The Art Of Deception, Book Two, Stolen Hearts series, Romantic Suspense

By Kate Kelly

Cold, hard facts make a case, but there’s nothing cold or hard about FBI Agent Vince Gage's prime suspect, Sophie Pascotto. Despite incriminating evidence and that his job is at risk. Gage can’t convince himself Sophie is guilty. He struggles to balance the facts, but there’s one fact he can’t ignore, he’s falling in love with Sophie.

Someone has set up Sophie and her brother to take the fall for art forgery and drug smuggling. When Gage discovers Sophie has received death threats, he convinces her they need to work together. Sophie soon realizes beneath his tough cop exterior lurks a kind man. This Gage is much more dangerous because he engages her heart. With her family under suspicion for forgery, the last person she should become involved with is a by-the-book FBI agent.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kate Kelly
• Release date: Sep 6, 2011
• ISBN: 9781466065390

Kate Kelly

Kate Kelly has had a life-long love affair with books, but writing came in fits and starts. She didn't take it seriously until her forties. Now she can't get along without it. She has the good fortune to live on the east coast of Canada with her husband (the children have flown away). She writes, grow herbs and perennials and sails when the wind blows her way.

Book preview

The Art of Deception

By

Kate Kelly

Smashwords Edition

The Art of Deception - Copyright 2011 - Kathryn J Kelly

Smashwords Edition License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.

This book is a work of fiction. With the exception of recognized historical figures, the characters in this novel are fictional. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Cold, hard facts make a case, but there’s nothing cold or hard about FBI Agent Vince Gage's prime suspect, Sophie Pascotto. Despite incriminating evidence and that his job is at risk. Gage can’t convince himself Sophie is guilty. He struggles to balance the facts, but there’s one fact he can’t ignore--he’s falling in love with Sophie.

The Art of Deception

Chapter One

The whole damned set-up was wrong. FBI Agent Vince Gage paused at the bottom of the stairs to inspect the discreetly lit bar. The smell of wine, expensive Scotch and Friday night anticipation hung over the dark, cave-like room.

Why hadn’t his partner, Spencer, arranged to meet the woman at the office instead of here? It wasn’t right. If you thought someone was guilty, you hauled them in and grilled them. Inviting folks to the imposing building that currently housed the FBI tended to put a good scare into them, and in his experience, a scared suspect was a talkative suspect.

His gaze skimmed over the cool, slim blond sitting alone at the bar, moved on to the crowded tables of men and women, the usual Boston fare, all looking much the same in their suits, their slim laptop bags resting by their feet. He shifted his attention to the darkest corner of the room where a woman’s smoky laugh mingled with the rowdy guffaws and snickers of her companions.

He tightened his mouth in resignation. A laughing, disheveled woman perched herself on her boyfriend’s knee and planted a noisy kiss on the guy’s mouth. Sophia Pascotto, Spencer’s suspect. His suspect, as of an hour ago.

His gaze drifted to the blond at the bar. Six months ago, he would have taken a few minutes to chat with her, maybe get a phone number.

Another roar of laughter rose from Pascotto’s table. Her boyfriend had dumped her on the floor where she sprawled, laughing and waving her arms in the air.

Spencer owed him big time for this one. It was bad enough having to put his Friday night plans on hold at the last minute, but to take over someone else’s case–-especially Spencer’s.

Gage strode to the back of the room, stopping short of trampling on the giggling woman. Sophia Pascotto?

She grabbed his hand to pull herself up. His fingers, suddenly thick and clumsy, fumbled for her wrist. Her bones felt as delicate and insubstantial as the small bird’s skeleton he’d once discovered in his back yard.

Sophie. Only my mother calls me Sophia. She plowed a hand through her short, dark hair, flattening the right side while the left stood at erratic attention. You’re a big one, aren’t you? Her gaze traveled slowly up his body and stopped at his face. A mischievous glint sparkled in her rich brown eyes. FBI, I presume?

FBI? What’s this about? The rangy, long-haired man who had dumped her on the floor tugged on her arm.

She yanked her arm free, her eyes glued to Gage’s face. Chance Spencer? You sounded much better looking on the phone.

Gage tried not to wince. That would be Spencer. There wasn’t a female around he couldn’t charm. Spencer’s wife decided to have their baby tonight. He asked me to meet you. My name is Vince Gage.

She tilted her head to one side as she checked him out again. Vince sounds too tame. I’ll call you Gage.

Most people do. He bit back the beginning of a smile. She reminded him of the scruffy terrier he’d owned as a child, playful until someone threatened those close to him. Scrapper hadn’t lasted long in his house.

Cut her loose from her friends and get on with it. If he made this fast, he just might get home before the ball game finished. Can we can find a quieter place to talk? I’d like to ask you a few questions.

Would someone care to tell me what’s going on? Sophie’s boyfriend unwound from his chair and inserted himself between Sophia and Gage. Cool suit, dude. Do they issue the threads with your badge and gun? These guys all look the same. He tossed the last comment over his shoulder to the three men and the woman who sat at the table watching with rapt attention.

Just what he needed to polish off his week–a crackerjack. Gage undid the button on his suit jacket and slid his hands into his pants pockets, pushing his jacket back far enough to display the FBI badge clipped to his inside pocket as well as the gun nestled in his shoulder holster. Before he could deliver his nothing-to-get-excited-about speech, Sophia tugged her boyfriend back.

Quit it, Ciro. He wants to ask me a few questions about the supplies I buy from The Palette. It’s nothing. Since when did you do the big brother trip?

Big brother trip? Gage didn’t think so. Sophia’s amused look indicated either Ciro hadn’t staked his claim yet, or Sophia–Sophie–Pascotto was adept at deflecting men’s advances. Gage gave an inward nod of acknowledgment. He liked women who could take care of themselves.

I buy supplies at The Palette, too. Are you going to question me? The woman at the table behind Ciro stared at his gun before slowly raising her gaze to his as she pushed her full bottom lip into a pout. Her straight black hair fell to her shoulders, grazing a poppy red top that clung to her generous curves.

Just Ms. Pascotto tonight. He tried to grin, but his face felt stiff as if he’d forgotten how to smile at a sexy lady. Man, his life sucked.

He turned his attention back to Sophie. She couldn’t be five feet tall, if that. Her faded orange sweatshirt slid off one shoulder revealing the delicate line of her collarbone and the thin white strap of her T-shirt.

A vague ache gnawed at his gut. He ignored it, nodded toward the stairs. I saw a coffee shop across the street. This will only take a half hour or so.

Without looking away from him, Sophie reached behind her and groped for Ciro’s wine glass. Agent Vince Gage had incredible eyes. Cerulean blue was the closest she could come to naming the color. They were as depthless and changeable as the sky. His broken nose and the scar above his right eye saved him from being poster-boy perfect.

Bad choice of words. There wasn’t an ounce of boyishness packed into FBI Agent Gage’s muscled frame. Everything about him was too much. His hair was too short, his eyes too blue. He stood well over six feet tall, and she bet his suit concealed muscles hardened from too many hours of working out.

Slow Burn. If she ever painted a portrait of this man that’s what she’d call it. There was a stillness about him that suggested an unnerving control. God help whoever was around when he lost it.

What are you doing? Ciro’s snarl pulled her attention away from the FBI agent.

Drinking your wine. She raised the glass and managed to drink half of it before Ciro clamped his hand around her wrist.

You’re asking for trouble, chickie. You’ve already had two of those. He exerted pressure on her arm until she set the half-finished wine on the table.

She kept her fingers around the stem of the glass, pushed his hand away, then picked up the wine and downed the rest of it. Don’t call me chickie. She shoved the empty glass on the table and grabbed her heavy leather satchel.

Ciro snorted and turned to Gage. Booze and Sophie don’t mix well. Maybe I should come with you.

Ignoring both men in front of her, she sketched a wave to her friends at the table and headed for the stairs. She stumbled once, righted herself, and continued toward the exit, certain Mr. FBI would follow. The heat of the alcohol rushed through her, and she started humming a dirty little ditty her brother had taught her years ago.

Her brother.

She spun around and collided with a solid wall of male flesh. Huge, capable hands caught her as she slowly tipped sideways. All those man smells, cologne, shaving cream, the underlying scent of maleness surrounded her as she gripped hard, muscular arms. Agent Gage smelled delicious.

She looked up. Either I’m going to have to get stilts or we sit down to talk. My neck’ll get a crick in it if I have to look up at you.

The stern line of his mouth softened, and she thought he was going to smile, but he didn’t. Are you really drunk?

Not yet. She peeked around his solid body, back toward her friends and shouted the length of the bar. "Ciro, if Raphael turns up, tell him I’ll be home later.

Okay. Let’s go. On the third stair, Gage’s hand engulfed her elbow as if to steady her. She thought of pulling away, but decided against it. Ciro was right. She was a stupid chickie. Alcohol turned her into a chatterbox, which was not the best state to be in while being questioned by the FBI. But, oh how she hated people telling her how to behave.

Halfway up the stairs, she stopped and dug into her satchel for her sunglasses. The worst thing about happy hour in spring is it’s still daylight when you go outside. Why do you suppose they keep bars so dark? She twisted around to face him, sunglasses in hand.

Standing on the stair above him, she stared at the perfect knot in his navy tie. Of course his tie was tied perfectly. She couldn’t imagine him looking rumpled or sweaty, or....

Are you married? She shoved her sunglasses on, embarrassed by her impertinence. Stop playing your stupid games. The man was an FBI agent, for heaven’s sake. She didn’t have to work at pushing him away, because a cop was not going to be attracted to someone like her. Thank God.

I thought I was the one who was supposed to ask the questions. His mouth compressed into sterner lines as he wrapped his large hand around her elbow again and steered her up the stairs.

When they emerged on to the busy sidewalk she hitched her satchel further up on her shoulder and stepped to the curb, the coffee shop directly across the street from them.

Gage tugged her back. We’ll use the crosswalk.

You’ve got to be kidding. The crossing is way the hel...dickens down there. Wonderful. Five minutes in his company, and she was using crosswalks and trying not to swear.

She yanked her elbow out of his firm grip. I can manage by myself. Then turned and plowed into two businessmen hurrying in the opposite direction. The now familiar feel of Gage’s hand settled on her shoulder as he steadied her. When she shrugged his hand away, she heard him sigh.

If you want to get yourself trampled or run over, that’s fine, but could you wait until I’ve asked you a few questions? Still wearing his I-mean-business look, he grabbed her arm again propelled her along the crowded sidewalk.

Had the Grim Agent--cousin, she was sure, to the Grim Reaper--just made a joke? You’d never know it by the way he stalked along beside her.

Do you dye your eyelashes and eyebrows?

He stumbled, his hold on her elbow tightening. What?

They’re dark. Not really black, but close. And your hair’s blond. I was just wondering.... Her voice trailed off as he stared at her as she’d just been beamed in from outer space. It was a reasonable question. She had friends who dyed, tattooed and be-ringed just about every part of their bodies.

He wiped his hand over his face, looked around him as if it was his first time in Boston, then squared his shoulders. Who’s Raphael? he asked.

My twin brother.

For the briefest of seconds, he closed his eyes. I don’t dye my eyelashes, he said after a minute. Or my eyebrows, the hair on my head, or on any other part of my body.

She curled her tingling toes inside her sneakers and tried not to think about any part of his body, dyed or not. All she had to do was answer a few simple questions and be on her way. She could handle that–if she could keep her mouth shut long enough to let him ask the questions.

A few minutes later, Gage checked his watch as he settled into a chair by the coffee shop window. It’s seven, and I haven’t eaten. Are you hungry?

No. Sophie dragged her gaze away from the window.

He frowned across the table at her. She’d clammed up at the stoplight and hadn’t said a word since, as if the effervescent energy that sparkled out of her had suddenly dried up. He’d had to work hard at not laughing out loud at some of her antics. Dye his eyelashes. Geez.

You folks ready to order? A slender young man in black jeans and a white shirt stood at attention by their table.

Still serve breakfast? Gage asked.

Yes, sir.

Gage winced. He’d always figured it was his suit that encouraged people to call him sir, but lately he'd begun to wonder. Maybe it wasn’t what he wore, but something in his expression. I’ll have two eggs, scrambled, whole wheat toast and bacon. Coffee first. Gage turned to Sophie. Are you sure you’re not hungry?

Just coffee will be fine.

Gage considered adding an extra helping of toast, but dismissed the waiter with a wave of his hand. After the wine she’d drunk, Sophie probably needed to eat something, but according to the scant notes Spencer had scraped together, she was twenty-seven years old. Old enough to take care of herself.

A forlorn wail rose from the table behind him, and he turned to see a small, freckled-faced boy with bright red curls kneeling up on the bench seat and yowling as he pointed straight at him.

Gage looked around, spotted a little red toy convertible on the floor beside him, leaned over and scooted it back toward the boy’s table. The yowling stopped immediately, and Gage let out a long breath. Man. He felt up-tight tonight.

Turning his attention to Sophie, he pulled out his notebook and pen from inside his pocket, then took his wire rimmed glasses out and slipped them on. Let’s get the essentials out of the way first. Your full name is Sophia Pascotto and your address is.... He’d already checked her address, but often found it revealing to ask questions he knew the answer to.

Sophie cocked her head to one side and studied him. Again she reminded him of a bird. Not the dead one this time, but a small, startling alive one, her eyes bright with curiosity, half her hair still standing up while the other half lay plastered against her head, as if someone had ruffled her feathers.

He wanted to reach over and either smooth part of it down or run his fingers through the flat part to make it stand up. He raised his eyebrows. Your address?

My guess is you already know it. She squinted at him. Around kids a lot?

Never enough, it seems.

Are they for reading? She nodded at his glasses.

God help him. He couldn’t even get her to answer basic questions. He tossed his pen on the table and folded his arms over his chest. My glasses? Yeah, they’re for reading.

How old are you?

Old enough to need reading glasses. Are you going to tell me where you live?

In the North End. 156 Lewis Street. The top two floors. One for living, the top one for working.

Good. He started to ask another question, but the waiter appeared with his meal and two cups of coffee.

Gage sipped his coffee, welcoming the shot of caffeine as he waited for the young man to finish arranging everything.

You’re an art restorer? he asked once they were alone again.

Yes.

Tell me what an art restorer does.

Restores art.

He swallowed a mouthful of eggs, feeling more tired than hungry. He’d had a long, hard week, and he didn’t need this crap on a Friday night.

Have any idea why I’m questioning you? He caught her gaze and held it this time. Her eyes were dark enough to be almost black. She looked sober now, maybe afraid. A painting came in a few weeks ago, supposedly from Europe, he continued before she could answer. A Matisse. It’s a forgery.

Sophie shrugged her shoulders. So?

You’re right. Art forgery hardly compares to murder or acts of terrorism. He cut a piece of bacon and nodded as he chewed it. The only person hurt is the art dealer who sold the forgery. They have to give the client’s money back and suffer the damage to their reputation. And go to jail for a while. He watched Sophie filch a piece of his toast.

So what’s the big deal this time?

This time, the art dealer happens to be the wife of my boss. Special Agent Parker is the supervisor of the Boston FBI field office, and he’s mad as hell. He gulped his coffee to ease his tight throat muscles.

It was his rotten luck Spencer was taking a month off to spend time with Sarah and their new baby just as this case had opened up. After screwing up on his last case, Gage didn’t need his boss breathing fire down his neck.

Sophie now gnawed on his other piece of bacon. He pushed his plate across the table to her, his appetite gone.

Thanks. She pulled the plate closer and dug into the eggs as if she hadn’t eaten for a week. So, I guess your boss--what’s his name?

Parker.

Parker. Right. I guess he’ll be riding you hard until you find out who did the forgery.

Likely. He caught the waiter’s eye and pointed to his empty coffee cup. Who’s Moira Pascotto? Any relation of yours?

My mother. Why?

Just another name on my list. According to his notes, Spencer had already spoken to Sophie’s mother. That Sophie bought certain art supplies from a store called the Palette was the excuse Spencer had suggested using to ask questions about Moira Pascotto. He’d written con artist beside her name. Another one of Spencer’s intuitive guesses. Gage would do some serious fact gathering on Mrs. Pascotto come Monday.

Would you bring me another order of toast, please? Sophie smiled at the waiter as he refilled their coffee cups.

The address you gave me in the North End, that's an expensive part of town. You make good money restoring paintings?

Sophie shrugged, her sweatshirt sliding off her shoulder again. He wished she