“Any theories?”
“Oh, the usual. Deep emotional wounds, fear of commitment, only-child syndrome, take your pick.”
Dorian laughed. “I’ve got a house full of siblings, you knob.”
“I’m just the messenger.” Aiden clapped him again on the shoulder, giving him an encouraging squeeze. “Come along now. If we don’t get back inside, they’re bound to come looking for you.”
“I hate this, you know. Worst idea you’ve ever had.”
“You say that about all my ideas. Especially the good ones.”
“This time I mean it.”
“Great! Now that we’ve got that sorted.” Aiden opened the inner door that led into the massive kitchen, now bustling with caterers and bartenders. “Come on, then. In you go.”
Dorian followed him inside, then punched in the alarm code, securing the garage behind them.
After fixing themselves another round of drinks, the men weaved through the crowded kitchen and into the great room, Dorian doing his best to avoid eye contact while Aiden deflected the talkative guests. By the time they reached the expansive open foyer, Dorian was feeling marginally better.
Aiden had been right; the guests were having a grand time, laughing and chatting amongst themselves, enjoying the hors d'oeuvres and drinks his caterers delivered on elegant silver trays. Now that they’d seen Dorian at home, behaving himself in a mostly civilized manner, perhaps the Armitage mages would feel more at ease about their relationship, softening them for both the acquisition as well as the Redthornes’ eventual offer for Isabelle. And of course, the museum would be able to do some great work with the proceeds.
As much as Dorian hated to admit it, he was glad Aiden had suggested hosting the event. Despite his anxieties and general aversion to putting his private life on public display, Dorian couldn’t imagine the evening being a more smashing success.
But then the greeters ushered in a late arrival, and Dorian’s heart nearly leaped out of his chest. All around him, dozens of dark, depraved gazes slid to the entryway, every one of his guests as captivated as Dorian himself.
There, standing in the foyer, dressed in a black satin dress that exposed her delicious curves and elegant gloves that reached her elbows, was one very devious, sexy-as-sin, copper-eyed woman.
His woman.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Charley gave herself thirty seconds to cut the pity party and get her head in the game.
Never mind Dorian’s sexy voice, or the fact that she’d missed out on it last night, too nervous about the impending job to answer his calls or texts.
Never mind Travis’ filthy hands, how she’d fought him off the entire drive up from the city.
Never mind that she’d hardly gotten any sleep, jolting out of bed at every creak and groan, convinced Travis had found a way into her adjacent hotel room.
Never mind that she’d lied to Sasha, telling her that Rudy was sending her on an overnighter for an important conference.
Charley took a steadying breath, willing herself to forget it all. None of it mattered. Tonight, right now, standing in this gorgeous Elizabethan mansion in the shadow of the Catskill Mountains, Charley had one job.
Get in. Get the intel. Get out.
And above all, don’t get noticed.
After checking to confirm no one had followed her up the ornate hardwood staircase, Charley slipped into one of the mansion’s dozen bedrooms and shut the door behind her, confirming what her quick observations of the first floor had already implied.
This guy is fucking loaded.
She hadn’t even done a thorough sweep yet, but she’d already determined it to be exactly the kind of exclusive, eclectic cache Rudy had predicted: paintings from the Italian Renaissance, Russian avant-garde, and contemporary works the owner had likely commissioned directly from the artists; exquisite New Kingdom jars and statues made of Egyptian alabaster and faience; silk scrolls and wall panels from thirteenth-century Japan. The entire home was a museum in and of itself—and that wasn’t even counting the classic cars Travis had mentioned. Charley knew a lot more about fine art and architecture than she did about automobiles, but by the way he’d gone on about them, those beauties had to be worth millions.
Millions that someone else worked for. Someone we’re going to hurt…
Shaking off the ever-present guilt, she sent Rudy a coded text to hint at her initial findings, hoping it was enough to keep his incessant check-ins at bay. Having a lovely evening, she wrote. Even better than expected. I think a family trip to the region sounds like a great idea! The more, the merrier. LOTS to do here.
With heavy tapestries drawn over the windows, the bedroom was too dark to explore unaided. Charley flipped on the phone flashlight, quickly scanning her surroundings. It wasn’t the master suite, but even this secondary bedroom was flush with paintings and beautiful antique furniture.
She made her way to a large, walk-in closet full of women’s clothing and shoes, everything protected by clear plastic garment bags.
Interesting.
Rudy’s surveillance had indicated the homeowner lived alone—not with a woman. Then again, with everything bagged up and put away, it was likely the woman who’d once occupied this room hadn’t been here in a while.
A low shelf along one wall held an assortment of jewelry boxes, and inside the largest, Charley found a piece that took her breath away.
With gloved hands, she fingered the ruby-and-diamond bracelet, admiring the way the gemstones sparkled in the flashlight beam.
It’d been more than a decade since she’d earned a place on her father’s crew with that minor jewel heist in Sleepy Hollow. But for a fleeting moment, warmth spread in her belly, a familiar rush that made her feel both excited and dirty.
Excited, because she’d never forget the look of pride on her father’s face when she’d shown him her score.
And dirty, because rifling through personal heirlooms and possessions was one of the most despicable things a person could do. More than just a crime, it was a violation, pure and simple.
With a deep sigh, Charley put the bracelet back, grateful the only thing she’d be taking tonight was information.
Through an open archway at the back of the closet, Charley entered a small dressing room, just large enough for a chair, a full-length mirror, and a chest of drawers.
On the wall above the chest was a painting of a dour woman gazing into a mirror. The reflection staring back at her was that of a young girl. Though Charley couldn’t make out the true vibrancy of the colors in the dim light, she knew the woman’s hair was dark, the child’s light, their eyes the same haunting shade of pale blue.
She knew the painting by heart.
Memory’s Memories, by Viola LaPorte.
It was one of her father’s. From the missing cache.
Tentatively Charley reached for the painting, tracing the frame with a trembling finger. Tears blurred her vision as she realized with shocking clarity that she’d been searching for something like this for the last five years, ever since Rudy had shown up at her father’s penthouse with his head down, unable to meet her eyes.
He’s dead, Charlotte. I’m so, so sorry…
All the auctions, the high-society events, the fundraisers… It wasn’t just because she was afraid of Rudy, afraid of ending up on the street, afraid of losing her sister. It was because she’d hoped, on some deep, impossible level, she’d find the missing cache, piece together the clues, and follow the trail to her father’s murderer.