“What if it’s too late? What if they take the girls and disappear before the cops get here? We both know the police are useless.”
I don’t have an answer to that. Not a good one, at least. The girls aren’t our priority. “We gave the cops all the information about the buyers we could find.”
She spins out of my grip, and if you didn’t know her, it’d look flirty instead of furious. “I’m getting another glass,” she says, holding up her goblet. “Want to join me?” she asks Trevor, her purposeful exclusion of me making her anger at our lack of action clear.
Trevor’s wife answers, and the three of them head to the bar, Trips’ stepmom half a step behind them.
At the direction of the photographer, everyone else gets sent to the open bar as well, but I keep my eyes glued on Mattie until she vanishes into the crowd.
I can’t save every girl here that needs a savior. I’m still no white knight. But I’m going to get Clara back, and if I can, I’m going to keep Mattie out of Bryce’s nasty-ass fingers. It’s the best I can offer tonight.
I’m too damn selfish for the rest of it.
The photographer finishes a series of pictures of Clara and her dad, then moves to Clara and Trips kissing. As much as I wish I were the one with her lips on mine, the hint of legitimate joy Trips exudes settles something for me.
He loves her.
I don’t know if he’s said it yet, but it’s there, in the way his hand seeks her skin, in the warmth in his usually icy eyes when he glances at her, in the way he steps closer toher when anybody draws near enough that she might be in danger.
And Clara—she leans into him, welcomes his touch, her fingers tangling in his as the photographer finishes. She strides toward me, Trips seemingly happy to be dragged by her to my side.
Her smile is genuine, and I want to pull her into my arms, to taste the lips I’ve been dreaming of but unable to touch, to breathe her air and bask in her presence. “Walker,” she murmurs, and somehow, into the narrow frame of my name, she squeezes all the love, longing, and hope she holds.
“Clara,” I whisper, forcing down a sudden swell of tears behind my mask.
We stand there, staring at each other like we’re made of porcelain, strong when pressed in certain directions, but easily crushed in others. And it hurts to know how vulnerable she’s been, how hard this has been for all of us. Never again. If a gig keeps any of us apart for more than a long weekend, I’m vetoing the damn thing.
Her dad breaks our silent communion. “A familiar face. Finally,” he says, his smile not quite reaching his eyes as he looks between me and Clara.
Trips reaches over, shaking hands with the older man. “I’m glad you could make it.” He pauses, and then a look takes over his face that’s more like Jansen than the broody asshole who’s bossed us around for years. “Actually, I have a surprise. For both of you,” he says, looking from Clara to her dad.
He flags down a familiar guard from where he’s standing nearby, the same one that was in the room with us earlier. The one I knocked out with kitty litter a yearago. He hasn’t said anything, and I haven’t reminded him what happened all those months ago. It seems safer. If nothing else Trips seems to trust him.
Trips asks him to fetch the officiant, but the guard doesn’t do exactly as he’s asked. I sort of thought he would.
“Next on your agenda is signing the marriage license. Should he meet you in your father’s office?” he asks.
Both Clara and Trips tense, Clara blinking quickly while Trips locks his jaw, whatever joy I thought I saw snuffed out.
Then Clara glances at me, and a grin sneaks across her face—the one she gets right before she enacts a plan. “Ready for your starring role?”
“What the hell do you think I’m here for if not that?” I tease, trying to match her lightness.
She turns to the guard. “Why don’t we sign things in the gallery? Walker and my dad can be our witnesses.”
“A gallery?” Her dad shakes his head at the absurdity, and well, yeah. It’s crazy.
That doesn’t mean I won’t have my own gallery when I can afford one.
Trips leads us down a series of halls until we get to the infamous gallery. I’ve heard so much about the place and its impenetrable security that I’m shocked to find the doors wide open, the slightly chilly air seeping from the space. But after that single observation, I’m done worrying about security. Art takes over.
“Oh my God, is that a Rembrandt?” I ask, drifting to one side. “And a Vermeer? Are you kidding me?”
Trips’ low chuckle forces me to turn away from the millions of dollars of art locked up in this prison of a mansion. There’sat least as much money in the dynamic colors of the Impressionists behind him as there is in the more classic pieces before me.
“My father gets gifts from the friends he helps out. It benefits him to accept them and keep them in good condition.”
So, priceless art in exchange for dead whistleblowers. Great.
