The Wrong Bed

2

HE WASN’T ALONE in the church.

Gabe had sensed that from the moment he’d found the door unlocked and the security alarm disabled. His conviction had grown steadily during the time it had taken him to walk quietly up the aisle to the side altar.

Since the storm had taken the power out, the place was as dark and cold as a crypt. The only illumination was provided by the three-tiered stand of votive lights in front of the altar. Nowadays, people didn’t light real candles. Instead they donated money to purchase lights powered by lithium batteries. And they “burned” brightly enough for him to see that the statue of St. Francis was still there, enclosed in a shatterproof glass dome.

Inwardly, Gabe grinned. Turnabout was fair play. And very satisfying. The guy who’d had such smooth sailing so far must be feeling at least some of the frustration he’d been feeling for the past three months. There was no duplicate of the security system he’d created for the statue, not even a prototype out there, because he’d just invented it. It was very difficult to crack a safe or break through a security system when one had nothing to practice on.

Gabe started up the short flight of steps to the altar.

It was only as he reached the top that he saw it—the second statue sitting in the shadows at the foot of the altar. Crouching down, he examined it in the dim light, running his hands over it just to be sure. Then he welcomed the pump of adrenaline. It was a copy of the St. Francis, and that had to mean that his instincts had been right. The thief was still here.

Where?

In spite of the fact that all of his senses were now on full alert, Gabe was careful to keep the expression on his face perfectly neutral as he rose, narrowed his eyes and pretended to study the St. Francis that still stood beneath the glass dome.

The trap he’d set had worked. It was Father Mike who’d first suggested the idea that he might use the statue as bait, and the more Gabe had thought it over, the more he’d wanted to try it out. He’d called a friend at the Denver Post, and the resulting article in last Sunday’s paper had not only highlighted the “priceless” reputation the statue had always had for answering prayers, but it had also mentioned that G. W. Securities had designed a premier alarm system for its protection. Evidently the combination of information had lured the thief into planning an attempt on the statue, just as he’d hoped.

The timing had surprised him. It was still two days until Valentine’s Day, and the press as well as the law enforcement agencies had been expecting the thief to strike then. But the moment that Father Mike had called to tell him about the note, he’d sent the priest to the FBI office to update Nick Guthrie and he’d rushed up here.

Now, with the statue’s help …

He mentally said a prayer, and then he just listened. There was nothing but the muted howling of the storm outside. His eyes had fully adjusted to the dim light, and he saw nothing in his peripheral vision that seemed out of place in the shadows.

His guess was that the thief had found a place to hide. His gaze went immediately to the door of the choir loft. It was open. Slipping quietly away from the altar, he moved along the side wall of the church until he reached the door.

For a moment, he paused and listened hard.

Nothing.

Then he heard it, the scrape of wood against wood, and he felt a draft of icy cold air. Pushing through the door, he ran into the room.

The blow caught him by surprise. Pain exploded in his head and icy water poured down the collar of his shirt. With stars spinning in front of his eyes, he stepped to the side and the kick aimed for his groin glanced off his thigh.

Off balance, he threw himself forward and took his opponent to the ground. They rolled across the marble floor, each struggling for an advantage. A table overturned and glass shattered. He was on the bottom when their bodies slammed into a wall.

Hands closed around his throat and cut off his air. Vision blurring, Gabe gripped his attacker’s waist and bucked upward. The hands loosened around his throat, and Gabe reared up and butted heads with his opponent. Pain zinged through his skull, but it did the trick. He was suddenly free.

Scrambling up, he ran after his opponent. He would have been successful if his feet hadn’t suddenly shot right out from beneath him. He fell backward, heard the crack as his head struck a counter. Then another explosion of pain blacked out everything.

NICOLA DUCKED HER HEAD and fought her way into the wind. Icy pellets stung her skin, and the boots that had been entirely appropriate for a day in the Denver office were no match for the snow that came closer to her knees as she moved forward.

Using her hand to shield her eyes, she checked on the SUV’s location and adjusted her course. The headlights of the parked vehicle were all she could see now and they were helpfully aimed toward the long flight of steps that led to the front door of the church.

Everything else was totally engulfed in darkness and snow. When she reached the SUV, she leaned against it for a moment to catch her breath. Then she checked the license plate.

She felt a lot more than a tingle now. This confirmed it was Gabe Wilder’s car. The plate numbers were as familiar to her as the details of the file she’d been compiling on him for nearly three months. She’d been right. From the first moment her dad had assigned her to gather research on the case, she’d been sure that Gabe had to be involved.

It wasn’t just the fact that the thief was using his father’s M.O., nor that Gabe’s firm had handled the security for each victim. There was something about Gabe Wilder that just … fit. She knew what it was like to want desperately to follow in your father’s footsteps—and to have to sometimes disguise that desire. But a person couldn’t do that forever.

Just then the headlights went off. Was it one of those models where that happened automatically? Just to make sure … she felt her way along the side of the vehicle and pulled open the driver’s door.

Empty.

He had to be in the church. Circling around the SUV, she pulled out her flashlight and headed toward the stairs. Finally, she was going to have a face-to-face meeting with Gabe Wilder, and she had no idea what he looked like. At least not anymore. The last time she’d seen him he’d been thirteen and she’d been ten.

As she gripped the iron railing and started up the long flight of stone steps, she let her mind return to those six months of her life when her stepmother had taken her every Saturday to the St. Francis Center. Charitable works were high on Marcia Thorne Guthrie’s list.

The St. Francis Center had been located in a brick storefront building in downtown Denver. The first time she’d seen Gabe, she’d been standing in the small prayer garden that sat like a tiny oasis between the main building and a fenced in basketball court. He’d been tall with longish dark hair and scruffy jeans, and he’d had bad boy written all over him. At first he’d totally ignored her as he’d dribbled, jumped and sent the ball flying through the hoop again and again and again.

It had been Father Mike’s idea for her to weed the garden while Marcia shelved donated books in the library. But she’d never gotten to the weeds. She hadn’t been able to take her eyes off of Gabe Wilder.

Of course, she’d read all about his father, the notorious art thief, and how he’d died in prison. And she’d overheard her father speak about Gabe—about how hurt and angry he was. She’d known that he was at the center so that Father Mike could save him.

That’s what Father Mike did—he saved bad boys. Most of the ones who came to the center shared Gabe’s reputation. They came from all walks of life—some from the streets, some from the wealthiest Denver families—but as Marcia had put it: “Until they came to Father Mike, they were trouble with a capital T.”

And that was exactly what Gabe Wilder had appeared to be. Trouble. She could see the anger and recklessness in the way he handled the ball. But she could also see a passion for the game. And it fascinated her. He fascinated her.

Suddenly he’d turned to face her. “What are you staring at?”

Nicola recalled that she’d swallowed hard and finally managed to blurt out, “You.”

Bouncing the ball, he’d moved a few steps closer.

“Why?”

A part of her knew that she shouldn’t even be talking to him. She should be weeding. But she hated gardening and basketball looked like it would be so much more fun.

She drew in a deep breath and let it out. “Because you’re great at basketball.”

He turned and sent the ball whooshing through the hoop. Then he turned back to her. “You know how to play?”

“No.” Basketball was not on Marcia’s list of approved activities. Painting lessons, piano, ballet—those were.

To her utter amazement and delight, he’d sent the ball twirling on the tip of his finger. “I could teach you.”

“No, I—I couldn’t …” She knew very well that her stepmother hadn’t brought her here to play basketball with one of the center’s boys. But something in his eyes was tempting her, daring her.

“Why not?” he asked.

Why not indeed? It wasn’t as though her stepmother was here watching her. And she did want to play. So much.

He bounced the ball again. “Look,” he’d said, impatience clear in his tone. “I got friends coming in an hour. Want to shoot a few or not? “

Nicola could still recall the tingling sensation that had streamed through her whole body as she’d raced through the garden gate and onto the court.

“Ready?” Gabe had asked.

And when she’d nodded, he’d tossed her the ball.

After that, she’d played basketball with him every Saturday morning for an hour before his friends Nash and Jonah had shown up. That was always when Father Mike had come out to call her back into the center.

When Marcia had discovered what had been going on, she hadn’t been pleased. Basketball was a boys’ game. But Nicola hadn’t ever regretted those Saturdays. Gabe had teased her, tormented her and endlessly critiqued her game. But she’d learned. Playing basketball had been her first rebellion against the kind of woman Marcia wanted to mold her into. In an odd way, she owed Gabe Wilder, she supposed. If it hadn’t been for him, she might never have found the courage to take a stand in high school and try out for the basketball team.

Who knew? If it hadn’t been for Gabe, she might not have rebelled against Marcia’s and her father’s wishes even further and become an FBI agent.

Having finally reached the top of the church steps, Nicola stepped into a portico that partially shielded her from the force of the wind. She hadn’t seen Gabe Wilder for more than fifteen years—in spite of the fact that her last act on leaving the St. Francis Center for Boys had been to say a quick prayer to St. Francis that she would.

Some prayers went unanswered, and some bad boys couldn’t be saved.

She’d just reached the door of the church when she heard it. A crash? It was muffled by the wind, but Nicola was certain she’d heard something. Glass shattering? She recalled the picture in the Denver Post of the statue of St. Francis standing in its supposedly shatter-proof glass dome.

As she pulled out her gun, she ran her flashlight over the door and saw that it stood ajar. After slipping through the narrow opening, she paused again. There was illumination that wasn’t coming from her flashlight. Candles. She spotted the blur of light at the front of the church to her left.

She’d barely taken two steps up the center aisle when she heard another noise. This time there was no doubt about it—glass shattering.

After pocketing her flashlight, Nicola raised her gun and raced forward. As she neared the front of the church, she thought she spotted movement near those candles on the side altar. Then she saw it—a shadowy silhouette standing in front of the altar, its hands outstretched.

“Stop.” She gripped her gun with both hands as she cut around the front row of pews. “FBI. Raise your hands.”

A body rammed into her and she fell, landing backside first on the floor, then sliding into the first row of pews. Her head cracked against the wood and for a second, all she saw was stars.

“Stop.” She scrambled to her feet and raced down the aisle after the fleeing shadow. Without breaking stride, she raised her gun again and steadied it with her other hand. “Stop or I’ll shoot.”

He kept on running.

She fired her weapon just as the darkness swallowed the shadow. Sprinting after him, she reached the front door of the church just in time to hear the motor of the SUV rev up. Then it lurched forward.

She ran out onto the front steps. As the wind whipped her breath away, she gripped her gun in both hands and took aim, but the tail lights dimmed as the vehicle gained speed. Then even those vanished into the falling snow.

A mix of anger and disappointment welled inside of her as she lowered her weapon. More than anything, she wanted to fight her way back to her car. But there was no way she could give chase. Not in this kind of weather. Even in that SUV, Gabe Wilder would be a lucky man if he could drive down off the mountain without spinning into a ditch.

But at least this time, she had proof that he’d been at the scene of the crime. He was connected to the thefts all right. She had to fill her father in. Pulling out her cell phone, she glanced at the time. Nine-fifteen—barely ten minutes since she’d left her car.

And the signal was dead. She looked back at the open door of the church. Hopefully, there was a landline inside. Wilder might deny being here, but she’d have more than a gut feeling when she talked to her father this time, and he’d have to listen to her.

And Gabe Wilder would have some explaining to do. She’d identified herself as FBI and he hadn’t stopped.

Suddenly, Nicola frowned. Of course, she could only accuse Gabe Wilder of leaving a crime scene if there’d been a crime.

Hunching her head against the wind, she fought her way back to the open church door. Once inside, she pulled it shut, locked it and reholstered her gun.

She located a light switch, but nothing came on when she flipped it. Not surprising. The storm must have knocked out the power lines. That had to be why it was so cold. The moment she turned her flashlight on, she could see her breath in the frigid air.

She hurried toward the side altar. The statue of St. Francis was still there, standing on the narrow altar completely enclosed in a glass case just as it had appeared in the photo. So that hadn’t been what she’d heard breaking.

Then she felt it—a prickling at the back of her neck telling her that she was not alone in the church. Pulling out her gun, she turned, listening hard as she scanned the shadowy darkness behind her. But Gabe Wilder couldn’t have come back. Not this fast. And she’d locked the door.

Keeping her gun at the ready, she ran the beam of her flashlight over the floor. No sign of broken glass. It wasn’t until she climbed to the top step of the altar that she spotted the second statue, and her heart skipped a beat.

After setting her gun and her flashlight down, she lifted it and set it on the altar. Then she picked up her weapon and ran the beam of light over both statues. They seemed to match perfectly. Both carved in beautiful Italian marble. The would-be thief had brought along an excellent forgery, but instinct had her gaze returning to the one under the glass dome. She was betting that one was the real deal. Though she hadn’t seen it in over fifteen years, there was the same look on its face, the one that lured you into trusting.

Nicola gathered her thoughts. She still hadn’t found any broken glass—or any explanation for the sounds she’d heard when she’d first entered the church. Turning away from the statue, she raised her gun, and moved away from the altar. No sign of glass anywhere. A brief fan of her flashlight showed a door along the side wall.

She moved toward it. The cold blast of air hit her just as she spotted the boots. Work boots, well worn on the soles and scuffed on the toes. As she stepped into the room, her flashlight caught the rest of him, and her stomach knotted. The man was sprawled full-length on the hard marble floor.

And he wasn’t moving.

3

AS SHE DROPPED to her knees next to the man, Nicola absorbed other details. His legs were long and clad in black jeans. She noted the narrow waist, broad chest and shoulders. He wore a black T-shirt and an open Paul Bunyan-style plaid flannel shirt. It was rolled halfway up muscular forearms.

His face was cast in shadow. But the beam of her flashlight caught pale skin, dark hair, a strong nose and chin, a slash of cheekbones.

Recognition flickered at the edge of her mind, then faded when she saw the nasty-looking gash on the side of his forehead. Blood had already pooled on the marble floor beneath his head.

Nicola’s stomach knotted again. His skin was too pale, his body too still. Setting down her gun, she balanced her flashlight to point upward. Then she slipped her hand beneath the collar of the plaid shirt and felt for a pulse.

She found one.

As it pushed strong and steady against her fingers, she let out a breath she hadn’t even known she was holding. Whoever he was, he was still alive. And someone had worked hard to bring him down. The man was big. But his skin was cold and clammy.

And wet. So was his shirt. So were her slacks, for that matter. Then she noted for the first time the shards of broken glass and the flowers—a spray of red roses that lay strewn across the marble floor. The blood that had pooled around his head and shoulders was mixed with water from the broken vase.

Who was he? A janitor? The driver of that other car? Had he surprised Gabe Wilder when he was trying to steal the statue? But now wasn’t the time to deal with any of those questions. When she glanced at him again, she once more felt a flicker of recognition, but she couldn’t quite remember.

His cut needed attention. And if she didn’t want him to go into shock, she was going to have to find a way to keep him warm.

Nicola took off her coat and tucked it as best she could around the unconscious man. It barely reached his knees. She slipped out of her suit jacket and pulled her silk T-shirt over her head. Folding it carefully into a square, she pressed it to the cut on the side of his forehead.

Finally, she placed her free hand on the side of his face and leaned closer. “Hey, can you hear me?”

No response.

She patted her palm firmly against his cheek. “You’re going to be all right.”

At least she was praying he would be.

Reaching for his hand, she drew it onto his chest and covered it with her own. Not an easy job. His palm was much larger than hers, his fingers long. They might have belonged to an artist, a pianist perhaps, except the backs of those long fingers were callused.

And they were cold. So was she. The draft of air she’d felt when she’d first entered the room was growing more frigid by the second. Glancing around, she spotted the open window and scrambled up to close it. Then she returned to her knees beside the injured man and took his hand again. Squeezing his fingers, she raised her voice. “Can you hear me?”

His eyelids fluttered. She noticed for the first time how dark his lashes were, how long.

“Come on. Open your eyes.”

He did. For an instant, as his gaze locked on hers, the punch of awareness and the flare of heat in her belly stole her breath away.

She’d seen this man before. He’d been in her father’s office on the day after Thanksgiving. And he’d had the same effect on her then. Even through a glass wall, even at a distance of twenty-five feet, she’d felt the impact of his gaze like a punch. He’d made her lose track of everything.

“Cur …?”

The sound was little more than a gasp. Cur? It made no sense to Nicola. But it allowed her to shove the memory away and focus her attention on the injured man. She drew in a breath and felt her lungs burn.

“Head … hurts …” His fingers linked with hers and tightened.

This time when she met his eyes, she checked to see whether or not they were dilated. They weren’t. Even in the dim light from her flashlight, she could distinguish clearly between the pinpoint of black at the center and the cloudy gray of his irises.

Then his lids drifted shut.

“Does it hurt anywhere else?” she asked. She had to find that out. And it was much safer to concentrate on that task than on what she’d just felt. Or what she’d felt that day in the FBI office.

But in the three months since it had happened, she hadn’t been able to rid her mind of the memory. From the moment she’d walked into the office she’d been aware of him, but it hadn’t been until his eyes had met hers that he’d registered fully on her senses.

And he’d registered fully all right. She was sure the impact might have been caught on a Richter scale—if there’d been one handy. Part of what she was feeling, she’d recognized—that tingling sensation that always told her something was just … somehow right.

But it had made no sense and it had never before made her feel as if the ground were dissolving beneath her feet. Not that she’d been able to feel her feet. All she could feel was him. And she’d wanted to feel more of him. Heat, glorious waves of it, had washed through her system. Every cell in her body had melted and yearned.

And when he’d risen to his feet in one fluid movement and taken a step toward her, she’d nearly run to him. Right through glass walls like some kind of superhero. The impulse had been so baffling, so totally insane, so verging on the irresistible that she’d finally found the strength to drag her gaze away from him.

And she couldn’t, she wouldn’t let him affect her that way again. Closing her eyes, she pulled in air, felt the burn in her lungs and then exhaled, and breathed in again.

Mental list time. When she opened her eyes, she checked the cut first and saw that the bleeding was slowing. After replacing the square of cloth, she slipped her fingers behind his head to check the back. The instant she touched the bump, he winced and made a sound.

So he’d suffered a double whammy to his head. No wonder he was woozy. Shifting her coat aside, she ran her hands on a quick journey from the back of his neck, down his arms. When he neither winced nor yelped again, she drew her palms from his shoulders to his waist, then from his hips down those long, long legs. The man was one solid wall of muscle.

And she still wanted him. There was no mistaking the heat that had flared to life deep inside of her as she’d run her hands over him. No controlling it, either. She knew what she was feeling. She wasn’t stupid, so she’d pegged it the first time she’d seen him. Lust. Pure and simple. And incredibly intense.

Whoever believed that lightning couldn’t strike twice was dead wrong. But wherever the lust had come from, it could just go back there. She had a job to do—a possible thief fleeing down a mountain, an injured man who was sliding into shock and two statues of St. Francis. Her plate was currently full.

She glanced down to where her hands still rested on his ankles. First step—she had to stop touching him. Releasing her grip, she was about to get to her feet when a sudden thought occurred to her. When she’d patted him down, she hadn’t felt a wallet. But she checked his pockets just to make sure. She located a cell phone, but nothing else.

Had Gabe Wilder taken this man’s wallet? Why?

She glanced back at his face. His eyes were closed now, and he looked even paler. She had questions, but he was in no condition to answer.

Fishing in her coat pocket, she located her cell and tried again.

Nothing.

Then she stared at the time. Nearly nine-thirty. Rising, she glanced around the small room and spotted the landline on a counter. There was no dial tone when she lifted the receiver. Even if she’d been able to call 911, it would take help some time to arrive. So she was on her own.

Grabbing some candles she found next to the phone, she lit them. Then she located a pile of linen towels and mopped up the water around his head and shoulders. Finally, she dropped to her knees and took his hand again. It was so cold. “It’s all right,” she murmured. “You’re going to be all right.” As if to reassure herself of that, she lifted her square of T-shirt again and checked the cut. It was clean and not very deep. “You probably won’t need stitches, and the bleeding has nearly stopped.”

And she doubted he heard a word she was saying. But when she tried to pull her hand away, his grip tightened again—as if she were his lifeline.

“Statue …” he murmured.

“It’s still here,” she said.

“Both …?”

“They’re both here.” Curious about how much he’d seen, she leaned closer. “What happened?”

He didn’t answer her this time, and a second later his hand went limp in hers. She felt the instant surge of panic and shoved it down. The steady rise and fall of his chest beneath their joined hands assured her that he was still with her.

For the moment.

“It’s going to be all right. It’s going to be all right.” And it was. It had to be. Step number one was to get him warm.

Shivering, she slipped back into the jacket she’d discarded earlier and buttoned it up; then she tucked her coat around him again. There had to be something in the closet that she could use to keep him warm.

Behind the first door she opened, she found choir robes hanging on hooks. Though they were a different color, they reminded her of the robe that St. Francis wore in the sculpture. She thought of the statue’s special prayer-answering powers. In spite of the fact that she’d tried praying to him once before without much success, she decided to give him a second chance.

“Help me keep him safe and well until I can get him medical attention,” she murmured. Then she started pulling robes off their hangers.

GABE STRUGGLED TO FIND his way to the surface again. He’d done it once, hadn’t he? Or had he just dreamed that he’d seen Curls leaning over him?

Focus.

His thoughts were spinning like little whirlpools—just out of reach. There was something important, something he needed to take care of. The statue … the effort it took to remember had pain stabbing his head again.

Okay. For a moment, he gave up, letting himself drift. And he saw her again.

Curls.

The moment her image took shape in his mind, his headache eased, and the memory slid into place. He let himself drift with it. He’d been at the St. Francis Center shooting baskets, and he’d sensed someone watching him. Not his friends, Nash and Jonah, who never made it to the center until noon. And sure enough, there she’d stood in the small garden beside the basketball court, her hands wrapped around the narrow poles in the wrought-iron fence. She’d looked like a prisoner. Perhaps that’s what had appealed to him, what had triggered a sense in him that they were kindred spirits.

Because at that time, he’d felt like a prisoner, too, trapped in promises that he wasn’t sure he wanted to keep. He’d stood beside his mother’s bed holding his father’s hand as they’d both sworn their vows. He’d promised to never follow in his father’s footsteps, and his father had promised to give up his lifelong profession.

But the promise hadn’t done his father much good. Raphael Wilder had been falsely accused and convicted, and he’d died shortly after in prison.

So why should he bother to keep his promise? That was the question he’d been asking himself as he’d lunged, dribbled and shot basket after basket. And all the time she’d watched him. When he’d finally wheeled to confront her, it had been her eyes that had captured him.

He’d seen admiration and hero worship in them. Those had been balm to the raw, angry feelings of a thirteen-year-old who’d been newly orphaned.

So he’d taught her what he’d known about the game, and no teacher could have dreamed of a more responsive student.

The memory blurred for a moment. That wasn’t what he should be thinking about. There was something else. Something important. Urgent. When he reached for it, pain pierced like a fiery arrow.

Curls.

This time when the image surfaced, it wasn’t the child who had enchanted him, saved him when he was thirteen, but the woman who had gripped his hand and said that everything would be all right.

And it would be. He let out the breath he’d been holding and slipped under again.

TO PREVENT HER TEETH from chattering, Nicola clamped them together as she dragged the last choir robes out of the closet and added them to the pile at the injured man’s feet. Thank heavens there’d been a generous supply. And they were heavy.

In spite of her efforts to keep her mind on the task at hand, she couldn’t prevent herself from thinking about her reaction to the man. At twenty-six, she was no stranger to desire or lust. She’d had her moments and thoroughly enjoyed them. But those feelings had never flared quite so quickly or intensely before.

And she didn’t seem to have any control over them. Each time she’d added to the pile of robes, she hadn’t been able to prevent herself from looking at him. And each time she did, she felt that catch of her breath, that flare of heat.

There was no logic to it. There hadn’t been from the beginning.

He was a stranger. But her heart was pounding. And in spite of her determination, her mind kept spinning back to those moments in her office and just minutes ago when he’d looked into her eyes and her thoughts had clicked off just as completely as if someone had thrown a switch.