Nightwork by Nora Roberts

Author:Nora Roberts
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: St. Martin's Publishing Group

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

She clearly didn’t believe him. Rather than shock at his revelation, she showed derision.

“So at about the age of twenty, you’re forced by this LaPorte to steal a valuable piece of art. Successfully, I assume?”

“I’m good at what I do.”

“Right.” She pushed up. “I guess we’re done here.”

“Look it up. Take out your phone, Google it. Bella Donna, bronze, artist Julietta Castletti, stolen from the Hobart, a private museum in Baltimore. Just a few weeks after I left.”

She took out her phone, and while she keyed in the details, he continued. “I took it to him at his place in Lake Charles, Louisiana—Christmas Day. Then I changed my name—and my look again. That’s something else I’m good at. And I chartered a plane to Paris. I needed to keep away from him because he’d just do the same thing again, and again. It’s a power trip for him.”

She looked up from her phone. “Just because you know some details about this art theft doesn’t mean you took it, or that anything you’re telling me is the truth.”

“For Christ’s sake.” He pushed up, moved toward the fireplace, brushing by her on the way. “I’m going to light the fire. What time is it?”

She looked immediately at her watch—a very nice Baume & Mercier. But it wasn’t there.

He held it up. “This yours?”

Now he saw, if not shock, surprise.

“I’ve been picking pockets since I was a kid, a kid in Chicago with a sick mother in a mountain of debt.”

He handed the watch back to her, then lit the starter under the kindling and logs. “I left and did the job for LaPorte, because he threatened to hurt Mags. My aunt. He sent someone to wreck her place when she wasn’t there to prove he could. He would’ve hurt her, he might’ve hurt you, my friends, anybody I cared about. That’s what he does, and he’s good at it.”

The firelight streamed across his face as he looked up at her. “So I left, and I hurt you.”

“You’re a thief.”

“That’s right.” He pushed to his feet. “Jewelry and art, primarily. Stamps and coins, but they’re not as satisfying.”

“Satisfying?” She stood, stared at him. “You steal from people. You’re a criminal, and it’s satisfying.”

“I’m trying not to lie to you.”

“You—you break down doors and—”

“No, I don’t. I deal with locks and security systems. I don’t break anything. No violence against people or property. Major rule.”

“You have rules?”

“Yeah, I have rules. A pretty long list, actually. I’m getting some wine. You can have some or not.”

He walked back into the kitchen and chose a nice Chianti from the rack.

“You invade people’s privacy and take what doesn’t belong to you. For money.”

He pulled the cork, got two glasses. He looked at her as he poured. Coolly.

“You never once, not once, had to worry about the roof of that big, beautiful four-generation house staying over your head. Never once had to wonder if there was enough money to buy food. Never heard your mom crying at night when she thought you were asleep because the bills just kept coming.

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