“That’s… not an easy story.” And outside of those precious few who’d lived through it themselves, Dorian had never shared it with another soul. It lingered, as so many of his ghosts, in the deep recesses of a fractured mind, in the darkest parts of a shuttered heart. “Perhaps we’ll save it for another day.”
He closed his eyes and waited for her rebuttal, but she seemed to understand his pain, and graciously let the matter drop.
They enjoyed a few more moments of peaceful silence, and then she pulled out of his embrace, got to her feet, and walked back to the car alone, her shoulders heavy with the secrets he’d shared…
And the ones he hadn’t.
As much as he’d wanted to be totally honest with her, Dorian had been alive long enough to learn the hard truth:
Some skeletons were best left undisturbed.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
759462.
Now that she’d seen Dorian enter the alarm code at the front door, Charley couldn’t get the sequence out of her mind, no matter how badly she wanted to obliterate it.
It was the kind of perfect intel most thieves would risk their lives for, and all Charley had done was glance up at the right moment. A mindless, two-second effort after she and Dorian had gotten back from their drive; it hadn’t even occurred to Dorian she might be watching him.
That she might have a reason to watch him.
759462. It was everything Rudy needed to bleed Dorian’s priceless art collection dry. Everything she needed to win back Rudy’s elusive trust.
That’s my girl, her father’s voice echoed. Resourceful as always.
Shame burned through her heart, and for a moment she pictured herself in the mines of hell, shoveling coal into a furnace alongside all the vampires and terrible humans who’d ever existed.
“Are you still intent on leaving me today?” Dorian asked as they headed into the grand foyer.
Charley sighed. “I’m just anxious to get back to Sasha. But if it helps, I’ll be thinking of you the entire ride home.”
“Not especially.” Dorian cupped her face, his eyes glittering, despite his frown. “One last drink before you go?”
“Why not? I always love a good day-drink.”
“Splendid. I’ve got just the thing.”
They headed into the study, where the fire was crackling, the room cleaned of all evidence of last night’s arguments and broken glass. Charley wondered if his brothers had taken care of it, or Aiden, or some mysterious housekeeping staff who’d remained totally invisible.
Settling into the same chair she’d occupied last night, Charley pulled the blanket over her shoulders and welcomed the fire’s warmth, her head still spinning from all the things Dorian had shared with her. Vampires, shapeshifters, demons, witches… It was enough to send anyone to the nuthouse. Yet nothing he’d confessed had scared her off. Not from him.
There were still so many questions to ask, so many rabbit holes she wanted to go down. In a perfect world, she would stay the whole weekend. The whole month. A blissful, perfect vacation from all her regrets and bad choices, where she could wake up every morning to a gourmet brunch, spend the afternoon driving through the autumn mountains and learning all there was to know about the supernatural world. Then, at night, she’d slip between dark satin sheets with the vampire whose every demanding kiss set her skin aflame.
But now, after seeing that security code, her mind kept veering right back to the topic they hadn’t covered.
The stolen art.
Dorian poured two drinks at the bar, then turned and handed her a glass full of amber liquid. “A rare vintage Cognac, about half as old as I am.”
Charley grinned, bringing the glass to her nose for a deep whiff. “Mmm. An antique in a glass.”
She sipped, letting the smooth taste linger on her tongue. It was—like everything connected to Dorian Redthorne—elegant, delicious, and a little overwhelming.
She couldn’t even imagine what the bottle must’ve cost him.
When he finally settled into the chair next to her, she looked up at him and said, “Before we say our goodbyes, there’s something else we need to discuss.”
“Another deal? Perhaps a negotiation that ends with me tying you to my bed for a proper punishment?”
Her thighs clenched, butterflies twirling in her stomach at the thought.
But she had to stay focused. To get through this, or it would all be for nothing.
“You haven’t told me about the art, Dorian.”
Disappointment flashed in his eyes, but he recovered quickly. “Remind me which pieces you were interested in.”
“Well, all of it, of course. But first, I need to know about the Hermes statue and the Viola LaPorte painting.”
“Ah, yes. The pieces you were so diligently investigating last night.”
Ignoring the burn of shame in her gut, she said, “How did you acquire them?”
“Quite legally, I assure you. I work with a highly discerning, highly reputable buyer. He knows my tastes, and contacts me when something that may be of interest crosses his path.” He sipped his Cognac, relaxing deeper into his chair. “He acquired the LaPorte for me about three years ago, Hermes… maybe six or eight months later. They both came from separate estate auctions, I believe.”
“You believe? Or you know?”
“Does it matter?”
Charley closed her eyes, returning the glass to her lips. She really didn’t want to disclose anything else, but she sensed Dorian would make things a lot more difficult if she didn’t at least give him a breadcrumb or two.
She just needed some liquid courage first.
After a few more sips, she said, “What I’m about to tell you can’t leave this room. Do I have your word?”
Dorian’s eyebrows lifted. “I can’t imagine what could be so secretive about a perfectly legal transaction I made years ago, with a broker who’s made dozens of similar transactions before and since.”
“Your word, Dorian.”
Concern warred with curiosity in his eyes, but eventually, he gave in. “Fine. It won’t leave this room.”
“At one time, both pieces belonged to a single collector in the West Village.”
“Really? I didn’t acquire them together. As I said, I’m fairly certain they came from different estates.”
“Prior ownership isn’t the only thing they have in common.” Charley stared into her glass, firelight dancing in the amber liquid. She tried not to think about the fires of hell. “The LaPorte and the Hermes, along with the rest of the man’s collection—approximately seventy million dollars in art and artifacts—were stolen from his apartment five years ago, never recovered. As far as I know, yours are the first pieces to surface.”
“That’s… impossible.”
“I wish it were.”
Dorian leaned forward in his chair, his eyes narrowing. “Charlotte. How on earth do you know about this?”
“It’s my job.”
“So you investigate art heists for a living? I thought you were a consultant.”
“I am a consultant. And in my line of work, sometimes I come across stolen pieces. It’s not as unusual as you might think.”