"Christmas lights."

"When was the last time you checked?"

"Christmas."

Movement behind Gabrielle drew Joe's attention to the front counter, and he watched Kevin walk to the cash register and pop it open. "I have a few business errands to run this morning, Gabrielle," Kevin said as he filled the drawer with money. "I should be back by three."

Gabrielle spun around and looked at her business partner. Tension choked the air, but no one besides her seemed to notice. It clogged her throat, but for the first time since she'd been arrested, relief lifted her spirits a little, too. There was an end to this madness in sight. The sooner Kevin left, the sooner the detective could search, and the sooner he would find nothing. The sooner he would leave her store and her life. "Oh, okay. Take all the time you need. If you get really busy, you don't have to come back at all."

Kevin shifted his gaze from Gabrielle to the man standing directly behind her. "I'll be back."

As soon as Kevin was gone, Gabrielle glanced over her shoulder. "Do your thing, Detective," she said, then moved to the front counter and began wrapping the blue plate in tissue paper. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched him pull a small black notebook out of the back pocket of his Levi's. He flipped it open and slowly walked through her store, thumbing past one page and pausing to scribble on another.

"When does Mara Paglino come to work?" he asked without looking up.

"One-thirty."

He checked the marking on the bottom of a Wedgwood butter dish, then flipped the notebook closed again. "If Kevin comes back early, keep him out here with you," he said as he walked to the office and shut the door behind him.

"How?" she asked the empty store. If Kevin came back early, she didn't know how-short of tackling him-to keep him from discovering the detective rifling through his desk. But it really wouldn't matter if Kevin came back early and caught Joe red-handed. Kevin would know. He was so over-the-top neat that he always just knew if someone had touched his things.

During the next two hours, Gabrielle's nerves coiled tighter and tighter. Every tick of the clock pushed her closer to a complete breakdown. She tried to lose herself in daily routine, she failed. She was much too aware of the detective searching for incriminating evidence behind the closed door of her office.

Several times she walked toward the office door with the intention of sticking her head inside and seeing exactly what he was doing, but she always lost her nerve. Every little sound made her jump, and a knot formed in her throat and stomach, preventing her from eating the broccoli soup she'd brought for her lunch. By the time Joe finally emerged from the office at one o'clock, Gabrielle was so tense that she felt like screaming. Instead, she took deep breaths and silently chanted the soothing seven-syllable mantra she'd composed eighteen years ago to cope with the death of her father.

"Okay." Joe interrupted her attempt to find her quiet center. "I'll see you tomorrow morning."

He must not have found anything incriminating. But Gabrielle wasn't surprised; there wasn't anything to find. She followed him to the back room. "You're leaving?"

He looked into her eyes, and one corner of his mouth lifted. "Don't tell me you're going to miss me?"

"Of course not, but what about the shelves? What am I supposed to tell Kevin?"

"Tell him I'll start tomorrow." He took his sunglasses from the pocket of his T-shirt. "I need to put a wiretap on your business phone. So come in a little early in the morning. It won't take me but a few minutes."

"You're going to bug my telephone? Don't you need a court order or something?"

"No. I just need your permission, which you're going to give me."

"No, I'm not."

His dark brows lowered and his eyes turned hard. "Why the hell not? I thought you said you didn't have anything to do with the theft of Hillard's Monet."

"I didn't."

"Then don't act like you have something to hide."

"I'm not. It's a horrible invasion of privacy."

He rocked back on his heels and looked at her through narrowed eyes. "Only if you're guilty. Giving your permission could help prove you and Kevin are innocent as babes."

"But you don't believe that, do you?"

"No," he answered without hesitation.

It took a great deal of effort not to tell him exactly where he could shove his wiretap. He was so sure of himself. So absolutely certain, but so mistaken. A wiretap would gain him nothing, and there was only one way to prove him wrong. "Fine," she said. "Do whatever you want. Put up a video camera. Wheel out the polygraph. Bring out the thumbscrews."

"The tap will be sufficient for now." He opened the back door and shoved his sunglasses on the bridge of his straight nose. "I save my thumbscrews for kinky informants who get off on that sort of thing." The sensual lines of his lips curved into the kind of provocative smile that could make a woman almost forgive him for handcuffing her and hauling her to jail. "Are you interested?"

Gabrielle looked down at her feet, away from the mesmerizing effect of that smile, horrified that he could affect her at all. "No, thank you."

He hooked a finger beneath her chin and lifted her gaze,back to his. His seductive voice brushed across her flesh. "I can be real gentle."

She looked into his sunglasses and couldn't tell if he was joking or if he was serious. If he was trying to seduce her or if it was just her imagination. "I'll pass."

"Chicken." He dropped his hand and took a step backward. "You let me know if you change your mind."

For a few moments after he left, she stared at the closed door. A funny little flutter tickled her stomach, and she tried to tell herself it was because she hadn't eaten. But she didn't really believe it. With the detective gone, she should have felt better, but she didn't. He'd be back tomorrow with his wiretap, eavesdropping on conversations.

By the time Gabrielle left for the day, she'felt as if her brain had swelled and her head was about to explode. She didn't know for certain, but she thought she just might be developing a stress fracture at the base of her skull.

The drive home, which normally took Gabrielle ten minutes, was accomplished in five. She darted her blue Toyota pickup in and out of traffic and was never so glad to pull into the one-car garage in the back of her house.

The brick house she'd bought a year ago was small and crammed with bits and pieces of her life. In a bay window facing the street, an enormous black cat stretched amongst peach-colored cushions, too fat and lazy to summon a proper greeting. The sun's rays poured through the multiple panes of glass, spreading cubes of light across the hardwood floor and floral rugs.

The sectional couch and chairs were upholstered in pastel green and peach, while lush plants flourished about the oblong room. A watercolor portrait of a black kitten poised on a wing-backed chair hung over a polished brick fireplace.

When Gabrielle had first laid eyes on the house, she'd fallen in love with it. It, like the previous owners, was old and crafted with the kind of character that could only originate through vintage. The small dining room was fitted with built-in cabinets and led to a kitchen with long cupboards reaching from the floor to the ceiling. She had two bedrooms, one of which she used as her studio.

The pipes groaned. The hardwood floors were cold, and water dripped in the bathroom sink. The toilet ran continually unless she jiggled the handle, and the windows in her bedroom were painted shut. Still, she loved her home both despite its faults and because of them.

Shucking her clothes as she went, Gabrielle headed for her studio. She hurried through the dining room and kitchen, past the little bowls and bottles of essential sunscreen and other oils she'd prepared. By the time she reached the studio door, all she wore was a pair of white bikini panties.

A paint-splattered shirt hung on an easel in the center of the room. Once she'd buttoned it halfway up her chest, she began collecting her supplies.

She knew of only one way to release the demon rage that surrounded her and blackened her aura. She was long past meditation and aromatherapy, and there was only one way to express her anger and inner torment. Only one way to get it out of her system.

She didn't bother to prepare the canvas or sketch an outline first. She didn't bother to thin the heavy oil paint or attempt to lighten the dark colors. She didn't even have a clear idea of what she intended to paint. She just painted. She didn't take the time to carefully calculate each brush stroke, nor did she care that she was making a mess on the drop cloth.

She just painted.

Several hours later, she wasn't surprised to see that the demon in her painting bore a striking resemblance to Joe Shanahan or that the poor little lamb, bound with silver handcuffs, had silky red hair on its head instead of wool.

She took a step back to critically eye the painting. Gabrielle knew she wasn't a great artist. She painted for the love of it, but even she knew this work wasn't her best. The oils had been applied too heavily, and the halo surrounding the lamb's head looked more like a marshmallow. The quality wasn't nearly as good as the other portraits and paintings stacked against the white walls of her studio. And as she'd done with the others, she'd left the painting of hands and feet for another time. She felt lighter of heart, and a smile lifted her cheeks. "I like it," she announced to the empty room, then stabbed her brush into some black paint and added a gruesome set of wings to the demon.

Chapter Five