Lost Legacy. Dana Mentink
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Brooke smiled, remembering how excited her father had been, researching Tarkenton’s time in Cambria. It was there, six months ago, that he had purchased the unsigned painting at an estate sale, a painting he was absolutely convinced was the work of Tarkenton. For months he’d been studying it, fussing over it, she thought uncomfortably. She sighed, wondering for a moment if it wouldn’t have been better for him never to have discovered the thing. It seemed to be the root of the strange trouble she found herself in now.
But recalling the sheer joy on his face when he showed it to her, the clarity of his mind as he took her through each aspect of the painting, the application of color, the emotionally controlled realism, the perfect execution only possible from a master. She would not trade those moments for anything. She tuned back in.
“Brooke,” Denise was saying, “your father would not want you to put yourself in danger to find out what happened to his painting. You’re more valuable to him that any work of art.”
“I know, and I’m just going to give it one more try and then I’m on my way home. Don’t tell Dad about the shooting, please. It will just upset him.”
“I don’t like keeping things from your father. He’s not a child, Brooke.”
I know that, she wanted to snap. He’s my father, isn’t he? Instead she bit back the frustration. Donald Ramsey was not a child; he was a man of ferocious intellect and voracious curiosity, but more and more the genetic condition was turning him into someone she didn’t know. Each day brought him deeper into that mental fog from which someday he would not be able to escape.
Denise was helping, too, keeping his mind active, engaging him in finishing his book, making sure he had contact with Tad. Patience, Brooke. “I understand. Maybe you could not mention it unless he asks about me.” She paused. “Has he? Asked about me?”
She could sense Denise struggling with the truth. “Well…we’ve been really busy here, honey. We visited Tad today, and you know that’s hard on your father.”
Brooke blinked hard at a sudden wash of tears. It’s hard on everyone. “No problem. I’ll call you soon.”
She hung up before the emotion got the best of her. Phone gripped in her hand, she tried to take some calming breaths.
Gotta help Dad. Gotta make things right. Time is running out.
Victor’s voice made her jump.
“Are you okay?”
There was sympathy in his face, probably the kind he gave to any crazy person he came across. “Yes. Okay. Thank you for…what you did.”
He didn’t respond, just looked at her with those piercing green-gold eyes until she couldn’t stand it anymore. She walked to the nearest officer, feeling as though she’d been in that lobby for a lifetime instead of an hour and a half. “Can I go now?”
He asked her a few more questions, got her cell phone number and the name of her hotel and offered to call her a taxi.
“I’ll drive her.”
Brooke was startled to find Victor standing at her elbow. “I can take a taxi.”
“My car is around back.”
Stephanie walked over. “Stay here,” she said to Victor. “We’ve got some things to look into.”
“No, Steph. I’ll be back soon. I need to take Brooke to her hotel.”
Stephanie looked unhappy, but she did not attempt to persuade her brother. “Okay. I’ll be waiting for you.” She paused a moment next to Brooke. Her eyes were guarded, but Brooke could see concern buried deep down. “I’m sorry this happened, Ms. Ramsey. Be careful.”
Brooke felt suddenly exhausted. She only wanted to get to her hotel room, sink into a hot bath and forget the past few hours. Maybe if she tried really hard, she could convince herself it was all a dream, a very bad dream. “Thank you.”
Victor led the way to the parking lot, where he opened the door to a spotlessly clean Mercedes. She leaned her head back on the leather seat and closed her eyes as Victor eased them through the crush of the San Francisco financial district, suited men and women, bicycle messengers and the constant supply of taxis weaving through the lanes. He didn’t say a word, and that was just fine with her. The sun was low in the sky now, outlining the tall buildings in harsh shadow.
She shot a peek at his profile, dark hair cut short on the sides, bangs long enough to show the slightest tendency to curl. Thick brows and a strong chin that sported the shadow of the beard that would no doubt emerge if he wasn’t impeccably shaved.
“I overheard you talking on the phone to your mother.”
Brooke stiffened. “My mom is gone. That was my father’s cousin. My unofficial aunt.”
“Is your father ill?”
The question might have been rude if it hadn’t resonated with a certain compassion. Or was it clinical curiosity? She sighed. “Yes, he’s…he’s not well.”
“And you’re trying to find the painting because you think time is running out for him?”
She shoved her hands under her thighs. “Isn’t that kind of a personal question after you washed your hands of my case?”
A ghost of a smile danced on his lips. “You’re right. Poor bedside manner. I apologize.”
“Why aren’t you a doctor anymore?” she blurted out, aghast at her own forwardness. What had come over her?
He didn’t look at her, but she saw his grip tighten on the steering wheel. “I needed a break.”
“So you went from being a doctor to a treasure hunter?”
He offered a small smile. “Luca’s idea. He’s always been part Indiana Jones.”
She brightened. “Do you think he would take my case, then?”
Victor laughed. “We usually stick together on these decisions. Treasure Seekers is really important to all of us.”
“Indiana Jones would have done it.” They exchanged a look and both of them laughed until Brooke flopped her head back against the seat. “Well, you did save my life, so I guess I can forgive you for turning me down.”
“I’m glad,” he said.
“I think I’ve heard your name before somewhere. Are you an art aficionado?”
“No, but my wife was.” He cleared his throat. “I took up treasure hunting after she was killed.”
Brooke felt herself flush. “I’m sorry.”
He nodded, not looking at her. “Me, too.”
They pulled up at the hotel and Brooke got out quickly, hoping Victor wouldn’t offer to walk her in. He did anyway, in spite of her protests. Something about him made her stomach flutter.
The hotel carpet was plush, the lobby tasteful with graceful indoor trees and richly upholstered chairs arranged in cozy groups. It all looked so normal, so unbelievably calm compared to the anxiety storming inside her.
He walked with her to the elevator and they got inside, the silence thickening between them. Brooke could not figure out what to think about the man next to her. She wanted to be angry with him for brushing her off, but those feelings were outweighed by his heroic effort in the lobby and the shadow in his eyes when he spoke of his wife.
She would have shaken her head to ward off the thoughts if he wasn’t standing so close, close enough for her to catch the faint musky aftershave and see the tiny cut on his cheek, no doubt caused by his dive into the glass.
A big man wearing dark glasses got into the elevator. She jumped as he dropped the clipboard he was carrying, which fell to the floor with a sharp crack. Victor gave her