“I’ve been living here alone for five years,” Tara answered gently.
“Not with a broken arm.”
Tara smiled weakly and patted her cast. “It’s not exactly a debilitating injury. I’m right-handed. And I have friends I can call if I need anyone. When I talked to my mother this morning and told her everything, she even offered to take a leave of absence from her job and move in with me for a while. It was all I could do to talk her out of it. One phone call and she’d be here in less than an hour.”
Stephanie looked torn. “You know Blake is sorry he couldn’t bring you home himself, don’t you? He really didn’t have any choice but to stay and wrap up his case. There were a zillion more questions he had to answer for the police, not to mention the insurance company.”
“I understand. I’m grateful to him for arranging for me to answer the questions they had for me so quickly this morning, so that I could come back to Atlanta this afternoon. And it was incredibly kind of Jeremy to lend us his private plane.”
“They both knew you were anxious to get home and check on everything here. And Jeremy thought it would be too uncomfortable for you to ride in a car for very long. He’s a really thoughtful guy.”
Tara held onto her smile with an effort. “Yes, he is. You and Blake are lucky to have him for a friend.”
“He’s your friend, too, now. He said so. And Jeremy doesn’t take friendship lightly, Tara. None of us do.”
“Neither do I, Stephanie. I’ll never forget how kind you’ve all been to me.”
“You’re sure there’s nothing else I can do?”
Tara shook her head. “Call a cab,” she urged. “One should be here within fifteen minutes. I’m going to take another pain pill and head straight for bed—my own bed,” she added with forced enthusiasm.
Stephanie left reluctantly. “If you need anything... anything at all...”
“I’ll call,” Tara promised. “Thank you again, Stephanie. For everything.”
Stephanie kissed her cheek. “Take care.”
“I will.”
“I’m sure Blake will be here as soon as he can.”
“Stop apologizing for Blake. He can speak for himself,” Tara said, trying to sound teasing.
Stephanie didn’t smile. “Just...be patient with him, okay? He’s never been in love before.”
Tara’s smile wavered, but she didn’t want to argue just then. “Goodbye, Stephanie,” she said.
“Not goodbye. See you later,” the other woman corrected her. And with that, she finally made her departure, leaving Tara alone for the first time in days.
Tara sighed and rested her head against the back of her couch. It was so quiet in her apartment, she thought. It felt so strange to be back here and not to be afraid that someone was looking for her.
It was even stranger to realize that she’d left her heart back in Savannah with a man who simply hadn’t known what to do with it.
She knew Blake had no choice but to remain behind when she left. He had a job to do, a case to finish.
He would always have another case. Another puzzle to solve. Another excuse for living in the shadows under assumed names and identities.
He was very good at his job. It was Blake who’d quietly gathered enough evidence for Doren to be charged with attempted murder, attempted kidnapping, assault, and who knew what else. Blake who’d found the supposedly stolen paintings hidden in Willfort’s house, who’d provided proof that Liz Pryce, Willfort’s clandestine lover for many years, had sold him the paintings for an exorbitant amount even though she’d suspected at the time that they were fakes.
Apparently, Liz Pryce had confessed the truth to Willfort when she’d learned of his plans to put the artwork on public display. He’d been furious enough with her to break off their relationship, but under threat of her going public and ruining his family-man political image, he’d agreed to keep quiet.
Willfort hadn’t been willing to risk having the paintings disclosed as fakes, however. He had his reputation as an art collector to consider—though Blake had said to Tara that Willfort was more of an artconnoisseur-wannabe than a true expert in the field. And, besides, he’d added, Willfort had been infuriated at the possibility that word would get out that he’d been so roundly duped by the woman with whom he’d been having an affair.
And so, Jackson Willfort had come up with the plan to report the paintings stolen. It might even have worked, had Botkin—a man with a great deal of bitterness and a private reason to want reprisal against Liz Pryce and Jackson Willfort—not found out the truth.
Afraid of making the accusation publicly, Botkin had contacted Blake, posing as an agent from the insurance company that carried the policy on the stolen paintings. Since Blake had conducted
some investigations for the same company on several previous cases, a couple of which had involved the art gallery in minor ways, it hadn’t been too difficult for Botkin to learn how to contact him. But Doren—one of Willfort’s personal and well-paid lackeys—had found out about the plan at the last minute, and had taken it upon himself to rush to his boss’s defense. Willfort swore he hadn’t known about the botched attempted murder.