Deadly Vows Read Online Free PDF

adjusting her eyes to the gloom inside. No lights were on, so the gallery was filled with shadow.
    Francesca stepped in and closed the door behind her very, very quietly. To her satisfaction, she did not hear even the scrape of iron on the floor.
    She could see well enough now and she turned, her skin beginning to prickle, certain she was not alone. She almost gasped.
    Her portrait faced her.
    She trembled. She had forgotten how stunning the painting was—and how provocative. In it, she wore nothing but a pearl choker. Her hair was up and perfectly coiffed. She sat with her back to the viewer, but she was partially turned. Not only were most of her buttocks visible, so was the entire profile of one of her breasts.
    There was no mistaking her identity—and to make matters worse, she wore an expression of naked sensuality and raw hunger.
    When she had posed for that painting, all she could think about was Hart.
    Her instinct was to rush forward and yank the picture from the wall and destroy it. But there would be time for that later. She fought for composure. What did the thief want? Why surface now? Did he or she want money? Did he or she want to ruin her?
    Was she being watched?
    She felt as if eyes were upon her—and she did not like it, not one damn bit. She had her back to the door. She looked outside through the bars and glass, but the small concrete space beyond the front door was vacant.
    Francesca started forward, gun in hand. If the thief was watching her, there was no point in remaining silent. Now she saw the other paintings on the walls. None were Sarah Channing’s work. Her style, somewhat classical yet impressionistic, too, was very distinct. “Where are you?” she called out loudly, turning the corner behind the center wall. The area there boasted nothing but blank gray walls. “Who are you? What do you want?”
    Her words seemed to echo slightly in this smaller back chamber. She saw an open doorway, but hesitated. “Come out. I know you’re here.” She swallowed, straining to listen. All she could hear was her own thundering heartbeat and her rapid, shallow breathing.
    She was afraid. Why wouldn’t she be? Someone hadlured her to that gallery. She needed to take possession of that painting. “I will pay you handsomely for my portrait!” she cried.
    There was no answer.
    Standing in the back room, facing a dark, open doorway, she knew a moment of despair. What kind of game was this?
    She hated releasing her gun, but she tucked it in the waistband of her skirt, only so she could remove matches and a candle from her purse. Months ago, she had learned to carry a large bag in order to keep the necessities of her trade with her. She lit the candle and realized the small doorway belonged to a single room, which consisted of a desk, a chair and file cabinets.
    Francesca walked inside and saw nothing but receipts and notes on the desk. She looked carefully at the notes, but they were scribbles. Neither her name nor Hart’s jumped out at her. She looked at the saucer, which contained business cards.
    Gallery Moore—Fine Arts and Consignments
Owned by Daniel Moore
No. 69 Waverly Place,
New York, NY
    She rummaged through the drawers quickly, but there was simply too much paperwork to go through when the clock was ticking. The time. She froze, then reached for her purse, which she had laid on the desk. It was almost half past two.
    Her temples throbbed. She did not have time to investigate now. But Bragg would be at her wedding and she would tell him everything before the ceremony, and send him downtown to retrieve the painting. But how could she leave the portrait now?
    What did the damn thief truly want?
    Francesca snuffed out the candle with her fingertips and left it on the desk—she had others in her purse. She took her gun from the waistband of her skirt. Purse in hand, in the darkness, she left the small office.
    She thought she heard a small scraping