Sean grinned all the way down the hall. Sure, his face was on a bunch of security cameras in and outside of Sal Donatello’s store. Sure, Gretch still needed a bodyguard because of his errors, but she’d asked him out. He barely felt the tile beneath his feet.

Stopping by Dane’s desk, he asked the favor, and the man’s eyes brightened; whose wouldn’t at spending that much time with Gretch? Sean swallowed the surge of jealousy and walked to his cubicle, burying the Sig Sauer in his book bag. He reached for the phone, the thrill of finding the painting resurfacing. Time to update Jace about the Vermeer, and how it was connected to the mob. His brother’s curt voicemail message started, and Sean blew out an impatient breath.

“Yeah. It’s me,” he said. “I’ve found a painting that’ll make you look real good. It comes with a Sig Sauer and a story you’ll be telling for years. You’ll probably want to stop by instead of just calling back.” He hung up, grinning. This was it. All he’d ever wanted from his earliest memories. The respect of an older brother.

He drummed his palms on the desk, too adrenalized to get back to the intricate restoration. He should probably tell Hannah and Walter too. They would shit knowing the Vermeer had been stored here since October.

Both calls went unanswered. Seriously. The news of the century. Sean shook his head and phoned Gretch. Once again she answered like a normal person, which was mildly disappointing. Her snark kept him on his toes.

“Where are the bosses?” he asked.

“Out on a sales call. Why?”

“Need to show them something.” If he stood up, they’d be talking face to face. A hall length away, but still. Their relationship was on the brink of something new. She’d asked him to dinner; he should stand up and smile as he spoke, right? Would that be flirting? Cloying? Creepy?

“They’ll be back at three thirty,” Gretch said in a perfunctory voice.

He rose to a crouch before he heard the distinct hang-up. “So. That happened,” he muttered, face in flames, slumping on his stool. No big deal. A heroic afternoon loomed once Jace, Walter, and Hannah shared in his find.

Sean stuck in earbuds, chose Yo-Yo Ma’s interpretation of Bach’s Six Unaccompanied Suites, and picked up his tools, humming. Life sure had a way of turning around on a guy.

Hours later, while focusing on the exacting intricacies required to repair the Quran, his inherent pessimism crept back like an insidious fog. Jace hadn’t stopped by—so much for the epic unveiling. And every moment that passed brought another explanation for Gretch’s oddly affectionate behavior in the taxi. The joke about the sneakers. The slender fingers wound in his. Their repartee had felt so natural at the time, but now it was filtered through years of insecurity. Hell, she’d hung up when he’d been about to stand up and smile; that wasn’t the action of a woman attracted to him.

That stuff in the taxi had to have been his imagination, because Jace was her type. And tonight… He’d read too much into her invitation. Obviously misunderstood the beguiling vulnerability in her eyes. Women who breezed through life with looks and personalities like hers didn’t gravitate to OCD introverts who preferred the arts to human interaction. Last night was a fluke. Besides, as much as Sean wanted her, he didn’t want to be responsible for her meltdown again. He’d eat the meal, picking from areas around his plate in no particular pattern, and call it a night. The perceived magical moments in the taxi would have to suffice.

He adjusted his earbuds and gently picked up a sheet of gold leaf with wide, padded tweezers. Should he have told her about Donatello and the significant threat they’d faced? No. Why worry her? Sure, the mob probably had security photos of them by now, and were undoubtedly scouring the city for any information on them or the stolen painting, but this was Chicago. The third-largest city in the nation. Neither he nor Gretch lived or worked anywhere near West Milwaukee. He’d only touched the outside door handle—no way could they lift his fingerprints from others. Hadn’t given his name or business card. Even if the mobster had gone next door and—

Oh shit!

Sean jerked spastically, lurching the tweezers. The gold leaf fluttered to the floor. Gretch paid for lunch with a credit card. He’d spent hours mooning over the taxi ride instead of the single, minuscule detail that had probably outed them within minutes.

Sean wiped a hand over his mouth, heart hammering. All Sal Donatello had to do was describe her and get her name off the receipt. It would take seconds to trace her social media accounts, where she’d probably listed Moore and Morrow under occupation. No one in this office was safe. What a fuck-head move to attempt this quasi-FBI role this morning. He should’ve redialed Jace over and over until the butthead answered.

Sean jumped up and squinted down the hall. Dane chatted animatedly to Gretch as she gathered her things. Her imperial displeasure at the escort was written all over her face, which the man failed to notice.

“Hold up,” Sean called. “Don’t leave yet.”

Sucking in a terrified breath, he pressed Jace’s number. The life-and-death call landed once again in his brother’s voicemail. Muttering an oath, he texted sos and shared his location. Again. Twice in three days. Couldn’t get wimpier than that.

He gestured again for Gretch and Dane to wait, then scurried around cleaning up his cubicle. Sure, the secure world they all took for granted was about to fall down in an Armageddon blaze at their feet, but that was no excuse to leave his workstation in disarray. He’d obsess over it all evening. Hate for it to be his dying thought.

Sean hurried down the hall and sidled up to Dane. “On second thought, I’ve got time before my class to escort her.”

“You never leave this early,” he protested.

“I’m at a stopping point. Thanks for agreeing to walk with her, though.” He ignored Dane’s crestfallen expression. If the guy held a black belt, it would be a different story.

Sean peered into Walter’s office. Dark and empty. Hannah’s laugh trickled down the hall. She’d have to do. He turned to Gretch. “I need to speak to you and Hannah for a sec.” He waited impatiently while Dane said goodbye to Gretch, which consisted of stuttering, scuffing his feet like he was in junior high, hitching his book bag, and all but bowing out the door.

“Jeez.” Sean walked over and flipped the interior bolt. “Do I act like that around you, your highness?”

“Worse. You’d have double-knocked that threshold on your way out.”

Sean cringed. The shit she noticed. Did he still do that? It was a holdover scar from childhood. “Come on,” he said, heading to Hannah’s office. “This isn’t going to be pretty.”

“Why?” She sounded tired, but he didn’t turn around. “What’s going on now?”

No time to explain twice. “Just brainstorming new and improved ways to annoy the hell out of you.”

Behind him, she executed the perfect regal tsk. “If it’s about the attempted robbery and your super-ninja moves, she already knows.”

Sean swung around, jaw clenching, and waited for Gretch to catch up. “I don’t think that was necessary,” he murmured.

She patted his chest with a condescending smile. “It’s what besties do. They share what happens in their day, especially if it involves guns and a dropkick to somebody’s head.”

Well, he was about to add a whole lot to that story. He eased away, but Gretch pushed him against the wall. Granted, it wasn’t remotely like the head injury he’d almost sustained last night against her hotel door, but the similarity of her dominance tightened his groin. He opened his mouth. Maybe to ask her what the hell she was doing. Maybe to kiss her. She placed a manicured finger to his lips. “Shh.”

Through a haze of horniness, he heard a man answer Hannah.

“Devon’s back,” Gretch whispered. “He must have gotten here while I was in Walter’s office.”

Sean shrugged. Hours had gone by where he’d been so fixated on being a hero that he hadn’t pre-empted this crisis. The Concert painting, the mob, and whatever personal information Gretch had posted on her social media were a hell of a lot more important than Hannah’s childhood sweetheart returning from a half-week trip to Manhattan. Sean straightened from the wall, but Gretch pushed him back, holding him there with a braced forearm and a dirty look. What the fuck?

Again she held a finger to her lips and mouthed, “Listen.”

“…so given the judge’s ruling, it looks like I’m in the clear,” Devon said, followed by a little squeal from Hannah. “I’m relieved it’s finally over. I can start giving my new company my undivided attention.”

“Your company?” Hannah cooed.

“Oh, I have all sorts of plans for you, Han.” The sound of kissing.

Ugh. Sean had barely spoken to the man, but it didn’t take a whole lot of imagination to see him for what he was: an arrogant rich boy who’d never suffered heartache like Sean and Dane and the rest of the world’s nerds. Sean twisted easily out of Gretch’s hold, gripped her biceps, and drew her so close their lips almost touched. “I am not going to eavesdrop on them,” he whispered, absorbing the tiny shiver that ran through her. “She’s your bestie. This is her dropkick to the head to tell you about later.”

He rounded the corner into Hannah’s office and stopped short, fighting the urge to slip out as soundlessly as he’d arrived.

Devon sat in the office chair with Hannah on his lap—straight on, her legs straddling his spread thighs. He’d wrapped his hands around her ass, and his toes manipulated the swivel chair with a technique right out of a porn movie. From here, it looked like he wasn’t kissing her as much as working her over in an obscene, no-holds-barred parody of a kiss. Maybe if Devon wasn’t such an overconfident dick or Hannah wasn’t like a sister, Sean could’ve tolerated this, but… Gross! He’d return to the hall and cough to warn them.

He pivoted and smacked into Gretch. Her woof was followed by two pairs of sucking lips hastily parting.

“Ohmygosh,” Hannah gasped. Sean reluctantly turned back, fighting for a neutral expression. Hannah now sat primly across her boyfriend’s lap, wiping her swollen lips. “Sorry. We didn’t hear you.”

“That,” Gretch said emphatically, “was quite clear. Too bad Sean ruined the show.” Her smirk and raised eyebrow set off a crimson blush on her friend’s face.

“What’s up?” Devon asked, looking completely unfazed and unapologetic. He trailed fingers through Hannah’s ponytail, his gaze warm on Gretch and cooling when it met Sean’s. Sean oozed his opinion right back. October had been nothing but turmoil for Hannah, all because of this good-looking, soulless guy who excelled at breaking hearts.

“Um…” Gretch turned to Sean, her hand out like she was about to introduce him. “I don’t know. What’s up?”

Crap. There was no way Sean was talking about any of this in front of a Wickham. “It’s an office situation I wanted to discuss with you and Gretch,” he said, eyeing Hannah unwaveringly, “in private.” The swivel chair twitched, but that was all the reaction Devon gave.

Hannah patted her boyfriend’s knee and stood, smoothing her wrinkled pants. “It’s all right to talk in front of Devon. He’s part owner in Moore and Morrow now, and a killer at problem solving.”

“Okay,” he said in a don’t-say-I-didn’t-warn-you tone. Haltingly, partially stuttering, and aware that his shirt plastered his back, Sean told them about stripping off the ugly painting.

“And?” Hannah breathed, her eyes wide.

“It’s Vermeer’s The Concert.”

Her body sagged enough for Devon to effortlessly draw her back onto his lap. She leaned forward and folded her arms like she was cold. “Sweet baby Jesus.”

“So?” Gretch asked in an unimpressed voice. “It’s what—famous? Priceless? Stolen? No need to make Devon and me feel any stupider.”

“It’s stolen,” Sean answered quietly. “It’s famous. Not priceless. It’s probably worth two hundred mil. And it’s one of the FBI’s highest-profile open cases, coming up on thirty years.”

Gretch gasped. Devon’s jaw dropped. Sean sped through the remainder of the day. “So Donatello’s only lead is me,” he concluded, “and there’s no doubt in my mind he’s mob. And Gretch paid for lunch next door with a credit card.”

“Shit.” Devon instantly got the connection. “No one is safe here.”

Gretch socked Sean’s arm hard. “Why didn’t you tell me in the taxi?”

“I don’t know.” Because you held my hand and joked with me, and that fucked with my mind all afternoon.

“What are we going to do?” Hannah asked, her voice high with hysteria.

“I’ve texted Jace,” Sean said hastily. “But I don’t think that painting should stay in the office. And maybe we should keep the outer office door locked during the day except for well-vetted appointments.”

“We’ll need security cameras outside the building.” Devon reached for the phone. “And a description of what the Donatellos look like.”

“I’ll Google them.” Gretch marched over to Hannah’s computer, her fingers flying across the keyboard. “Ta-da.”

Sean checked the dark screen of his phone, his teeth clenching. Evidently the second sos was going to be ignored.

Hannah touched his arm. “Can I see the painting?” she said softly.

He led her back to the lab and unscrewed the offset clips. Slowly and without flourish, he peeled back the outer canvas.

Hannah gasped. “Oh, Sean, it’s breathtaking. Can you believe we found it?”

Gretch and Devon were coming down the hall toward them. Sean tore his gaze from them to her. “Devon is right. None of us are safe. They’ll find Gretch in a heartbeat. I’m surprised they didn’t surprise us this afternoon.”

“Sean, even the mob can’t march into a business and shoot it up when they have no idea what you know about Rick’s painting.”

Sean’s shoulders relaxed a fraction. “I told them the owner was overseas.” Not that they’d believe him, but Hannah had a point. Sean had taken a ride on the paranoid merry-go-round all afternoon. Moore and Morrow probably wasn’t in the imminent danger his imagination had created.

He was halfway through a calming inhale when his phone dinged. A message from Jace: Open up.