Finally, we reached a steel door, and Margot punched in a complex code. The door buzzed, and she stepped through.
Stale air hit me as we entered. We walked in silence for a moment, passing by artwork that was no longer staged. Most had been covered already, which was a shame, considering all I wanted to do was look at them one more time. More specifically, at the piece Margot had shown me earlier.
“Are you here to pick up the piece your mother bought?” she asked.
My chest tightened. Iknewshe’d buy it. “No, but it wouldn’t hurt to look at it one last time.”
“You don’t think she’ll hang it in the house?”
I shook my head. “No. This matches the colors on the yacht.” Which meant I’d be seeing it once a year, when they took the yacht out on the water to watch the fireworks on the Fourth of July. Who knew mobsters would enjoy such a silly thing? They went crazy for it every time. A ridiculous image of the men in expensive suits oohing and aahing over exploding colors in the night sky filled my head. A small smile tugged at the corner of my lips.
Margot’s phone rang. It was a loud, obnoxious sound. “They need me downstairs. I trust you to lock up once you’re done,” she said before sprinting to the door, the sound of her keychains jangling after her.
Right of the doorway hung the painting that had dragged me back to this stuffy gallery in the first place. I drifted closer to it, my ridiculously high stilettos (the ones Max had helped me pick out) clicking against the polished marble floor.
Just like before, I found myself rooted in front of the canvas, lost in its swirling colors and brushstrokes. Time seemed to melt away, the minutes stretching into what could have been an hour for all I knew.
Eighty-six thousand dollars to have this thing hanging on my own wall, I thought idly, tracing the edges of the frame with a fingertip.
Suddenly, I realized maybe I was capable of robbery.
The absurdity of the notion made me snort, the sound echoing strangely in the space. My feet started to ache even more than before. These heels were gorgeous, but they weren’t practical.
“There you are. Christ,” came a deep voice that seemed to wrap itself around me. I knew that voice—that gravelly rumble that could never stray twenty yards from me. It was as if he could hear me thinking of him.
“Couldn’t keep away, could you?” I asked, my voice a touch lighter than usual. I rolled my neck, trying to ease the crick that had settled in from staring up for so long.
He chuckled. “Not for lack of trying,” he admitted, although the amusement in his eyes told an entirely different story.
My heart thumped. There were six canvases hanging from the wall, and he didn’t look at a single one of them. He watched me, not saying a word. His eyes looked kind ...honest.
“Are you ready to head out?” he continued.
I smiled, unable to help myself. The logical part of my brain screamed at me to agree, but my traitorous feet remained rooted to the spot, my gaze still locked on the painting. I supposed the right answer was yes, but I wasn’t done looking at the painting.
I frowned, knowing this would be the last time I’d ever see it—except for the Fourth of July.
With a defeated sigh, I glanced back at Max, the words tumbling out in a rush that surprised even me. “Would you steal a piece of art for me?”
Without giving the question any thought, he said, “I’d do anything you asked me to.” His own words seemed to shock him. “But I think purchasing it would be the ethical thing to do.”
Smooth recovery.
I couldn’t help but scoff. “You, lecturing me on ethics?”
He laughed. “Is this the one you like then?”
I swallowed hard, the sudden intensity of his focus making me flustered. I didn’t want to lecture another man about art or why I liked it.
“Yeah,” I managed.
He moved his hands to his pockets. “Nuit Blanche d’Amour,” he said. “Sleepless Night of Love.”
I turned to face him, following his gaze to the sheet of paper beside the painting. “Nuit Blanche d’Amour”was its name.
My voice, when I finally found it, was small. “Is that French?”
He nodded slowly. A lock of dark hair fell across his forehead, and the urge to brush it back with my fingers washed over me.
