time.

  Narrowing her eyes at the camera, she made a note, after all this was done—the provenance backgrounds, the auction—she’d watch the recording and see what she could glean from it. Maybe she’d recognize her attacker, and she could stop them from doing this to anyone else.

  Everything in Shira’s office was just like she’d left it. Which was to say, it was a complete and utter mess. Files were open, photos spread over the surface. The magnifying glass she used to examine the photos to look for gallery stamps or tags, sat on her chair.

  Carefully, she removed her coat and hung it on the back of her door. The muscles in her back and shoulders ached like she’d been weight lifting, and she groaned as she lowered her arms.

  “Rough night?” Carmen’s hand snuck through the open door. She held a white cup with a familiar green logo. “Here.”

  “You’re a goddess,” Shira whispered and took a sip. Carmen had bought her some kind of overly sweetened caffeinated beverage, but the key word was caffeinated. As far as she was concerned, it was perfection. “Thank you.”

  “You look like…” The receptionist trailed off, but Shira knew what she meant.

  “I was mugged last night. Hit my head. This is as good as it gets today.”

  “Oh no.” Carmen clucked. “That happened to me my first year in the city. You didn’t call a ride, did you?”

  Shira took another sip rather than answer, and Carmen rolled her eyes.

  “Well,” she said. “Don’t forget to call your bank and cancel your cards. I see you eyeing your files.”

  Shira grimaced. Cancel cards. Get new phone. All things she didn’t have time for today. “Carmen?” She pasted a smile on her face.

  “Fine.” Carmen made gimme hands for her purse. “ID, too?”

  “Yes, please.” Smiling widely, Shira handed her the bag and everything inside. “I’ll buy you lunch.”

  “I’m not eating lunch anymore,” Carmen grumbled, and left.

  Feeling guilty, she watched Carmen leave. Would this push her out the door? She hoped not. Shira really, really needed Carmen to stay.

  The lengthy international number for the Posse Gallery sat on her desk. She might as well get this out of the way before she took on the rest of the provenance records.

  An hour later, Shira was no closer to having the provenance confirmed for the Hanukkah lamp than she was yesterday.

  Though the person she’d spoken to yesterday warned her they’d changed ownership, Shira had assumed the records for the gallery would have stayed with the gallery.

  She was wrong.

  The handover of ownership was, how had the man put it? “Un peu maladroit—” a little awkward.

  Monsieur Posse had taken all the records the gallery had with him in an attempt to establish himself as an independent art dealer.

  This meant one thing, and Director Lohse was going to be un peu—she forgot the word for angry—en colère—that was it, when she informed him the lamp couldn’t be included in the auction.

  “Shira?” The intercom blasted her name along with a wave of static that had her lifting her shoulders to her ears.

  “Yes, Carmen?”

  “Someone is here to see you.”

  “Someone is here…” Did she have a delivery she’d forgotten about? If Lohse had added more items to the auction, she would quit, she would.

  “Four someones…”

  Oh.

  “I’ll be right there, Carmen!” Shira studied her office.

  She owed Ravi money. Did she have enough for the car last night? Carmen had her purse. How was she supposed sneakily check to see how much money she had?

  Running her fingers through her hair, Shira winced. They’d take pity on her when they saw what a mess she was. For a second, she wished she’d spent more time blending and dabbing than giving up and wiping off her makeup this morning. The Hasmone brothers were ridiculously handsome.

  But she had suffered a head injury. Maybe it had been a trick of the head injury, combined with her exhaustion, and really flattering lighting.

  The four men stood in the gallery, each of them staring at a different piece. They were definitely as good-looking as she remembered them.

  “Hi,” she offered, weakly.

  The men turned, all of them with varying degrees of concern written on their faces. Pascal and Dov both frowned, while Ravi and Yaphet raked her form from head to toe.

  When they didn’t reply, she cleared her throat. “I’m fine,” she said. “As you can see. No lasting damage.”

  “Then why do you look like death warmed over?” Pascal asked. His blue eyes were like ice. His whole demeanor unyielding.

  “Ravi didn’t think you’d be here this early,” Dov said. He glanced once at Pascal, and then over to her. “But I thought you would. I know you were concerned about the amount of work you had to do. Are these the items for sale?” He waved his hands at the paintings and sculptures.

  From the corner of her eye, Shira caught Yaphet and Ravi moving closer to her. Not in a suspicious way, but as if they merely wanted to be near her.

  Can’t be.

  She dismissed the thought. They probably wanted to avoid whatever was brewing between her, Pascal, and Dov.

  “I did,” she started. “I mean, I do. I do have a lot of work. But no. Not all these items are for sale. Not yet anyway.”

  “No?” Yaphet moved closer to the Hanukkah lamp. “I thought everything displayed was for sale.”

  “Some of it.” Shira stepped closer to the pedestal to see the lamp. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it? Seventeenth century. Imagine the history it has seen. The hands that have held it, lit the candles. It’s unique. It’s a lamp, but see the holes? There are eight for each night of Hanukkah. The larger hole, the one in the center, could be used for a candle, or it could be the base of a lamp placed on top. I’m not really sure. I’m still working on the provenance.”

  Yaphet glanced at her. This close she could see he’d inherited the same green eyes as his brothers. That left Pascal as the odd man out.

  The man in question stepped into sight and she tensed, waiting for him to say something cutting. “What’s a provenance?” Pascal asked, surprising her.

  “It’s a record,” she explained, “of each person who owned the piece and how it was acquired.”

  “
What happens if you don’t have a provenance?” Pascal asked. Shira could feel his gaze on her.

  Squaring her shoulders, she faced him. “We don’t sell it.”

  “What do you mean?” Yaphet interrupted. He glanced between her and Pascal, confused.

  “If it’s not ours, we don’t sell it.”

  “And just take a loss?” Pascal demanded. “You can’t be serious. How much did this stuff cost? ‘Oh well, not ours.’ So you, what? Find the owners?” The heat and anger of his diatribe had her stepping back, right into Yaphet. He touched her back to steady her.

  “Enough, Pascal,” he said, low. Earlier, Shira thought he may have been the most shy or reserved, but his hard-edged voice was commanding, not passive. When he snaked his hand around her waist, she could feel the muscles of his arm beneath his sweater. Yaphet was strong, but he hid it well.

  Pascal glared at the lamp. Reaching as if to touch the glass that protected it, he suddenly stopped, and tightened his hands into fists. Quick as a flash, his gaze whipped around the room, and something cracked in his tough guy facade. Beneath the anger was yearning, as if every piece of artwork in the gallery called to him.

  “We have insurance.” It hurt her to see Pascal upset. Shira wanted to make him less angry, and hoped by answering his question, she could soothe him.

  Pascal, and his brothers, had helped her out of a tight spot. Something about her, however, triggered him.

  And she didn’t like it.

  For some reason, she didn’t want his impression of her tinged with anger and distaste.

  “If we’ve bought artwork that doesn’t have a verifiable provenance, we’d call the police.” Shira kept her gaze on Pascal as she spoke. “It’d go to them, and hopefully they’d be able to find the rightful owners. It’s why these things aren’t for sale yet. Because I can’t verify the provenance.”

  “We need to be going,” Dov said suddenly. Shira nodded, stepping away from Yaphet. Immediately, she missed the heat and strength he’d offered her.