The Theft (Thornton 2)

That, of course, was impossible.

Such a waste, André thought ruefully. So unfortunate that treasures such as these must remain unseen, while lesser talent was paraded before admiring eyes, commanding huge sums of money.

That reminded him of the task at hand, and reluctantly André turned away from his prized creations. He paused only to scoop up his coat and bestow a final glance upon the painting he was about to deliver to Baricci. As a rule, he framed his own work, using his customary unadorned walnut frame so as not to detract from the power of the art itself. But in special cases such as this, he left the framing to Williams, who knew precisely what had to be done.

Without further deliberation, André tucked the painting beneath his arm, extinguished the light, and left his studio, carefully locking the door in his wake.

There was no worry that the paints might smear, he mused as he made his way through the back roads leading to London's more fashionable West End. The canvas had been dry for two days now. That's how long he'd stalled before making an appearance at the Franco Gallery. By now, Baricci's police interrogation—however intensive it was—should be over. It was safe to pay him a visit.

Idly, André wondered if Baricci had been able to extricate himself from this one, even with that glib tongue of his. Theft was one thing, murder quite another.

Well, soon enough he'd have his answer.

Intentionally avoiding Regent Street, André slipped through an alley and rounded the corner leading to the quiet side street that was his destination. Given the lateness of the hour, all the shops had been locked up for the night, their owners having hurried home to warm the winter chill from their bones. It looked to André as if the entire block was deserted. Still, he moved along cautiously, reserving judgment for when he caught site of the gallery.

Sure enough, it was quiet—no police, no customers.

He went around back and knocked quietly on the gallery's rear door—twice, then twice again.

A minute later the lock turned and Williams peered out. "Well, it's about time," he muttered, opening the door to admit Sardo. "We were expecting you days ago."

"Really?" André stalked by, heading directly towards Baricci's office. "Under the circumstances, I should think you'd understand my staying away, even applaud my decision to do so."

Williams scowled. "What does that mean?"

"Nothing." André paused outside Baricci's door. "He's alone?" Receiving Williams's nod, he rapped sharply.

"Who is it?" Baricci called, his tone muffled.

"Sardo. I brought the painting."

"Finally. Come in."

André complied, maneuvering the painting into the office, then shutting the door behind him. He glanced at Baricci, who was nursing a drink at his desk, and his brows lifted with interest as he took in his employer's drawn expression.

"You look haggard, Franco. Were the police brutal?"

Baricci raised his head, regarded André through wary eyes. "What makes you think the police have been here?"

"Haven't they?"

"No."

With a quiet thud, André lowered the painting to the floor, propped it against the wall. "You're telling me no one's questioned you about Emily Mannering's death?" he asked in astonishment.

A steely stare. "I repeat, why would you think they might?"

André blinked. "Because you were lovers. Because you were with her the night she was killed. Because you were probably the last person to see her alive—and the first person to see her dead. Are those reasons enough for you?"

Slowly, Baricci sipped at the contents of his snifter. "You're implying I killed her. I didn't."

"No?" One dark brow rose in disbelief. "Odd that she should die the very night you robbed her home—or are you telling me you don't have the Rembrandt?"

"I have it. But Emily was alive when I left her just before dawn. Although she was understandably upset, given she'd just discovered the painting was missing."

"Perhaps a bit too upset?" André inquired. "More so than you anticipated? Tell me, Franco, did she see you take the painting? Is that what caused you to panic?"

With a smoothly controlled motion, Baricci lowered his goblet. "I did not panic. Nor did Emily see me take the Rembrandt. She had no idea who was responsible for the theft. She was also very much alive—and on the verge of summoning the police—when I took my leave." An icy pause. "Further, I don't owe you any explanation."