“You can’t protect your father,” he said.

“That wasn’t for my father. That was for me. For making me believe I didn’t deserve anything more than you gave me. I know differently now.”

He opened his mouth to reply, then thought better of it and turned on his heel, stalking to the door. A few moments later, it slammed behind him and Marisol released a tightly held breath. “We can’t wait,” she called.

Sascha appeared by her side. “Wait for what?”

“We’re going now. To the Templetons’.”

“We can’t,” Sascha said.

“You said she wanted us there for cocktails. Well, call her and tell her we can make it. And we’re coming right now. We just have to pick up the painting from Ian’s place and we’ll be on our way. After we switch them, I’m going to give the forgery to David and he can give that to his buyer. Hopefully, that will be enough to appease him.”

“Maybe we should wait and think this out a bit,” Sascha said.

But Marisol was through thinking about this. She needed to grab this opportunity now and solve her problem, instead of worrying over it for the next day and a half. As she dragged her decoy painting toward the back of the gallery, she tossed Sascha her car keys. “Bring your car around to the back. And don’t forget the heat gun.”

After struggling to fit the crate in the back of Sascha’s Volvo wagon, they finally wedged it in and slammed the hatch shut. Then Marisol ran back inside to grab the tools she’d packed in her favorite bag. When she was settled inside the car, she took a deep breath.

“I can see why art thieves do what they do,” she said. “It’s kind of a rush, all this excitement and nerves. Will we get caught, won’t we get caught, who knows-”

“Shut up,” Sascha said as she started the car. “Let’s not talk or I’m going to get out of this car and walk back to New York.”

“All right,” Marisol said. “No talking. Just drive.”

Marisol directed Sascha through the streets of Bonnett Harbor, watching carefully to see if they were being followed. She wouldn’t put it past David to be lurking in the shadows, watching her every move. But after taking a circuitous route through town, she decided that David had retreated to lick his wounds and revise his strategy.

“Turn down this street,” she said. Sascha drove to the middle of the block, then Marisol pointed to Ian’s house. “I’m going to go inside and get the painting. Circle the block a couple times and I’ll run out. If you see anyone on the street, don’t slow down, just keep going.”

“We should be doing this at night,” Sascha said. “Not in broad daylight.”

“Well, we don’t have a choice.” Marisol hopped out of the car, glanced both ways and ran up the driveway to the side door. She grabbed the doorknob and turned it, but to her surprise, the door wouldn’t open.

“No,” she moaned. “It can’t be locked.” Frantically, she pulled up the mat and searched for a key. She couldn’t blame Ian for locking the house, considering the valuable painting under his bed. Or maybe he’d done it to prevent her from retrieving the painting without his knowledge.

Marisol walked around the back of the house, then noticed a window open in the breakfast nook. She grabbed a lawn chair and pulled it over to the house, balancing on it as she tore off the screen. A few moments later, she raised the sash and crawled inside.

She raced upstairs and found the painting where she’d left it. Dragging it from beneath the bed, Marisol tucked it under her arm and hurried back outside, this time using the kitchen door. She saw Sascha circle the block, then waited for her to appear again before running out to the street.

When she was safely inside the car, Marisol screamed, unable to control her nerves. Then, a laugh erupted and she couldn’t seem to stop the emotions bubbling to the surface. She wasn’t happy or amused or even frustrated. She was just scared.

“Are you all right?” Sascha asked.

“I will be,” she said. “Once this is all over.”

“FIRST OFF, YOU CAN’T TALK to women, so how can you be honest with them? They have no capacity for logical reasoning. They’re driven by emotions. Let me tell you, getting into a real conversation with a woman is like stepping on a land mine. One stupid move, one offhand comment or misplaced adjective and, boom, you’re dead.”

Ian waited for his brothers to respond, knowing what he’d said was complete bullshit. At one time, he believed that women were incapable of logical thought. But then he’d met Marisol. He didn’t have to work hard to figure her out. She was just…Marisol.

“And you can’t depend upon women,” Declan commented. “They may have your back now, but the minute you don’t agree with them, they’ll cut your legs out from under you. You want someone who’ll have your back? That’s what brothers are for.”

“Women are not the enemy,” Marcus said.

Ian stared at Marcus for a long moment, grinning. “Did you break the pact?”

“No!” Marcus said. “I’ve just figured out a few things for myself.”

“So, are you planning to share with us?” Declan asked.

Marcus shook his head. “Not at the moment.”

A long silence descended on the group as Ian and Dec stood at the grill and stared into the fire. Ian dumped a bit of beer onto the flames that licked at the burgers. He listened distractedly as Dec and Marcus discussed the search for Eden Ross, but his mind kept wandering to Marisol.

“Louise Wilson over at the diner mentioned there were a couple of guys wandering around Bonnett Harbor asking if anyone had seen her,” Ian commented. “They’re promising a big payday for information. Ten thousand for a tip that leads to a photo of Eden Ross. I’m thinking I ought to be out looking for her.”

“She must be close by, then,” Dec said.

“Why do you say that?” Marcus asked.

Ian walked over to the picnic table and grabbed another beer from the cooler, taking the chance to glance at his watch. Dinner would be ready in a few minutes, a half hour to eat, another half hour to hang out and he could be over at Marisol’s by six or six-thirty.

“I gotta go,” Marcus said.

Ian frowned. “You haven’t had anything to eat.”

Marcus shrugged. “The wind is supposed to pick up later tonight and I’ve got to set another anchor.”

“So how’s the job going for you?” Dec called. “What did Ross think about the work?”

“He thought it was great,” Marcus yelled.

“He’s an odd one, that boy,” Declan said, staring after their younger brother.

“I can never quite figure what’s going on in his head,” Ian commented. “You really think he’s found himself a girl?”

“Nah,” Dec said. “All Marcus cares about is his work. Besides, who would he meet staying out on the boat?”

They sat outside for the next hour, enjoying their dinner and chatting about work. Ian avoided talking about Marisol and the painting, and instead, pumped Dec for information on Eden Ross. In the end, Dec enlisted Ian’s help in the search, asking him to keep an eye out for Eden, as well.

He finally left at seven and Ian hurried upstairs to change out of his uniform, pulling on a fresh T-shirt and a pair of jeans. He noticed the covers on the bed had been tossed back, and smoothed them in place with his hand. Slowly, Ian realized someone had been in his bedroom.

He dropped to the floor and peered under the bed. “Oh, hell,” he muttered. The painting was gone. And it didn’t take a rocket scientist to know who had it. She must have been here before he returned home from work. He tugged on a pair of Nikes, tucked his badge in the back pocket of his jeans, then raced downstairs.

If Marisol had any thought to switch those paintings tonight, then it might already be too late. He jumped into his car and threw it in gear, backing down the driveway and swinging the Mustang out into the street.

A few minutes later, he pulled up in front of Gallerie Luna. Marisol’s car was parked out front, but she wasn’t answering the buzzer. For a brief moment, he felt a prickle of panic, then decided that there was no need to jump to conclusions. Maybe she’d gone for a walk, maybe she was waiting for him at his house right now.

He tried the buzzer once more, then returned to his car, double-parked in front of the gallery. He’d just take a drive over to Newport and check in with the Templetons. And if she wasn’t there, he’d put out an APB on her and have the rest of the Bonnett Harbor police force helping in the search.

As he sped across the Newport Bridge, his thoughts returned to the meeting in Declan’s office. Though he didn’t want to believe the worst in Marisol, there was a tiny voice that told him she could be lying about the painting. For all he knew, she was aware that the painting in her possession was a fake and her intention all along was to steal the real painting. Hell, she could be working with David Barnett on this scheme.

The gates to the Templeton mansion were open when he approached on Ruggles Avenue. He parked on the circular drive and turned off the car. But as soon as the engine stopped, he heard a loud siren sounding from inside the house. “The burglar alarm,” he murmured. Maybe he was too late?

He grabbed his badge from his pocket, then jogged up to the front door. Ian rang the bell once, then opened the door. Cheryl Templeton stood in the foyer, her hands pressed to her ears as he held out his badge.

“Oh, thank God you’re here. I can’t remember the code to the system. The security company is on the phone and they won’t switch off the alarm until I give them the code.” She held out the phone. “You talk to them.”

“Where is your husband?”

“He’s out of town on business,” she said. “Please, tell them they can turn off the alarm. Why aren’t you wearing your uniform?”

“I’m undercover,” Ian said. She seemed to accept the answer, to Ian’s relief. “Is there anyone else in the house?”