The Thief of Hearts Read online

Snow fell outside the gallery. Heavy, wet snowflakes landed in her lashes and melted against her skin. The icy water ran down her cheeks like tears.

  The door to the squad car was open, and the officer helped her sit. He was gentle with her, for that she was grateful. Her body felt fragile, as if she would shatter at any too rough jarring.

  “Excuse me,” an accented voice cut through her thoughts. “Shira. Excuse me, officer, what’s happening?”

  At her name, Shira glanced up, but the officer closed the car door before she could respond. It was Yaphet. He spoke to the officer, gesturing toward her.

  Shira watched the snow fall onto his blonde hair, darkening the strands until it looked black. He took off his glasses, and shook his head. His gaze caught hers, but he switched his attention back to the officer again.

  She was equal parts mortified and relieved. This way, at least, he would tell Ravi what happened. Then, Ravi could corroborate the events she’d shared with the detective tonight. Hopefully his presence meant this nightmare had an expiration date on it.

  Dov, Pascal, and Yaphet could attest to her being attacked a few nights ago. Shira settled back against the seat and grimaced. Her hands wouldn’t allow her to lean back. The seat was hard plastic, and angled slightly toward the floor so she slid forward no matter where she was.

  Planting her feet on the floor, she tried to sit up straight. She stared at Yaphet, hoping against hope that he’d manage to get her out of here before she was taken to the station.

  But it wasn’t to be. Whatever the officer said to him made him shake his head. When he saw her staring at him, he gave her a sympathetic smile, but then stepped away.

  So she was on her own then. Okay.

  It wouldn’t be for too long. He’d tell Ravi. She still had a phone call. She’d call her parents, and they’d come for her.

  The officer got into the car and they pulled away from the gallery. Shira watched Yaphet, who, in turn, watched her. From the darkness, another figure appeared at his side. Short-hair, blue eyes.

  Pascal.

  He stared wide-eyed at her before facing Yaphet. Even from the distance increasing between them, Shira could tell he was upset. His arms gestured wildly, and he stepped closer to his brother.

  Soon, they were only tiny blobs beneath the street lamps, but Shira imagined she could feel Yaphet’s gaze on her.

  The rest of the morning was as nightmarish as the day had started. Shira was fingerprinted. They took her mug shot, and for one brief second, like she had at the DMV, she wondered if she should smile.

  What a picture. She imagined it on the front page of the New York Post, run large with some pun like, Hard Cell. Auction Curator Arrested for Burglary.

  Shira was placed in a holding cell. She’d be allowed to make a phone call, but apparently it had been a busy night, because she had to wait her turn.

  The other women in the cell sat on the benches or hung out near the door, leaning against the wall. Some of them talked to each other, but for the most part, they were silent. Some were dressed like her, as if they’d been picked up on their way from the office. She wondered what they’d done.

  “Rose?” An officer asked.

  Shira stood, waiting for the door to open. Would they put handcuffs on her again? God, what was she going to tell her parents when they answered the phone? They’d be so upset.

  But the officer didn’t take her in the direction she’d seen the other women led. He brought her to the front desk. When she saw who was there, she stumbled to a stop.

  Dov, Ravi, Pascal, and Yaphet, along with another man Shira didn’t recognize.

  “Sign here,” the officer said, holding a pen out to her, but she didn’t take it.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked.

  Pascal spoke. “Yaphet and I called Ravi and Dov. Ravi’s a lawyer and he has contacts in the city. This is Jeremy Prince. He’s your lawyer and you’re being released on your own… what’s the word?” He narrowed his eyes at Jeremy, but Ravi was the one who answered.

  “Recognizance,” Ravi said. “There are conditions of your release, but you’re free to go.”

  “How?” The officer put the pen in her hand, and she glanced down at the papers in front of her. “Why?”

  “Sign, please.” The officer’s voice jolted her and she quickly scribbled her signature on the forms.

  He handed her a bag of items: keys, cash, credit card, and she stuffed them in her pocket.

  When it was clear none of the brothers were ready to answer, Jeremy did. “They called me. Told me the situation. I got you released. You’ll need to show up for your court date, if that happens, but I think with the information Ravi, and his grandmother, shared with the detectives, the charges will be dropped.”

  Her knees gave out, and she tripped, but Yaphet was there. Faster than she could track, he caught her elbow, keeping her on her feet. “Thank you.” She gripped his arm with both hands, surprised by how muscular he was. It reminded her of Ravi. Perhaps all of them were the same. Deceptively fit, and blatantly handsome.

  It was humiliating for them to see her this way. No doubt she was an utter wreck. She’d probably cried her make-up off. Earlier, she’d bitten her nails down to the quick, and then she’d taken to gnawing her lip as she waited for the officers to allow her a phone call.

  Silently, they led her from the station, but Yaphet kept her arm snug in his. Every so often, Ravi would glance over his shoulder, and give her a reassuring smile that almost immediately fell from his lips.

  She wanted to tell him she was all right, but she wasn’t sure she was. Everything that had happened seemed to take on a surreal quality. When the guys ushered her into a massive SUV, she heard their voices, felt their hands, but through a haze.

  “Shira? Shira.”

  The SUV had rolled away from the sidewalk, and she hadn’t realized it.

  “Shira, where do you live?” Dov asked. He sat in front, next to Jeremy.

  She examined the interior of the car. Yaphet was next to her, and Ravi next to him. Pascal sat alone, behind them in the third row seat.

  Dov leaned toward the center of the car, propping his elbow on the armrest between his seat and the driver’s.

  “You can’t bring her home and leave her there.” Pascal’s voice was heated, and it surprised her. Each time she’d met him, he seemed not to like her. Why was he arguing? Where did he expect his brother to bring her?

  “Pascal’s right.” Yaphet’s voice was warm, comforting. He didn’t project any of the impulsivity Pascal did. “By now, news of her arrest will be all around town. I wouldn’t be surprised if we met reporters outside her building.”

  Dov had just taken a swallow of water, but at Yaphet’s argument, he began to cough. When he stopped, he shook his head. “We talked about this,” Dov said, frowning. It was awkward for Shira to be between the siblings as they argued. One clearly wanted to take her home, while the others wanted to drive her somewhere else. Where, was the question?

  Shira glanced down at her watch, but it wasn’t on her wrist. Had they taken it? She couldn’t remember.

  “Check your pocket,” Yaphet whispered.

  She shifted on the seat, making room to shove her hand into her coat. The cool metal grazed her fingertips and she withdrew it. Five am. Her father wouldn’t be awake for another hour.

  If she went there, she’d have them all up in arms. The entire family may be called in to deal with her, and she couldn’t handle that. Not right now.

  Shira edged forward, trying to see over Jeremy’s shoulder to get her bearings. “Take a left up here, and then I’m four blocks away. Or you could stop. I can walk.”

  “You’re not walking.” Pascal’s voice was rough. She peered over her shoulder, and he looked exactly like she expected—tense. “Take her to your apartment, Dov. She can stay with us until we work this out.”

  “No,” Shira said, at the same time Dov answered, “Fine.”

  Their eyes met, gazes clash
ing, but he was the first to glance away. Her first impression of Dov had been that he was a steady presence. A doctor, he usually exuded competence, but right now, he seemed overwhelmed. “Yaphet’s right. It will probably be swarmed with reporters from the Post or New York Daily News. They love stories like hers.” He raked his hand through his dark hair in a manner so like Ravi’s, she had to glance to the side to make sure she hadn’t mistaken one brother for the other.

  She hadn’t.

  Ravi, sad-eyed, watched her. “I’m so sorry, Shira. Please come home with us. You can rest all day. I’m sure you’re exhausted.”

  Jeremy drove straight by the turn-off. With a sigh, she leaned back in her seat. “Next left, Jeremy. Then another left, and straight three blocks.”

  “No.” Dov’s voice came out louder than he perhaps meant it, because he said it again, quieter. “No. They’re right. You can come to my place.”

  Jeremy nodded, and made a righthand turn.

  It killed her to ask, but she had to. “Do you all know what I was arrested for?”

  “Yes,” Yaphet answered. “I explained to them what happened. We know you didn’t do anything wrong, Shira.”

  “It feels like I did,” she answered without meaning to.

  “Why?” Pascal touched her shoulder, but she couldn’t meet his eyes. “Why would you feel that way?”

  How was she supposed to explain that every moment in this job had been a mistake? She’d been so full of herself. She believed she was ready to curate a collection. Clearly, she didn’t have what it took. She couldn’t even authenticate a simple Impressionist painting’s provenance.

  And they were some of the easiest trails to follow in the world. Everyone wanted a Monet. Or Pissarro.

  Everyone.

  And she couldn’t do it.

  She was a fraud, and Director Lohse knew it. No wonder the man couldn’t stand her. He was faced with her incompetence day after day.

  Jeremy pulled to a stop. “I’ll come by later, so we can talk out your case. I’m more than just a fantastic driver, you know.” He winked at her and smiled, but it dropped away when he met Dov’s glare. He gave a more solemn nod to the brothers, waiting for them to get out.

  Her door opened, and Pascal held out his hand. Whatever else he might be, however he may have acted in the past, his compassion right now was everything Shira needed. She placed her hand in his as she jumped out of the car, but he didn’t release it right away. Instead, he held on as they went up the stairs, under the scaffold, and into Dov’s apartment.

  “Do you want to call anyone? Do anything?” Dov asked. “A shower maybe?”

  A shower sounded like heaven. Her time in the cell had left a miasma of dirt on her.

  “A shower would be great,” she answered.

  “Okay.” There was a moment where he stared at each of his brothers. It was a little weird to be surrounded by all of them while they had some kind of loaded, silent conversation.

  “Which one is it?” she asked, trying to remember. She hadn’t used the bathroom when she was here with Ravi.

  Her mug was still next to the sink in the kitchen. Had that only been a few hours ago?

  “Here.” Ravi stepped forward, hand on her arm. He opened one of the doors and gestured for her to go inside. She thought he’d leave her there, but he stepped inside and closed the door. The next thing she knew, he’d wrapped his arms around her and buried his face in her hair. “Shira. Are you okay?”

  He had her so tightly it was hard to move her arms. She gripped what she could reach, handfuls of his shirt. “I’m better now. Thank you for coming for me. You have to know—” She drew back to meet his gaze. “I didn’t do this. I didn’t make up getting mugged. I didn’t steal from the gallery.”

  “I know,” he said. He cupped her face, thumbs brushing her cheekbones. “We all know. We’ll do everything we can to help you.”

  “Why?” she asked. “Why are you helping me? From the moment you met me, I’ve been nothing but trouble.”

  He jerked back like she’d slapped him. “Is that what you think? That this—No. No. Shira. You’re not trouble. Calling Jeremy, that’s nothing.”

  Shira wrapped her hands around his wrists, the soft hair on his arms tickled her palms. “It’s not nothing, Ravi. Not to me.”

  Someone pounded on the door. “Let her be, Ravi.” She couldn’t make out who it was through the heavy wood door.

  “Dov.” Ravi answered her unspoken question. “He gets anxious when people need to rest. He’ll be concerned until you get some sleep, so hurry up.” The last part was said with a smile. Shira smiled back, but her face fell when he left. She caught its disappearance in the mirror, and she turned to study herself.

  She looked as horrible as she imagined she would. Dark circles. Mascara streaks. Chapped lips.

  Sighing, she reached into the shower to start the hot water. The water soaked into her sleeve and she stared at her arm.

  Why was she still wearing her coat?

  She unbuttoned it, and dropped it on the floor before kicking out of her shoes. Next came her blouse, skirt, tights, and underwear. With nothing else to wear, she’d have to put some of it back on, so she tried to make a neat pile. Her hands shook as she folded, and eventually, she dropped the blouse in her hands onto the coat.

  Shower first. Deal with the clothes later.

  Someone had left her clean clothes. Shira clutched the towel she’d tucked under her arms and stared at the pile.

  Shorts. A t-shirt.

  The thoughtfulness of the gesture made her bite her lip to stop from crying. She remembered what Ravi had said about Dov; he grew concerned about people who hadn’t slept.

  She was starting to grow concerned about herself.

  Her hands, as she finger combed her hair, still shook, and her face was deathly white. It wasn’t like her to be so emotional.

  She was better than this. It had to be sympathy at the mess she was in that prompted the brothers taking any sort of interest in her.

  She was like a stray dog. Her fingers caught on a knot and she hissed. A wet, stray dog.

  They couldn’t help but feel sorry for her.

  Slowly, Shira opened the bathroom door to peer out into the living room. Pascal was the only one there. He sat on the couch, posture straight, and met her eyes.

  It was as if he’d been waiting for her.

  “Where is everyone?” she asked.

  “Dov was called away. Our grandmother is very sick. He’s with her.”

  “Sarah? Will she be all right?” The woman’s sweet nature and easy acceptance made her someone Shira wanted to know better.

  “She’s dying, Shira. So, no. She won’t be all right.”

  His words were like a blow, and in her rock-bottom state, it was too much. A sob welled from Shira’s chest, and she slapped her hands over her mouth. She swallowed, again and again, but it was like she was choking, suffocating. Pascal stood, and pushed her hands away from her face.

  “Breathe, Shira.”

  She couldn’t. Her lungs wouldn’t work right. Pascal held her hands in his, and it was too much. She ripped them away, fluttering them near her face. “I can’t—” Why couldn’t she get any air? “I can’t breathe.” The room spun and swam as Pascal grabbed her. Each of her hands were held in his. He sucked in a deep breath, blue eyes blazing at her, and let it out through his nose. He didn’t say a word, but she knew what he wanted her to do. She tried to mirror him. Each inhalation wasn’t smooth, but air filled her lungs.

  He did it again, and so did she. This time it was smoother, and the next time even more so. “There you go.” His voice was kinder than she’d ever heard it before.

  “Why—” She sucked in a breath. “Are you being so nice to me?” Each word was divided by a short breath, but at least she could speak again. “I thought you hated me.”

  He didn’t answer. “Come on.” He jerked her to her feet, and then into his arms so her head rested on his chest. Too shocked
, she only held onto him tight as he brought her into one of the bedrooms and laid her on the bed. “You need to rest. Dov is right. No one can go this long without sleep.”

  Movements abrupt, he pulled the comforter over her before striding to the window and flicking the curtains closed. Shira caught a brief glimpse of a sunny sky before they shut. “Get some sleep,” he said, voice gruff.

  She was wide awake, no way could she fall asleep. Jail. Death. An art heist. Her head spun.

  Pascal must have seen the chaos of her thoughts written on her face, because he sighed loudly and flopped onto the bed behind her. “You’re not going to prison,” he started. “Even though you stupidly didn’t report being mugged outside the gallery, and caused yourself all sorts of trouble.”

  “Muggings take place in New York every day,” Shira whispered, snuggling into the pillow and blankets. “What good would it have done?”

  “It would have saved you a trip to jail.”

  Shira closed her eyes. Even though he was scolding her, she got the sense he wasn’t really angry. Why was that? At one point or another, each of these brothers had been prickly to her.

  Except for Yaphet. He was just a mystery. A glasses-wearing, blonde, dark-eyed, muscley mystery.

  “I’ll tell Yaphet that’s how you see him.” Pascal’s voice cut through her consciousness. Had she said that out loud? Oh, well. She was too tired to care.

  “Go to sleep, Shira. We’ll work this out,” Pascal whispered.

  We. What a nice word, “we,” was. She wouldn’t have to do things on her own. She’d have someone with her, to help, to guide.

  “Sleep,” Pascal repeated.

  And unwilling to argue anymore, Shira did.

  6

  The Sixth Day

  Pascal had an internal heater. That was the only explanation for the temperature he threw off. The man currently wrapped around her back, arm thrown over her waist, and snored in her ear.

  Shira buried her face in the pillow to stop from laughing. Dour Pascal snored.

  “Are you laughing at me?” His voice was even rougher when he first woke up. “After I put you to sleep, and was kicked at least four times in the balls, and elbowed once in the temple? Now you laugh?” His arm tightened around her waist.