What had he seen in the painting that had made him so determined to have it?

She grabbed her robe and headed for the door. She turned on the gallery lights as she got out of the elevator. The first thing that jumped out at her was the oak door, now taken from its hinges and propped against the wall. They’d had to take the door down to remove Celine, and the opening was now only veiled in plastic. The police forensic team had taken the actual cross on which Celine had been nailed with them and said they’d pick up the heavy door on the next trip to check it for any additional evidence.

She found herself looking to see if she could see traces of blood on the wood.

She quickly averted her eyes and moved past the velvet ropes toward the painting.

Guilt.

Burning dark eyes, a bearded face twisted with torment. A painting of which she was very proud, but perhaps not one for which an art collector might pay an exorbitant sum.

“What are you doing down here?”

She turned to see MacDuff coming toward her. “I could ask the same of you. Where did you come from?”

“I was outside with Jock. I saw the lights go on.” He glanced beyond her at the painting. “It’s very good. Powerful.” He smiled. “But I prefer the one of MacDuff’s Run. You’re sure you won’t sell it to me?”

“Yes, I’m sure.” She took a step closer to the painting. “Now that you’re here, you might as well help me. That frame is heavy. Will you take the painting down for me?”

“It would be my pleasure.” He lifted the painting off the wall. “May I ask why?”

“I want to look at the frame and see if it’s been tampered with. Set it against the wall.” She knelt to examine it. “Someone offered Celine much too much money for Guilt this evening. Some computer billionaire. She said he was very persistent. I’m wondering why.”

“Tastes in art can become obsessive. Maybe he thought it was worth it to him.”

“Or maybe someone managed to insert something into the frame that he wanted to retrieve. It seems more likely.”

MacDuff knelt beside her. “Where was the painting framed?”

“New York. I chose the frame.” She was running her hand over the decorative scrollwork. “But that doesn’t mean that after I got here it might not have been tampered with. You look at the other side.”

“I’m flattered you trust me.”

She didn’t answer. Everything seemed okay, but what did she know? Maybe she’d get lucky. She went carefully over the other sides of the frame.

“Nothing,” MacDuff said.

She sat back on her heels. “Call Venable. We need an expert to go over the painting and frame. In this world of microdots and all that other technical crap, nothing is what it seems.”

“You’re thinking that the attack had something to do with this painting?”

“How do I know? I’m grabbing at straws. There are holes in every theory I come up with. They had the keys to the gallery. Why not just come in and steal the painting if they wanted it? Or maybe those scumbags were going to take the painting after they killed me. All I know is that they had no reason to murder me so I have to search for some other cause. This is the only common thread I can find. The painting was in the article. And even Celine didn’t think that the offer for the painting was reasonable.” She determinedly blinked back sudden tears. “She didn’t care. She was just happy. Will you call Venable or shall I?”

“I’ll do it.” He reached for his phone. “And while I’m at it, I should probably probe a little into the man who offered for the painting. What was his name?”

“Donald Sarnoff. San Francisco.”

“Right.” He glanced down at her feet as he dialed the number. “You’re barefoot. Go get on some slippers.” Before she could tell him to mind his own business, he turned away and was talking on the phone to Venable.

Later.

She dropped down on the granite bench a few feet away. The stone was cold against her bare thighs. She was suddenly cold all over. The lights seemed glaringly bright, and the face of the man in the portrait of Guilt appeared threatening.

Crazy. She had painted that face. She had not used a model, and the creation had been born entirely from her imagination.

No, not entirely imagination.

There had been the dreams.

Dreams that had come every night. Dreams that would not go away until she had finished the painting.

She didn’t want to think about the dreams.

But she had never felt any sense of threat before. It had to be the stress of this terrible night that was playing tricks on her.

MacDuff turned away from the phone. “Venable will have an expert here within the hour.”

“I won’t let him take the painting. He’ll have to do the work here at the gallery.”

“I didn’t think you’d let it out of your sight. That’s what I told Venable. Didn’t you hear me?”

She shook her head.

He studied her. “No, I believe you’re holding on by a hair at the moment.” He took off his tweed jacket as he crossed the short distance separating them. “You’re shaking. Why couldn’t you just go to sleep and face all this tomorrow?” He knelt beside her and put the jacket around her shoulders. “Would it have been too much to ask? You’re a great deal of trouble to me, Jane MacGuire.”

The jacket was warm from his body, smelled faintly of spice and the outdoors and felt deliciously comforting. And, in spite of his words, his tone was also oddly comforting. Yet comfort wasn’t a word that she had ever thought of in connection with MacDuff. Forceful, domineering, charismatic, sometimes even amusing, were all apt descriptions. Never comforting.

No, that wasn’t right; years ago, she had watched him comforting Jock during one of the bad times for the boy. But then Jock was one of his people and therefore an exception to every rule. For anyone else, there could be a price to pay for any softness MacDuff showed them. “I couldn’t sleep. How could I? I started to go over in my mind all the possible reasons why I should have a gigantic target painted on my back.”

“And you came up with that less-than-cheerful painting.”

She nodded. “Guilt. It was in the newspaper story. Someone wanted it very badly at the show. Maybe it’s not really me. Perhaps those crazies think I have something that belongs to them.” She shook her head. “But I could very well be wrong. I know it’s pretty flimsy but it was the only thing I could think of.”

“It’s not all that flimsy. I’d say it was very canny reasoning.”

“Guessing.”

He smiled. “Then we’ll just have to see if it pays off.” He sat down beside her, put his arm around her shoulders, and pulled her close. He felt her stiffen and gave her a little shake. “You’re cold, and it makes me very frustrated not to be able to help you in some way. Could you not give in and forget your independence to make me feel better? Cousin to cousin?”

“I’m not your-” She stopped. She didn’t want to be independent right now. Independent meant alone, and she didn’t want to be alone. MacDuff’s arm around her shoulders felt strong and good. Let him call her cousin, sister, Great-aunt Fiona, or anything else he wanted. It didn’t matter.

Venable’s expert would be here soon. She would gather her stamina and be ready to face everything again by then. She relaxed against MacDuff and tried not to look at either the oak door where Celine had died or the face of Guilt before her.

“That’s better,” MacDuff said.

“Heaven forbid I make you frustrated, MacDuff.”

“Aye.” He smiled. “Heaven forbid.”

“I JUST HEARD FROM VENABLE,” MacDuff said as he walked out of the storage room where Venable’s art expert was working. “No computer billionaire named Donald Sarnoff from San Francisco. No entry records into this country for a Donald Sarnoff.”

“A phony,” Jane said. Excitement was beginning to pierce the veil of exhaustion that was surrounding her. “Why would he lie to Celine? Why would he offer that much money for the painting?”