hrough the door, she hesitated, wondering if she should go back to the main gallery or wait where she was for Blake. It was rather eerie being in this back hallway alone, even knowing that so many people were gathered nearby. Didn’t any of these glittering, artsy-type women ever need to...
A sound from a room just down the hall made her turn in that direction.
“Blake?” she whispered. “Is that you?”
A loud thump came from the room. It sounded to Tara’s suddenly active imagination like a body hitting the floor. She swallowed, telling herself she was being ridiculous. She was in an art gallery, for heaven’s sake.
Lifting her chin and wrapping herself in the courage she’d developed through years of battling the IRS for her clients, she moved toward the open doorway of the room from which she’d heard the odd noises. If she didn’t find Blake there, she would assume he’d gone into the gallery without her.
The first thing she saw when she stepped into what appeared to be a private office was the body lying on the floor.
To her horror, Tara recognized the portly little man with the toupee, the one who’d approached her and Blake earlier at the McCauley painting. Botkin’s formerly florid face was now bleached of color, his toupee knocked askew so that it barely covered his balding scalp. The front of his once pristine white shirt was now stained red.
Instinctively, Tara dropped her purse and knelt beside him. “Can you hear me?”
He groped weakly at her jacket with one pudgy hand, tugging at the fabric. His mouth moved as if he were trying to speak, but nothing emerged except a ragged groan.
“Don’t try to talk,” Tara advised him urgently. “I’ll get help.”
“They knew...” he gasped. “The paintings were...”
The man’s hand fell heavily to the floor. His eyes rolled back. A chill crawled down Tara’s spine, along with a horrible suspicion that she had just watched a man die.
Her stomach lurched. She surged to her feet, her mouth open to scream for help.
Two very large, very strong arms came around her from behind, and before she could react, she found herself pinned against someone big, solid, and unmistakably menacing.
2
A HEAVY HAND covered Tara’s mouth before she could cry out. She resisted automatically, futilely struggling to break free from the man’s shackling arms.
“Who the hell are you?” a gravelly voice demanded in her ear. “And what are you doing here? What did he say to you?”
She managed to turn her head and look him straight in the face. She memorized his features in one searching glance before he cursed and turned her head away from him again.
“I guess it doesn’t matter what he said,” her attacker muttered. “You won’t be telling anybody.”
She couldn’t breathe. His massive hand covered her nose as well as her mouth, effectively blocking her air. Her vision started to blur. Tara clawed at his hand, but he hardly seemed to notice her frantic movements.
Silently, she screamed Blake’s name.
Someone rushed at them from behind. She heard something solid smash against the head of the man holding her. He fell like a boulder, nearly taking her down with him. steadying hands caught her arms. “Are you all right?” Blake demanded, holding her on her feet.
Gasping for breath, she nodded. “What—?”
The sound of running footsteps made Blake stiffen.
“Let’s go,” he said, pushing Tara somewhat roughly toward the door. “Now!”
“But...”
“Tara, move.”
Something in his voice made her respond without further argument. She allowed him to take her hand and pull her out of the office. A man in a dark suit stood at the left end of the hallway, blocking their path to the main gallery. He held something shiny in his hand.
Blake turned right, almost dragging Tara after him as he ran down the hallway and through another office. He shoved open a door, which led outside to an alley.
“Blake—”