I rummage through my crossbody bag and check my screen.
Shoot.
“Not now, Daddy. I’m on a mission.” I let the call go to voicemail and place the phone inside my bag.
I stroll, coffee in hand, to the dedicated art storage room in the basement of the Pompadour Beverly Hills hotel.
This is my second official week as König Imperial Holding’s Art Director and Principal Art Buyer, and I’m loving every minute of it. For a person with a double major in art history and business, this is a dream job. I have my own office on the executive floor, but a bunch of paintings Phoenix suggested I buy last week while we were in Paris via the online auction of a renowned New York City gallery for the Santa Monica hotel reno arrived this morning. I can’t wait to see them.
I swipe the key card against the security pad and push the door open.
The moment I step inside, the lights turn on.
There are motion sensors hidden underneath the floor. So high tech.
I scour the space, a huge grin stretching my lips.
I’m surrounded by pristine art that could rival any top gallery in the world.
It doesn’t get better than this.
Humming a little tune in my head, I stroll to the back of the storage room with a spring in my step. The shipping and receiving manager for the hotel called not long ago to announce the arrival of my shipment. I instructed him to have one of his guys deliver the thirty paintings to this location, since I had made room for them.
I’m so giddy.
I drop my coffee on the top of a tall wooden crate, pull out a retractable utility knife from my crossbody bag, and get to work. For the next long minutes, I unwrap canvas after canvas. Once I’m done, I discard the mountain of protective wraps. I stand with my hands hooked to my hips as I admire the finest art money can buy.
Wow.
I ready myself to inspect each painting to make sure I received what we purchased when the door slams shut. I didn’t hear it open.
I turn around and stretch my neck out.
Footsteps clank against the cement floor.
I’m just about to ask who’s there when a man’s voice echoes in the space.
“Okay, I can talk now,” the man says.
Who’s that?
“It has to be quick, though, because the board’s weekly meeting is about to start,” the man says.
Potter?
“I’m in the art storage room in the basement,” Potter says.
How did he get in here?
Given the value stored in this room, Phoenix assured me there are only a handful of people who have a key card. Potter’s name wasn’t on the list.
“I snatched the former art buyer’s key card. She thought she lost it and blamed her forgetfulness on pregnancy brain. I never had to use it until today. All my usual hideaways are buzzing with activity.”
Weasel.
“Sue me. I had to be creative. I needed to find another private place inside the hotel to talk so I can report back to you every time you snap your goddamn fingers.”
Who is he talking to?
