The Monet Murders (The Art of Murder 2)

Jason sat up. “Hell, yes. That window is Tiffany glass. It’s probably worth a quarter of a million dollars. It’s irreplaceable.”

Kennedy shook his head as though he thought Jason was a nut, but what he said was, “You’re irreplaceable.”

Was that what he’d said? Because he went back to looking at the mermaid painting and sipping his drink. He did not look remotely like a guy who would say, “You’re irreplaceable.”

Finally a song written in the last decade dropped on the jukebox. “Demons” by Imagine Dragons.

Jason said, “This song always reminds me of you.”

Kennedy listened for a moment, shook his head. “I don’t know it.”

No, of course not, and maybe that second beer had been one too many.

Kennedy said suddenly, wryly, “I’m guessing you’re very good at undercover work.”

“I am. Why?”

Kennedy’s smile was wry. “You lie very well. I watched you today. You don’t try to oversell or elaborate.”

Jason reddened. “I don’t lie to you.”

“No, I know.” It didn’t seem to make it any better for Kennedy.

The bartender made another pass. Kennedy ordered a second drink. Jason declined.

Kennedy seemed to be looking at Jason’s hands. Jason couldn’t see anything of interest there. Knowing Kennedy, he was probably thinking about something to do with fingerprints. But it reminded Jason of Santa Monica and searching Kerk’s hotel room.

The night he’d discovered Kennedy had ended their relationship…how many months earlier? But forgot to tell Jason.

Maybe he was reaching the point of acceptance, because that hurt felt faraway now. Old. Maybe that was the beer. Maybe it was because Kennedy was sitting across from him, watching Jason even when he wasn’t looking directly at him.

“I never did find that damned cufflink,” Jason said.

Kennedy gave him a funny look.

“The one I lost at the Hotel Casa del Mar.”

“Right.”

“I know. It’s just…my grandfather gave me those cufflinks. Which, come to think of it, was kind of an odd gift for a sixteen-year-old kid. But anyway, they had sentimental value.”

“This was the grandfather who was the reason you joined the FBI?”

“Yeah. Sort of. My grandfather was the reason I wanted to fight to preserve our artistic and cultural heritage. Honey Corrigan is the reason I took that fight to the FBI.” Jason’s smile twisted at the recognition in Kennedy’s eyes. “I’m not sure I realized that until Massachusetts. So I do understand, Sam. I do get your sense of mission. I just think you’re wrong about the warrior-monk routine. I think you could still be effective in your job and have some kind of personal life. I don’t mean with me. I mean with whoever. Someone who would be willing to take you on your terms.”

Kennedy eyed him for a long moment. He set his glass down. “The problem is, I don’t want whoever. I want you. All the time.”

He did. It was right there, a fierce longing burning in his blue eyes. Jason didn’t move a muscle. Didn’t speak. He was afraid anything he said, anything he did would tip the scales the wrong way.

Kennedy said roughly, “Let’s get out of here.”

Chapter Twenty

It was that first night in Boston all over again.

Only this time when Kennedy unlocked his hotel door and let them both inside his room, they knocked over the lamp. That was because they were already half out of their clothes, complicating each oth

er’s efforts by trying to help.