Memories of his brutal failures wrapped their cold fingers around his heart, but he wouldn’t give Duchanes the satisfaction of showing a shred of vulnerability.
“I appreciate your concern,” Dorian said evenly. “But we’re not seeking an alliance at this time. Now if you’ll excuse me, I—”
“But I thought… Well, this is awkward. Malcolm assured me you’d be on board. Did he not speak with you?” He furrowed his brow in confusion, but the smug satisfaction dripping from his tone said it all.
He knew damn well Malcolm hadn’t discussed this with Dorian. Knew damn well the revelation would drive another nail into the coffin of the brothers’ already fraught relationship.
Next time aim for the heart, Mac. You’ll kill me faster that way.
Dorian gripped his drink so tightly, his fingertips turned white. No wonder Malcolm was so keen on pushing an alliance earlier; from the sound of it, he’d all but signed on the dotted line.
“Malcolm has neither the experience nor the authority to make deals for House Redthorne,” Dorian said, fighting to keep the bitterness from his tone. Then, with a smile that belied his anger, “But I’ll bring your proposition to my family for proper consideration.”
And prompt dismissal, you arrogant dick.
Before another calculated response could slip from Duchanes’ greasy lips, Dorian set his glass on the bar, turned his back on the bloodsucker, and stalked off in search of the only thing that could salvage an otherwise dreadful night.
Chapter Six
Safely out of view, Charley leaned against the door inside the study, blinking back tears of relief. Adrenaline coursed through her veins, her limbs trembling and hot.
Holy. Shit.
She couldn’t believe she’d taken it so far.
A million five? What was she thinking? Christ, Rudy would’ve had her executed if she called for a wire transfer like that. Her bids were primarily for show—all part of blending in, except on the rare occasion when Rudy wanted a piece for his personal collection. Sure, she would’ve loved to nab the Egyptian piece for Sasha—her sister was as obsessed with ancient art as she was with vampires—but even that was a fantasy. A million dollars, fifty-five thousand… For Charley, it was all the same.
Completely unreachable.
But something had overtaken her tonight, breaking through all the rules and boundaries that were supposed to keep her safe and on point.
It was that damned man. She couldn’t keep her head straight around him. Each time she told herself to walk away, something about him lured her right back in again—a dark magnetism she couldn’t escape.
From that first sighting in the lobby, he’d ignited something dangerous inside her.
Something that made her want to play with fire.
Fitting, since Rudy would burn me at the stake if he found out about this.
Thankfully, the stranger was a fighter. Charley had to admire his grit. She’d only intended to tease him, to up the stakes in a game he obviously enjoyed—okay, and maybe screw with that Duchanes asshole in the process—but her competitive streak took over, driving her to keep pushing, pushing, pushing.
In the end, the man was on the hook for three million for a piece that was probably worth a third of that on the private market, tonight’s auction notwithstanding. He must’ve really wanted it.
Or maybe he just enjoyed sparring with me…
Charley closed her eyes as a shiver gripped her spine, imagining for the hundredth time what that man could do to her with a few hours and a pair of handcuffs…
God, this job was killing her sex life. D-O-motherfucking-A.
The sound of the security guard’s clunky footsteps in the hallway yanked her thoughts out of the sex morgue and back to the task at hand. Instinctively she dropped to the floor, scooting beneath a massive oak desk just before the door swung open.
From her vantage point, she could only see the man’s scuffed black shoes. He stepped into the room, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. Charley held her breath, hoping like hell he couldn’t smell her perfume or hear the tell-tale thump of her heart.
In the auction room, another round of applause erupted, and the guard finally retreated, closing the door behind him.
Charley released her breath, the tension and leftover adrenaline making her stiff and achy.
Still under the desk, she pulled on her gloves, then felt along the underside for the mechanism that would unlatch the drawers. After a quick bit of maneuvering, she popped it, releasing the flimsy locks.
Every drawer held more of the same—old receipts, computer manuals, junk mail, random family photos, recipe cards, office supplies. Totally worthless.
Fuck.
It’d been months since her intel had netted anything worthwhile, and after ignoring Rudy’s texts all night, she was already setting herself up for a fight. She needed a win, and she needed it now.
Safe. There had to be a safe. Something with documents or bills of sale or keys to offsite storage rooms where the rest of the artwork might be stashed.
She got to her feet and paced the perimeter, scanning the straight-out-of-a-bourbon-commercial decor and peacock-green walls for anything that might be hiding a safe. Bookcases full of dusty but worthless tomes, a couple of plain oak lamp stands, a small walk-in closet stuffed with winter coats and boots…
Pointless.
Frustration set her blood to simmer. She was about to head back to the bar and drown her sorrows with another Sapphire and tonic before bailing on the whole thing when she caught sight of something that made her heart skip.
There, in the far corner of the room, a piece of art hung over a small fireplace—a painting she knew well.
Adrift by Heinrich von Hausen, a ship tossed about on a black and stormy sea, destined to smash against the rocks, a hopeless and heartbreaking scene but for one ray of sunshine beaming down on the deck.
The last time she’d seen it, it was hanging in the Smithsonian in Washington.
The last time she’d seen it, she was eight years old.
Again, Charley thought of her father. How could she not? Despite his mistakes, despite all the rotten parts of his legacy, his true passion for fine art was like the sunshine in the painting, the one sliver of goodness Charley had always held close. On that trip to D.C., he’d taken her to a dozen museums, teaching her all about the vanitas works of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries—paintings that reflected the transient nature of life, the futility of earthly pleasures. Adrift was a treasure, a stunning example that had hung in the museum for decades.
And now it was here, nailed to the wall in some soon-to-be-foreclosed-upon Upper West Side penthouse. Unobserved, unappreciated, utterly forgotten.
Charley swallowed the knot in her throat. People like this—like this family, like the others here tonight, like all the wealthy clients her father had fenced for—thought nothing of exchanging their millions for the pleasure of possessing something beautiful, something they could hang over the mantel to impress their guests.
But unlike the bidders out there, Charley couldn’t feign ignorance about where the art had come from. There was a reason these auctions were held at private penthouses and VIP clubs rather than at Christy’s or Sotheby’s. A reason why the artifacts—no matter how precious—weren’t in a museum, even if they’d started out there. Charley wondered if her mystery man had any idea that his precious Whitfield was pilfered from a Polish museum during the Second World War—first by the Nazis, second by American soldiers.