The Thief of Hearts Page 6

  “Where is this?” she asked after swallowing, eyes still on the picture.

  “Our family farm.” Ravi picked up the framed photograph. It wasn’t lost on Shira that he didn’t have a glass in his hand.

  “I’m the only one drinking?” she asked.

  “I put the kettle on for tea,” Ravi said and sure enough in the distance she could hear water popping against the interior of a metal kettle.

  “This is going to make me sleepy,” Shira said after another sip. “It’s lovely but I can’t finish it.” She placed the glass on a coaster set on the coffee table. “What did you need to get?”

  Ravi glanced around, as if he’d forgotten his purpose. “I had to get Dov a change of clothes and bring them to him at the hospital,” he said. “He forgot them.”

  “Oh,” Shira said, at a loss for what else to say.

  “Make yourself comfortable.” Ravi backed toward the kitchen. “I’ll be right back.” He disappeared through a nearby door, closing it gently behind him. Shira could hear him, rustling through drawers. The kettle in the kitchen began to whistle and when it was clear he wouldn’t be returning to take it off the burner, she hurried to do it for him.

  Two mugs sat next to the stove, both with tea bags stuffed inside. Pouring the water on top of the bags, Shira breathed in the herbal scent of steeping tea leaves. She didn’t recognize the flavor, and lifted the mug.

  The string and tag attached to the teabag gave no indication of what was inside, so she sniffed again. And again.

  That’s how Ravi found her, eyes closed, sniffing her tea.

  “It’s called Egyptian Licorice.” He chuckled and Shira’s eyes popped open. “It has cardamon, cinnamon, and orange. It’s Dov’s favorite.”

  Her face felt hot, like he’d caught her doing something she shouldn’t. “I’ve never had it before.” She took a sip, but the liquid hadn’t cooled enough. It scalded her tongue and the roof of her mouth, so she set the mug on the counter.

  “You all right?” he asked.

  “Just burned myself,” she answered. It felt as if a layer of skin had been scraped right out of her mouth.

  “Let me take your coat.”

  She suddenly noticed that he’d lost his somewhere between the living room and Dov’s bedroom. He stood now, shirt sleeves rolled up over muscular forearms, waiting for her to hand him her coat.

  “I need to go soon,” she said again.

  “Tea first?” he said. “The night is bitterly cold.”

  Shira glanced down at her watch again. Nine-thirty.

  “I really can’t stay,” she said.

  “But baby it’s cold outside…” he sang. His voice was deep, and swoon-worthy. The notes glided into each other. The man was an old-fashioned crooner!

  “I got to go away…” She couldn’t help herself.

  The man who burned hot and cold smiled, his dimple appearing in his cheek and his eyes sparking with mischief. “But baby, it’s cold outside.”

  Shira laughed, the sound bursting from her and she nodded. “Okay, okay, Dean Martin. You got me. I’ll stay.”

  Ravi’s smile stayed on his face as he reached for her mug and handed it to her. “Cream and sugar?”

  “No,” she replied. “It’s fine.”

  They went into the living room where Shira placed her mug on a table next to the couch. Unbuttoning her coat, her gaze was drawn back to the mantel. “You have a farm?”

  Ravi sat next to her, turning so one knee was drawn up on the cushion and his arm rested along the length of the couch back. “Yes. We have a citrus grove. My grandfather started it.”

  “I’m confused, I thought he was a doctor here?” Shira blew across the tea before risking another sip. It had cooled enough that she wouldn’t need a skin graft.

  “That’s my father’s father. My mother’s family is Israeli. They went there right after World War II.”

  “Wow,” Shira replied. Israel after the war was dangerous, but exciting. It would become the homeland for all Jewish people, whether they were born there or not.

  “My grandfather had a vineyard in France, but then they were occupied by Germany. So they lost it. They lost everything.”

  “Everyone?” Shira asked.

  “My grandfather, his brothers—they all survived. I’m sure there were cousins, but he never spoke of them,” Ravi said.

  “So he went to Israel and started again. That’s so brave.”

  Ravi opened his mouth as if to argue, but then shut it. “Yes. It was.”

  “And you grew up there?” she asked, imagining the four brothers running wild on a farm.

  “We did.” He stared out the window. “It was the best childhood anyone could want. Animals, trees to climb. All our family around us. We came here for Hanukkah every year because that’s how my dad grew up. In Israel, Hanukkah’s not that big a deal.”

  “Well, I’m going to get an ear load from my grandmother when she finds out I skipped out on her Hanukkah for your grandmother’s.” Shira laughed, but a flutter of nervousness in her stomach reminded her she was in for it.

  “I never thought of that,” Ravi said. “It’s the thing about those neighborhoods. No secrets.”

  “No,” Shira said. She took another sip of tea. Now that her mouth had cooled off, she could taste all the different flavors. It had a heat to it, apart from the warmth of the liquid, that soothed her insides. Unsure what to say next, she sat there, holding the mug between her hands.

  “Are you feeling better?” Ravi asked, his voice quiet.

  Confused, Shira met his gaze. He’d narrowed his eyes and roamed her face, studying her features.

  “What do you mean?”

  “From your mugging.” He reached out, smoothing his hand down her hair and then lacing his fingers through the strands to touch the back of her head. “You hit the ground so hard.”

  “I’d never been so scared,” she whispered. His touch gave her the strength to say the things she wouldn’t otherwise. “I thought I was going to die.”

  “I’m so sorry.” Ravi dropped his hand to his lap. He shook his head. “I never wanted that.” His words didn’t make sense. It wasn’t as if he knew her before she was mugged. No one wished an attack on another person.

  “I’m okay now,” she said. “My head doesn’t even hurt.” She touched the back of her head. The egg had disappeared. “The worst thing right now is not getting enough sleep. This auction is—let’s just say when it’s finished, I will be too.”

  “I don’t understand.” Ravi canted his head to the side. Red flushed from his neck to his cheeks. “Are you in danger?”

  “No! No.” That wasn’t it at all. “I mean—I’m going to quit, or I’m going to be fired. Either way, my time at Lohse and Gottleib House will be finished.”

  She linked her hands and sighed. Pouring out her fears to Ravi hadn’t been her plan, but he was easy to talk to. Relaxed. And he didn’t seem to mind her probing questions about his family, or her tangents.

  “I’ve never seen someone work as hard as you do.” He reached for her hand and squeezed. Shira let him pull one of her hands between his to link his fingers with hers. The warmth of his skin seeped into hers and she held on.

  Shira snorted. “I don’t think you’ve known me long enough to know what sort of employee I am.”

  “No,” Ravi replied. He played with her fingers, brushing from her knuckle to her nail with his fingertip. “But I didn’t need much time to know what kind of person you are. You’re good, Shira. Honest and kind. And I’ve watched you do the very best you can do.”

  Her eyes flooded with tears and she dropped her gaze to their laps to hide her face. She hadn’t expected him to respond like that. It was like he saw her, really saw her, and appreciated who she was.

  “Thank you,” she whispered.

  He touched her chin, skimming his fingers along her neck and then beneath her chin to lift her head. She blinked the tears from her eyes quickly, but he saw them. She coul
d tell from the way his eyes followed the track they made down her cheeks. Slowly, he leaned toward her, broadcasting his intentions.

  He was going to kiss her. If she didn’t stop him, his lips would touch hers.

  And more than anything, she wanted his lips on hers. She shifted, tucking her knees beneath her to lift her more to his height and closed the distance between them.

  Tentatively, she brushed her mouth against his. With her eyes open, she watched him for any sign this wasn’t what he wanted. But his lips moved against hers, and her eyes closed of their own accord.

  Now she could focus on his touch, his taste. He didn’t push for entry into her mouth. Instead, he sipped at her lips, moving from one side of her mouth to the other until she was breathlessly trying to keep up. She held onto his shoulders for balance, but when his arms snaked around her waist, pulling her closer, she let him hold her instead.

  Spreading her knees to get more comfortable, she perched over his lap. He groaned as her core pressed against him.

  He was aroused, and so hard, through his pants. Without conscious thought, Shira began to rock against him and he thrust upward, a counter to her weight.

  He held her head between his hands now, angling her face so he could push past her lips and into her mouth. But he slowed again, gently touching his tongue to hers, stroking in time with her rocking.

  Shira moaned, and held onto him tighter. She was close, the friction between their bodies was hitting her at exactly the right point. If this continued, she’d come, and this wasn’t how she wanted to do it, dry-humping on his brother’s couch.

  It was as if he read her mind. He didn’t stop kissing her altogether. That would have been too abrupt. Instead he slowed, adjusting their positions so she lay against the arm of the couch, and hovered over her.

  His body didn’t touch hers, but his heat was enough to fool her. He kissed her, lips plucking at hers before he pulled back to stare down at her.

  His green eyes were fever bright, and his breath came quickly, like he’d run a race. Shira’s own breath was loud, but she couldn’t find it in herself to care. This felt important, what they’d just done. Significant.

  “I want to see you again,” Ravi said. His voice was deep, husky. At some point during their encounter, he’d grasped her knee and dragged it toward his waist. Now he stroked her, thigh to calf, as he spoke. “Say I can see you again.”

  “You can see me again,” she answered without hesitation. “When?”

  Ravi chuckled and leaned down to kiss her again. “Tomorrow. An hour from now. Two hours from now? I don’t care. Soon.”

  “I would love that,” she said.

  Reluctantly, he sat back to allow her up. He stared at her, and reached out to smooth her hair. He touched her face, her jawline, her lips, before standing. “You’re beautiful, Shira.”

  Hoping her knees would support her, she stood. She only bobbled once, but Ravi was there, her coat in his hand, and caught her. “Okay?”

  “Mmhm,” she answered, still swimming in the warmth of his touch and compliments. Had anyone made her feel this special before?

  Ravi helped her into her coat, and when she stared at him, a smile she knew must be ridiculous on her face, he buttoned her coat for her. A bag rested near the door, and he snagged it on their way by.

  “Come on,” he said. “We’ve been here nearly two hours. I need to get you back.”

  Two hours? Shira couldn’t remember the last time she’d made out, hot and heavy, for so long that time got away from her. She giggled, giddiness overflowing. “I can’t believe it was two hours. I still have so much work to do.”

  At the mention of her work, Ravi’s face suddenly shuttered. “Then I really need to get you back.”

  His joy was snuffed out like a candle. What had caused it? He held the door open for her, but she stopped. “Ravi. What is it?”

  He stared at the floor. When he looked at her, eyebrows drawn low on his forehead, frowning, it was like she was seeing a different person. “Nothing. We should go.”

  A combination of shame and irritation filled her, and she stomped past him down the stairs and onto the street. He didn’t attempt to mollify her. He merely walked next to her silently, letting her stew in her confusion and disappointment.

  “I’m good.” She stopped. She couldn’t handle another step with him. “Just go. It’s right there. I can see the light from here.”

  “I’m not going to just leave you on the street, Shira.” He made it sound like it was the stupidest thing ever.

  But no. The stupidest thing ever was making out, and nearly coming, with a guy she hardly knew. Tears filled her eyes again, and she angrily wiped them away.

  “Just go, okay, Ravi? I can’t handle you right now.” Her voice broke on the last word.

  “Shira.” Her name somehow sounded like it tortured him, but he didn’t argue anymore. With one glance up and down the street, and another at his watch, he nodded abruptly. Turning on his heel, he hurried back the way they’d come, and out of sight.

  Shira watched him go, her heart aching. She shouldn’t care this much about someone she just met. But Ravi had given her a look inside him tonight, and she thought she might be starting to understand him.

  The gallery was just ahead of her, but mired in her upset, Shira didn’t see the mess she was walking into until her hand was on the splintered door.

  “Oh my God,” she whispered.

  The door—steel reinforced—hung off its hinges and the glass windows—shatterproof— were spidered with cracks.

  Part of her brain screamed at her to turn around, run to the police, but she’d already pushed the door open and walked inside. Glass crackled beneath her feet.

  The gallery was destroyed. There was no other word for what had been done here. Pedestals stood empty, paintings had been ripped off the walls. The lights were still on, low and flickering, giving a nightmarish strobe effect to everything.

  Shira slipped on something, coming down hard on one knee. She braced her hand against the floor and pushed herself up. Somewhere behind her, a window or glass case fell to the ground and shattered.

  Later, she wouldn’t remember what she said to the emergency dispatcher, but the woman must have gotten the gist because in minutes the building swarmed with police officers.

  Then it filled with gallery employees, and finally Director Lohse, who stared at her with more hate than she’d ever imagined. “Arrest her,” he said, his jaw clenched. “This is all her fault.”

  5

  The Fifth Day

  It was like something out of a film noir. Director Lohse pointed his finger at her, and as one, each police officer seemed to shift their gaze and narrow their eyes at her.

  “I didn’t do this.” Her voice shook. It was the absolute guiltiest thing she could say. If the detectives hadn’t suspected her at first, her denial wouldn’t help. Isn’t that what guilty people did?

  One of the detectives, a middle aged woman in an ill-fitting suit, approached her. “Can you come with me, Ms. Rose?”

  The detective seemed to know where she was going and led her directly to Shira’s office. “Ms. Rose, I’m Detective Figaroa. Why don’t you lead me through this evening? According to the receptionist, you left early?”

  “I did.” Shira sat in her chair. Fingers twisting together, she waited.

  “What time did you leave?”

  Shira told her, running through the entire evening, step-by-step. Detective Figaroa wrote down everything she said. “Do you have the contact information of Ravi Hasmone?” she asked. “So we can verify your whereabouts?”

  “Yes,” she answered, then. “No. Actually, Carmen might have his number. My cell phone was stolen the other night. I was mugged outside the gallery.”

  “You filed a police report?”

  Shira shook her head. “No. I didn’t. I just cancelled all my cards, or, I had Carmen do it.”

  “You didn’t file a report?” The detective folded her
notebook and placed it in her jacket pocket. “Why wouldn’t you do that?”

  It now seemed a colossally stupid move. “I thought it was a waste of time.”

  Another police officer walked into her office. “Detective.”

  “Wait here,” Figaroa said, leaving her alone.

  Shira leaned her elbows on her desk, dropping her head into her hands. A headache was forming behind her eyes, a throbbing that promised to be hellish. Dinner roiled in her stomach, and she clenched her teeth. She was moments from puking.

  “Ms. Rose?” Detective Figaroa entered her office along with two uniformed officers. “It appears your identification key card was used to disarm the alarm on the outside door.”

  “But I don’t have my ID key card. Review the cameras. You’ll see I wasn’t here.”

  “We would, but it appears that the ID was also used to log into the computers and turn off the security alarms,” she went on.

  “I don’t understand.” Shira’s teeth chattered and she crossed her arms. A cold sweat broke out over her body even though the temperature in the gallery was verging on sweltering.

  “Ms. Rose, you’re being placed under arrest.” The detective began to recite her rights, but Shira couldn’t process them. One of the officers helped her to her feet, then turned her around to place cold metal handcuffs on her wrists. “Do you understand these rights?” she asked.

  “Yes,” Shira managed to get out.

  The officers led her through the gallery. Like earlier, it felt as if every eye in the place was on her. But none of them were as full of rage as Director Lohse’s. “I’ll make sure you can’t get a job collecting garbage, Shira,” he ground out. “I should have known. You’re a lying, stealing piece of trash. Look what you’ve done.”

  Shira couldn’t help but examine the room. It was wrecked in some places, and completely fine in others. Somehow, through the chaos of her thoughts, it struck her. The objects missing were the ones Lohse had added to the collection—the lamp, the Beckmann, the Pissarro. She tried to make sense of it, but the officer dragged her toward the door.