Blaire

Oxygen seemed to be in short supply inside the vehicle, or maybe, Grant was holding me too tight. Or maybe the weight of my past was coming back to suffocate me. Art had been my escape. That was the only place I found refuge in the violence of my childhood’s checkered past. That one solace was now ruined and I was drowning.

“I can’t breathe,” I croaked.

Arms that cleaved me to a hard chest loosened and I heard a muttered apology. Grant’s hands continued to touch me, as though he was making sure I was there beside him and I was okay. As for me, I’d been transported momentarily to that time with Sergei. I knew the questions would come, and I intended to answer them the best I could remember because I wanted to find out what was happening as well.

I caught Jake’s eyes in the rearview mirror. He was riding in the passenger side as Zed drove us back to Grant’s penthouse in the Upper East Side. Unlike the suspicious glare the first time he found out my father was the mob’s cleaner, there was a thoughtfulness in his gaze. There was concern that was directed at me and that gave me courage to face what was ahead.

“Did you know the men who took the paintings, Blaire?”

“Let’s leave the questions until we get her to the penthouse,” Grant said sharply.

“No,” I said, straightening up in my seat. “It’s all right, Grant.” I put a placating hand on his thigh and heard a rumble in his throat. “No, I didn’t know them, but the paintings they took have a link to my past and something the man in the suit said makes me think they know of that link.”

“Wait, what man in a suit?” Grant asked. “And how did he talk to you? Weren’t you and Tyler keeping low in the restroom?”

I sighed. Maybe it was better to talk about this in the penthouse. “No. The man approached me—”

“How?” Grant snapped.

“Um, Tyler went to pick up dinner—”

Grant swore. “He fucking left you?”

“Bobby was going to hand him the food at the entrance but a homeless guy attacked Bobby. Tyler radioed Drew to keep an eye on me…” I glanced at Jake—I couldn’t read his expression, but the man beside me was about to blow a fuse. “Please don’t blame Tyler.”

“Oh, I’m not going to blame him,” Grant replied in a deceptively soft voice even as his breathing grew shallow. “I’m going to fucking bury him.” He grabbed his phone but I managed to knock it out of his hand.

“What the fuck?” Grant glared at me.

“You need to calm down. Tyler is already beating himself over it,” I hissed. “He’s beating himself up over damned hotdogs for Christ’s sake!”

“He shouldn’t have left you!” Grant snarled. “That’s why we’re getting you more security.”

“Why do I even carry a gun if I can’t be left alone for two seconds? Stop making me into a helpless victim who can’t defend herself!” I yelled, untangling myself from him and scooting over to the far side of the seat so I can look at him better. His features were lit by the neon signs of the passing buildings and I witnessed the slackening of his jaw and the alarm in his eyes.

“Blaire,” he whispered as he tentatively reached out. “Don’t pull away.”

“Jesus, Grant, I’m not,” I sighed raggedly. “You’re just too much sometimes and it’s overwhelming.” I hugged my upper arms and stared out the window. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw his hand drop which caused a pinch in my chest. I hated hurting him, but I couldn’t let him blame or, even worse, fire Tyler. The answer wasn’t to lock me away from the world. I was so sick and tired of that. Liam protected me, but he also provided the tools and skills so I could protect myself. Grant needed to see I wasn’t a fragile flower. If the past few weeks and especially what that scene at the gallery proved to me was this: I still had a lot of fight left in me and I was ready to take my life back.

“Maybe we should talk about this at the penthouse,” Jake suggested.

I could feel Grant’s eyes on me, so I nodded.

* * *

When Jake let us into the penthouse, Grant told him to give us a moment and to let Colette know that we would be having guests at ten. The security detail and the housekeeper had apartments on the floor below the penthouse. When Jake disappeared back into the elevators, Grant asked me if I wanted anything to drink. I shook my head and walked to the fridge to get myself a glass of water while he headed to the bar and poured himself three fingers of Scotch. He tossed that back and turned around to face me.

“This uncertainty ends now,” he growled as he stalked toward me, pinning me with his heated gaze.

Startled, I managed to lower my glass on the center island where I was standing when his hands grabbed me and lifted me on the counter. His fingers dug into my hair, tilting my face up before he slammed his mouth on mine. My lips parted and he didn’t waste time forcing my tongue to respond to his. I had denied myself the touch of this man for so long, he was like a drink from an oasis in the desert. Clothing ripped and buttons went flying. It was his shirt and I was the aggressor. A satisfied grunt rumbled in his throat and I tried to tear my mouth away, but he wouldn’t let me. More buttons went flying and I felt cool air touch my breasts as my sweater laid open. He finally let me up for air only to yank the cup of my bra away, then I was on my back as he fastened his mouth on my nipple. He tormented me there as heat gathered low in my belly. His mouth was needed somewhere else.

“Grant,” I moaned. “Isn’t someone coming?”

He let go of a nipple with a pop. “You are.”

I yanked at his hair to make him look at me. “We can’t do this.”

“The fuck we can’t.” Lust and annoyance flared in his eyes.

“I mean, right now,” I wheezed. “Later. Fuck me later. When we have more time.”

He stilled. “Are you mine?”

“I’ve always been yours,” I stated softly.

He rested his forehead on my belly and muttered something like “About fucking time.”

Grant helped me sit up and I glanced around, mortified at the broken glass and the scattering of buttons on the floor. I didn’t even hear the glass fall. “Oh, no, we need to clean up.”

“Colette will take care of it.”

“We can’t let her see this mess!”

Grant looked at me with amusement. “I pay my people to be discreet.”

“I won’t be able to look her in the eyes.”

His finger went under my chin, and tilted it up so I was looking at him. “Blaire, we’re going to be making love in every corner of this penthouse. We’re bound to leave evidence of our fucking behind. Might as well get used to it.”

“But—”

“Now, I don’t want Donovan to see my woman half-naked. Go get changed and I’ll call him up.”

He pulled me off the counter and slapped my ass playfully.

I glared at him but did as I was told.

* * *

“His name is Sergei Kostin.”

Grant, Jake, and I were in his penthouse office. I had changed into tights and a tunic sweater. I wanted nothing more than to slip into my flannel pajamas but we were being invaded in an hour. Grant had changed into drawstring sweatpants and a worn-out, long-sleeved Harvard tee. I had the urge to cuddle on his lap and have his strong arms wrap their warmth around me. I missed the intimacy between us. Grant was a force to be reckoned with and I’d been afraid that I was too beaten down to be the woman he needed. His devotion this past month had eased the uncertainties that plagued me about resuming a relationship with him. I wanted to come back to him with a clean slate, but Grant wasn’t waiting any longer and, apparently, I didn’t want to either.

“He was a painter who came to live with us and was my artistic mentor.” I went on to tell them about the summers with Sergei and that last year when I was sixteen and what he had taught me.

Jake stared at me as if he was re-evaluating what he knew about me. As for Grant, his expression was one of bemusement. “Are you telling us you concealed paintings for smuggling?”

“Sergei taught me how to do it. I’ve never actually done it on stolen work.” I felt I needed to qualify that difference.

“A Jackson Pollock, you say?” Grant queried.

“Yup. There are different methods of concealment. The easiest one is to layer the canvas of an existing less valuable painting over the intended one, but most art heists are done by taking the painting off the frame and smuggling them through shipping tubes. Sergei liked to use watercolor since it’s easy to wash off. The ones I saw in the gallery, though, used a different medium. I’d probably need the guide of a spectrometer to use a scalpel and solvent to reveal the painting beneath.”

“You think they’re coming after you?” Grant asked.

I swallowed hard. “The man in the suit asked me if I wanted to find out what was underneath that painting. Depending on its complexity, anyone experienced with restoration can do it.”

“Maybe they don’t need you for these paintings, but for future heists,” Jake speculated. “From what you’ve told us, you’ve become Sergei’s protégé.”

I scowled at Jake as an image of myself chained to a basement with paintings lined up for me to camouflage flashed through my mind. “Geez, I hope not.”

“Not gonna happen,” Grant assured me, curling his fingers into mine and tugging me to his side. “We’ve got a tracker on you, remember?”

“Your paranoia is serving me well,” I murmured. Then I remembered Orlov’s words. Even if I didn’t want to add to Grant’s problems, I had to tell him everything. “There’s something else.”

Jake and Grant straightened in alert. I could feel their apprehension. God, I hated doing this to them.

“Lay it on us, Ms. Blaire,” Jake invited.

I recounted the Russian Vor’s words. “I’m trying to figure it out in my head, but it sounded like he was handing me to someone else after he’d had his revenge on me.”

“Sounded like it,” Grant stated grimly. The wave of rage coming off him was palpable. “You’re thinking what I’m thinking, Donovan?”

“Ivan Yashkin,” Jake replied.

“Exactly.”

“Who’s Ivan Yashkin?” I asked.

“He was my main rival for the Galleria Development,” Grant explained. “Rafe and I were baffled with how rabid he’d gone after that property deal when real estate isn’t his company’s specialty.”

“The paintings. That’s what he must’ve been after,” Jake said.

“But he left the expensive ones,” I said. “We’re looking at seven-hundred million dollars.”

Grant whistled and cocked his head to the side. “That’s more than what the Galleria cost.”

“You’re sitting on a goldmine, boss,” his head of security said.

“I doubt I’ll end up keeping most of them,” Grant replied. “I’ll have to staff up my investigative division just to look into the claims.”

There was a rap on the door and Tyler walked in.

He grimaced when he looked at Grant who, I could only imagine, had his glare on. I squeezed his hand.

“I know I messed up, Mr. Thorne,” Tyler said, looking at me.

“You sure did,” Grant grated out. “You’re lucky Blaire stuck up for you or you’d be finding a new job.”

Tyler’s face reddened as he looked at the floor.

“Don’t make the same mistake again,” Grant told him.

“What? Getting me hotdogs?” I quipped.

“Blaire this isn’t funny. That suit guy could have kidnapped you.”

“I would have put up a fight, Grant, and Tyler would have returned by then,” I argued. “I’m here. I’m alive. You need Tyler. You’re two men down, so can we move on?”

A protracted silence reigned in the room and I could feel Grant’s struggle not to go off on Tyler some more. He finally lifted his chin at my bodyguard. “What do you have?”

“There was not much crime scene to process. The thieves were in and out of there in minutes. They wore gloves. Cops found the jammer at the cable box right outside the gallery and I found a hidden camera attached to the curtains.”

“What?” All three of us chorused.

“The guy in the suit knew when to approach you, Blaire. He came in when the paintings they stole were uncrated and he knew I wasn’t with you,” Tyler said. “Anyone could have clipped that camera there. I have a copy of the surveillance footage from today, but my guess is, the camera was placed when we went out to lunch and Jeff was in his office. I talked to Sofia and she said they had a rush of people around noon.”

“Did the gallery post any announcement about the forthcoming exhibit, Grant?”

“Yes,” he said. “It was posted in the New York Times art section two weeks ago.”

“That means we can’t base our suspect list on people who knew about the art being there. Is this where you’re going with this, Blaire?” Jake asked.

I nodded. “So who knew the Sergei paintings would be in the crates arriving from Russia?”

“Our people in Moscow,” Grant said.

“Are they contractors?” I asked.

“Yes. They specialize in shipping valuable art work, but I have trusted people who supervised the entire process from extracting the paintings from the basement of the apartment building to their shipment.” Grant looked at Jake. “Can you coordinate with Heather? We need to check the history of ownership on that building for the past twenty years.”

“Sergei might have used an alias,” I pointed out.

“That’s very likely,” Grant muttered in agreement.

There was another knock on the door and Colette stepped in, looking very put together even at ten in the evening. “The senator and your mother have arrived, Mr. Thorne.”

“Show them into the living room, will you, Colette?” Grant requested. “Tyler, Donovan, give us a minute.” He pulled me closer.

When everyone left the room, he turned me slightly so I was facing him. His hands went to my shoulders. “Blaire, I know I don’t have a good track record when we’re facing my father, but whatever I say in there, please go along with it.”

“I don’t want to lie.”

“We won’t be lying. We will be omitting some facts and there isn’t enough time to explain why.”

I trusted Grant, and yet, I had an odd feeling he was bulldozing me into something.

“Okay.”

The triumphant gleam in his eyes made me want to renege on agreeing with his request, but he was already leading me out of the office.