“What the hell is going—”
She sauntered away, giving Alec another finger wriggle.
“Stop!” he demanded.
Thrilled by how quickly Alec connected the dots, she beamed.
Alec lunged. Spiker blocked the attack and quickly restrained the billionaire. Vanka positively floated off the ground, and with more badassery in her bones than she’d given herself credit for, she strutted down the white marble hall as though she’d been crowned queen for the day.
A thirty-meter search radius wasn’t nearly that complicated, and after passing into a room within a room, she found herself in an out-of-place study. The stark, shiny white marbles were replaced with thick carpet and solid, unmatched furniture.
“What do we have here . . .” No single aesthetic or time period dominated the space, though an enormous French empire desk anchored the room. Slowly, Vanka crossed to the antique piece. The marble-inlaid desktop and gilt-bronze ormolu scroll-work were worthy of a billionaire’s furniture collection. She examined the throne-like chair paired with the desk. Its gilt bronze inlay told a violent story with beautiful, poignant bloodlust that could only be attributed to Ares, the Greek god of war.
Certain that this was the room she had been looking for, Vanka seated herself on Alec’s throne and scrutinized the space. No mask. In actuality, this room was more understated than she’d initially registered. Perhaps that was due to the harsh modern whites that she’d left behind on the far side of the door.
Nothing noteworthy stood out. What the bloody hell was the point of this room? Ares and the Spartans—her gaze dropped onto the extravagant arms of the throne and excessive ormolu of the desk. “Napoleon.”
How appropriate. Vanka smirked. This room was an altar to Alec Oliver’s Napoleon-esque inferiority complex and a thesis-level argument for Spiker’s new money theory. If she were a tech bro with a confidence problem, she’d want a flashy display of her goods. Vanka checked the top drawer and saw a single button mounted in a bronze box. The design mimicked a panic alarm, but that wasn’t a practicality that the tech bro would have in this room.
She set it on the Napoleonic desk, settled against the Ares-inspired throne, and pushed the button. Sections of a wood-paneled false wall lifted with the slightest whisper. Lights illuminated Oliver’s collection, and in the center of the space, directly in front of the desk, was the Lacedaemonian Mask.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Alec Oliver fumed and cursed and muttered a laundry list of impotent threats. His shifty behavior ping-ponged between narcissistic rage and nervous distress. But he didn’t move from the very spot against the bright, white wall where Spiker had deposited him five minutes ago. They didn’t have all day, but he hoped that Vanka was enjoying herself, whatever she was doing. Spiker had a couple guesses, but given the day, and his life in general, he accepted the occasional blindsiding.
Oliver crossed his arms. “Your name isn’t Fagan, is it?”
“Nope.”
His nostrils flared. “Do you work for Buck Baer?”
“Nope.”
Oliver scowled as though whatever hypothesis he’d conjured up had just crashed and burned.
“Baer must know where all your skeletons are hidden.” Spiker chuckled and wondered who else had been assigned to research Oliver. Maybe no one had. Oliver and Baer had a growing symbiotic relationship. When had their paths crossed? “You’ve got to tell me something.”
“Go to hell.”
“I don’t know much about”—he gestured as if they were discussing what Oliver’s favorite shade of white might be—“the whole cuckold scene.”
Oliver’s nostrils flared again. His expression slowly stained the plummy red of Merlot, though Spiker couldn’t guess whether that was from abasement or wrath. “Fuck you.”
“Me?” He smirked. “I thought Mrs. Fagan was the one who had you worked up.”
“Get that woman and get out of my house.”
“As I said, I don’t know much. But I see you as a wannabe-alpha type. Treading like you’re a sadist, covering up a raging case of impostor syndrome.”
Oliver gnashed his teeth behind his thin lips. The nostril-flaring quickened.
Spiker knew he hovered close to the truth. “But I want to know about Buck. Is that his flavor of ice cream, too?”
Vanka’s approach caught both of their attention. Spiker kept Oliver within arm’s reach and pivoted. He’d never seen her with a luminescent smile so big and beautiful. “Did you have a nice walk?”
“I did.” She cradled an armful of white fabric to her chest. “Quite a few nice things to see.”
He gestured to her bundle. “And you found a souvenir?”
Instead of answering, she met Oliver’s gaze and antagonistically hummed. “More like I stumbled upon an old library book that needs to be returned.” She patted the fabric bundle. “But, I’ll make sure your curtain is returned in pristine condition.”
Spiker snorted. “That’s generous.”
“Thanks, but really, I feel like it’s good manners.”
Spiker laughed. God, he loved this woman. There was no one else like her in the universe.
“Fucking maniacs,” Oliver snarled. “I will have both of you killed.”
Spiker chortled.
“You’re good as dead!”
“Good luck with that.” Vanka glanced to Spiker. “I’m ready whenever you are.”
Oliver sputtered. “Do not—”
“Let’s roll, princess.”
They turned their backs to the billionaire. Not that Spiker trusted Alec Oliver wouldn’t attack. But if he did, it would be as obscenely dramatic as his attention-seeking eyesore of a purple castle. Easy enough to defend against, and given what Spiker was certain that Vanka had bundled in her arms, Oliver wouldn’t call the cops. All in all, this was far better than anything else he might’ve had planned.
The butler had made himself scarce, and they let themselves out the front door. “You did your good deed for the day.”
Adrenaline kissed her cheeks. “I did.”
They followed the sidewalk to the landscaping van and her Audi. Spiker waited for her to store the bundle in her trunk and marveled at what she had done—not her Robin Hood-inspired thievery, but that she’d hunted him down and staved off what would’ve been a big mistake. Spiker hadn’t planned to kill Oliver. That might’ve been a little much—then again, Oliver and Baer discussing plans to take her to bed . . . Spiker could make an argument on both sides.
Vanka shut the trunk. “Let me crank the cold air on.”
She opened the Audi and turned over the engine, then returned close to him. Her palms rested on his chest. His heartbeat tried to jump into her hands. The last few days had been the best of his life. But that wasn’t a fair assessment. The last several years had been the best in his life as well. “You need to know something, princess.”
“What’s that?”
He grinned. “I am in love with you.”
“Fantastic.” Her hands smoothed over his shoulders and locked behind his neck. “Because I am in love with you, too.”