Take My Breath Away…

Prologue

The day after Thanksgiving…

“I’M THINKING WHAT WE’VE got here is a copycat thief.” FBI Agent Nick Guthrie kept his eyes steady on Gabe Wilder as he gestured to the Monet propped on the credenza to the left of his desk. In front of the cleverly forged painting lay a copy of that morning’s Denver Post. The headline read: Priceless Monet Stolen on Thanksgiving Day.

“Don’t you agree? He replaces the original with a very good copy. That’s what your father always did. He’s even signing your father’s initials.”Gabe said nothing, letting the silence stretch between them. He’d been coming to grips with the fact that someone was imitating his father ever since Guthrie had called him to the crime scene the night before. At 6:30 a.m., the FBI offices were still empty, and Guthrie hadn’t bothered to draw the shades on the glass walls that divided his office from the others in the White-Collar Crime Division.

“Well?” Guthrie prompted Gabe. “What are you thinking?”

“We’re not dealing with a copycat.” He shifted his gaze to the Monet.

“No?” Guthrie frowned. “The thief broke through one of the best security alarm systems available, one of yours. He has a detailed knowledge of the M.O. your father used. And it’s a French Impressionist painting. Raphael Wilder was particularly talented at forging those. I say someone is deliberately imitating your father’s style right down to signing the forgery with the initials, R.W.”

“But my father never sent announcements bragging about his thefts,” Gabe pointed out.

“Agreed,” Guthrie said. “But everything else is the same.”

Gabe couldn’t argue with that. But why would someone choose to imitate the style of a legendary art thief and then deviate in a major way from his method? And why was this thief choosing to copy his father in the first place? Those were the questions that he intended to find the answers to.

“I had a chance to study the original painting when my company set up the security at the Langfords’ house.” Gabe nodded his head toward the Monet. “The forgery is a good one. It might have been years before the fake was detected.”

Guthrie leaned back in his chair. “So why announce the theft?”

“Exactly. Raphael Wilder never would have.” Then Gabe met Nick Guthrie’s eyes. “That’s why I’m not willing to agree that this thief is simply a copycat. There’s more going on here. Why don’t you come right out and ask me if I had something to do with stealing the Monet? The possibility must have crossed your mind. No one would know my father’s methods better than I. His initials are on the painting. The Langfords were using my security system.”

Guthrie said nothing.

“Perhaps I substituted the forgery when I installed the alarm system. That would eliminate the need to go back and break in later. I could sell the original and no one would be the wiser, perhaps ever.”

“That’s what your father would have done.” Guthrie shot him a frown. “And maybe your involvement in the theft did cross my mind, but I dismissed the possibility. Raphael Wilder was a thief, a very good one, and if you’d followed in his footsteps, I imagine you’d have made a very good one also. But you haven’t. We go back a long way, Gabe.”

That much was true. The first day he’d met FBI Agent Nick Guthrie was the day the man had come into his home and arrested his father for grand larceny. That had been over fifteen years ago. And within a month of Raphael Wilder’s conviction, he’d died in prison of pneumonia. Ever since then, Nick Guthrie had kept close tabs on Gabe. What might have begun as feelings of guilt or responsibility on Guthrie’s part had evolved gradually into a friendship, one that ran both ways.

And Nick Guthrie had been one of the people who’d helped him stay on the straight and narrow at a time in his life when he might have chosen a different path. He owed other people, too, of course. Father Mike Flynn and the St. Francis Center for Boys had played a key role.

Nick Guthrie leaned forward. “I know about the promise you made your mother when she was dying. I was with you and Father Mike the day that you renewed that promise to your father in the prison infirmary. There’s no way that you would break those vows by starting to steal paintings. You’ve built a business to protect people from theft and from harm. And you’re doing a damn good job of it.”

Gabe didn’t smile, but the knot that had been in his stomach when Guthrie had asked him to come into the office that morning eased. If Nick Guthrie hadn’t requested this meeting, Gabe would have insisted on one himself. He’d needed to know just how much G. W. Securities was going to come under suspicion because of his father.

Guthrie ran his hands through his hair. “Besides, if you were to take up a life of crime, I can’t see you sending announcement cards. And why target one of your own security systems? I’ve known you since you were thirteen. You’re not that dumb.”

Now Gabe did smile. “So it really did cross your mind?”

Guthrie sighed. “Of course it did. I’m an FBI agent. I have to consider all the possibilities. But you didn’t steal the Monet. And I’m not releasing any of the details about the thief using your father’s M.O. to the press.”

“Well, you’re right about me, as it happens. I didn’t steal the painting. But…”

Guthrie raised his hands, palms out. “I know. I know. You still think I was wrong about your father.”

It was a discussion they’d had often over the years. Gabe was willing to admit that his father had been a thief, a brilliant one. And a reformed one. He’d never believed his father had stolen the Pissaro that Guthrie had arrested him for stealing. Raphael Wilder had denied the theft even on his deathbed. “My father made the same promise to my mother that I did. He didn’t steal that painting.”

Guthrie rose and walked to the window. Over the years they’d agreed to disagree. The first time they’d argued about his father’s innocence, Gabe had punched the older man. He’d been thirteen and angry.

Guthrie had taken the punch and told him that he could take another. Anytime. But Gabe hadn’t punched him again because it hadn’t helped soothe any of the pain or the loss away. What had eventually helped was the time he’d spent at the St. Francis Center for Boys. At a crucial time in his life, Father Mike Flynn had helped him more than he could ever repay. Truth told, the priest was still helping him. He’d been the first person he’d called after he’d left the crime scene the night before.

“There was a time when I thought you might follow in your father’s footsteps,” Guthrie said. “But you’ve built a very different kind of life.”

Yes, he had. And G. W. Securities was becoming known beyond Denver. Partly due to some consulting work he’d done for Nick Guthrie, he’d recently landed jobs as far away as D.C. and New York City. Gabe stretched out his legs and crossed them at the ankles.

“So why is someone imitating parts of your father’s M.O.?” Guthrie spoke the question that was foremost in both of their minds.

As it hung unanswered in the air, Gabe’s attention was distracted by the young woman who’d just stepped out of the elevator in the outer offices. Something moved through him as she strode purposefully toward a desk in one of the glass-walled offices and set her briefcase down.

Not recognition.

Or was it? He gave her another few seconds of his attention. There was plenty there to warrant a second look. The gray slacks and jacket did little to disguise the long legs and the curves in that neat, athletic body. The bright blue of the shirt drew his gaze to her face—also worth a second look.

This time he was sure it was recognition that flickered. He knew that short upturned nose, the stubborn chin.

“Who…?”

Gabe wasn’t even aware that he’d spoken the question out loud until Guthrie answered, “That’s Nicola, my daughter. She started working here a week ago.”

Gabe registered the frown in the older man’s voice, but he didn’t take his gaze off of the woman.

“She didn’t even tell Marcia and me that she was applying to the FBI, not until she’d been accepted at Quantico. She finished her training there last month and received the Director’s Leadership Award. I had to pull a lot of strings to get her transferred here.”

Nicola Guthrie. Of course. It was the hair that had thrown him. Now it fell straight as rain until it curved beneath her chin. Fifteen years ago a mass of curls had framed her face. He’d teased her ruthlessly about them and even pulled them a few times.

“I’m going to limit her to research on this case,” Guthrie was saying. “She’s smart, but she’s not ready for field work. As long as she’s in the office and behind that desk, I can be sure she’s safe.”

Gabe was about to turn his attention back to the Monet when Nicola Guthrie turned and her gaze suddenly locked on his.

The impact ricocheted through his system, coming into contact with every nerve ending. For a moment he couldn’t breathe. Everything else faded, and all he was aware of was her. The sudden tightening in his gut was raw, sexual and compelling. Without any conscious volition, he rose from the chair.