As he moved from one pedestal to the next, he glanced around the room.
A tall white man with dark blond hair caught his attention. Cole studied him for a moment, trying to clock why this stranger warranted his focus. Who in the world?—
Oh.
Ooh.
Gritting his teeth, Cole snapped his gaze back to the case in front him. He glared hard at its contents even though he was no longer interested in them. As fascinated as he was by Ancient Egypt, he suddenly didn’t give two fucks about this somewhat damaged gold mask that had (allegedly) been recovered from the tomb of the pharaoh Seti I.
Because that man over there by the pair of Frida Kahlo paintings was none other than Will Yarmouth. Even when he was wearing those stupid gold-rimmed glasses, it was impossible not to recognize him as the asswagon who’d stolen Cole’s boyfriend four years ago. Not that Marcus had been a catastrophic loss—Cole really was better off without that pretentious douchecanoe in his worldorhis bed—but it was theprincipleof the whole thing. Cole had no problemstealing expensive shit from rich people like his family, but stealing someone’s partner… that was just low. Super fucking unforgivably low. Marcus could die in a goddamned fire for cheating, and Will could eat a mountain of moldy cadaver dicks for knowingly being the other man.
Now Will was clearly here to steal something too. For one thing, there was no way in hell he’d ever show up at a high-class event, never mind one focused on something as civilized as art, unless he was here to commit a crime. The glasseshadto be a tool of some kind, and now that Cole was focused on him, he realized Will was talking to himself. In a volume just beneath what would be considered conversational in a place like this, he spoke, the intonation giving away that he was making comments and asking questions, but the words didn’t carry to Cole. There were long enough pauses to suggest he was listening to responses, too.
He was talking to someone who wasn’t in this room.
Cole masked a dry laugh behind a cough. Trust Will to need a whole staff to pull off a job anyprofessionalcould handle alone. And he was probably screwing them over, too. Or screwingthem, the slut.
Well. Whatever. He wasn’t Cole’s problem, and Cole needed to concentrate on his own job, not the weasel whose clothes fell off when he was around other people’s boyfriends.
Cole inhaled through his nose and let it out slowly. He closed his eyes and took another breath. Let that one out. He couldn’t lose his focus. Not now. He wasn’t about to fail at this anyway, but when there was a chance of Will witnessing that failure? Ooh, hell no. Absolutely the fuck not. What was that clown evendoinghere? Unless he was some unfortunate bastard’s plus one, the only business he could possibly have here was to steal something.
Was Will here for the Iberian Puffin?
Cole had to bite back a laugh. Hell, it would be entertaining to stand back and let him try. Watch him fail, then swoop in and steal it himself.
But no, if someone made a move for it—even an unsuccessful one—the whole party would shut down and the Puffin would be moved someplace secure. Not ideal.
After one more deep, centering breath, Cole opened his eyes and gazed at the Egyptian mask just to have something to hold his focus. Diversion. Right. It was time for the diversion.
He checked his watch, then strode out of the room as if he needed to be somewhere.
In the main gallery, he paused to take in the atmosphere and assess if his existing diversion was still doing the trick.
Somewhere, he could still hear Mother’s voice rising above everyone else’s. The word “cubism” smacked against his eardrums like a rubber band snapping against his skin. Christ. For as much as she tutted and tsked about other people’s manners and how “new money” was always brash and loud, there were few people louder than her when she wasrightabout something. It was mortifying on most nights—useful as hell tonight, especially since he could see just how much the annoyance with her was holding everyone’s focus. Some were barely paying any attention to the art on display.
Perfect.
Except…
Noteveryonewas gossiping and judging. Maybe he was just edgy after seeing Will Yarmouth, but he suddenly noticed another familiar face hovering near the edge of the crowd. In a small cluster of people who were clearly annoyed with Mother, Jansen Mortimer would appear bored to the untrained eye. To Cole, he was faking boredom to subtly scan his surroundings. His eyes were too sharp, too analytical; he was assessing, and not just for an escape from an insufferable conversation.
Cole’s stomach knotted. Okay, it wasn’tsuperout of the ordinary for more than one thief to show up at an event where some particularly enticing booty was available for the taking. When the event was hosted by someone who recklessly displayed originals instead of high-quality replicas, multiple thieves were almost a guarantee. Cole wouldn’t have been surprised if someone was, as he stood here, stealing one of the myriad expensive cars parked around back.
Still, he was suddenly unsettled… and that feeling intensified when another sweep of the room picked out Vanessa Irwin. She was being a little too friendly and bubbly, which meant she was here on a job. She’d probably already relieved someone of a piece of jewelry by now, and they hadn’t even noticed. She wasthatgood.
As were Eli Quinn, Desiree Montgomery, and Ivan Glazkov, all of whom were moving among the gossiping oligarchs like cats slinking through an oblivious flock of squawking birds.
Cole swallowed. Something wasn’t right.
And then his gaze landed on a short, stout Black woman, and he immediately recognized her.
Reality snapped into bright focus. Cole’s heart jumped into his throat and pounded in his ears. As he swept his gaze around the room yet again, he picked out several people who didn’t quite fit into the wealthy upper crust who comprised most of the guest list. He’d noticed them when he’d arrived but dismissed them as Alder’s college buddies or the young people running his empire.
Their short and somewhat severe haircuts hadn’t registered as anything beyond style choices lacking creativity. Their rigid posture and overly formal politeness had just suggested they were out of their element and intimidated. Their tuxes were decent but made of cheap materials and not well-cut; he’d thought the men just hadn’t put in much effort, but now he wondered if in fact those tuxes were rentals.
Because the woman he’d zeroed in on was Shawna Isaac, the police commissioner. The man to her right was the chief of police.
And those men with short hair and rented tuxes were cops.
