Chapter 18
Work
Caleb
I BOUNCE THE SUV down the rocky path to the piece of farmland I brought her to yesterday.
There’s a blacked-out Lexus parked alongside the barn and immediately my senses go on high alert. Pulling in front of the broken-down shack, I jam the car into park and jerk my head in her direction. “I’m going inside with you.”
If she had fangs, they’d be showing. “No, you’re not. There’s no way this guy will talk freely if he thinks I brought muscle along with me.”
“Be reasonable, Gemma. This could be a set up. If you have to, tell him I’m your referee from The Powers of the Higher Mind.”
Those chocolate-brown eyes that sometimes swirl with amber, but most of the time appear dead and lifeless, glitter with mirth. “You mean my life coach, and that will never work.”
“Why not?”
“Because, first of all, I don’t have one, Enrique does, and you look nothing like Lamar Trentworth. And second, this guy probably has no idea what The Powers of the Mind is.”
If he knows anything about Enrique Cruz, he knows about the cult-like uppity society he’s a part of, I think, but keep it to myself. “Well, come up with something that works because I’m going in with you or you’re not going in at all.” I practically growl at her to get my point across.
“Fine,” she tsks. “You can act as my business partner, but keep your mouth shut because you know nothing about art.”
Not that she’s wrong, but really, what the fuck?
Fighting to keep my temper in check and my poker face intact, I push my door open. “So, is this really about art?”
She opens her own door. “Yes, it is. A number of pieces that until recently weren’t exactly for sale.”
I lean into the vehicle and glare at her. “And by that I assume you mean they are stolen?”
“Not necessarily. Maybe. Maybe not. Honestly, I prefer not to know the details.”
“So you’re just here to secure them, regardless of how they were obtained?”
She raises a brow. “What are you, a boy scout all of a sudden?”
“Fuck no,” I tell her. “Just trying to assess the situation we’re about to walk into.”
“Maybe you should stay in the car?”
“Not happening.”
“You know, sooner or later you’re going to have to tell me who you really are.”
“Not the time or the place, sweetheart.” With that, I slam my door and march toward the rickety old porch.
In tight jeans and a black tank top with her Converse and Jimmy Choo sunglasses perched on top of her head, she somehow beats me. Shoving my hands in my pockets, I stride up beside her. She glances at me, and then pauses before ringing the doorbell. “You should probably know a little about the artist if we’re going to pull this off.”
I dip my chin and raise my eyes. “His name would be a great start.”
“It’s Andrés Baisden and he lives, or used to live, in Mexico City with his wife. He has dozens of pieces but his early paintings are worth the most. They revolve around repeated themes and techniques that incorporate real people into real life.”
I shake my head, absorbing the info. “You mean like a policeman or fireman?”
Her brows furrow. “Not exactly. Women mostly. Dancing. Singing. Cooking. Cleaning. Men plowing fields.”
“And that’s art?”
There’s no bell, so she pounds on the door. “Forget it. It’s probably best if you keep your mouth shut. Let’s just get this over with so we can head back to San Diego.”
What she doesn’t say is so she can go back to him, and the very thought has me wanting to end him any way I can.
Legal or not.