My anger must show on my face, because Clara slips her arm through mine and tows me away from her father and Trips, stopping at a small sketch in the corner—the goddamn Rubens.
“This damn thing,” I whisper, once again wanting to reach out and touch the same paper the master touched, to scent the long-faded dust of charcoal on my fingers.
The weight of Clara’s attention has me tilting my head closer to her, and her barely audible voice flows like silk into my ear, the scent of her hair not its typical bargain-bin floral, but deeper and richer. “I like the new drawings you sent as much as this one. I’ve missed watching you work.”
“I miss watchingyouwhile I work more.” Her blush at the implication that she’d be my model adds to the pink of her makeup, and I can hardly keep my hands to myself, the urge to yank her against me and reacquaint myself with every little moan of hers almost unbearable. Instead, I change the subject. “I take it the drawings got where they needed to be?”
“Of course.”
The officiant calls us from across the gallery, a guard with a small table waiting beside him. Trips invites them both in, then straightens his suit jacket twice before we reach whatever this setup is.
“I’ll need signatures from everyone, and then you two can live it up, sin free,” the official states with a grin, handing a pen to Clara first.
As she goes to sign, her hand stops an inch away from the paper. “Wait, I think there’s a mistake.”
Trips snatches the pen from her, scribbling on the line next to the one Clara was hovering over. “There’s no mistake.”
She blinks, slowly, her eyes sparkling with unshed tears as she raises her chin to look at her now-husband. I step forward, wondering what the hell is going on as Trips stabs the pen in her direction.
And there, spelled out in all its official glory, is a name that doesn’t exist—Trips Bergen McElroy.
“Your father’s going to kill us,” she whispers.
Trips says nothing, waiting until she signs her name, nothing changed at all, Clara Grace McElroy, then steps back, ushering Clara’s dad to the table.
He takes a moment to see what Trips did, and when he does, he’s got nothing but confusion and tears for us. “But why?”
“I never wanted to be a Westerhouse. There’s no way I’d make your daughter become one as well.”
The shocked silence lingers as we finish signing the marriage license, the officiant tucking it into his jacket as the sharp clatter of a flurry of dress shoes rounds the corner.
Trips’ father leads the charge, a collection of guards behind him, Trips’ brother bringing up the tail of the brigade. I school my expression, but damn, does it feel good when things are going according to plan.
The doors to the gallery swing shut with a muffled bang, the climate control sucking the sound away, dulling the dramatic punctuation I expect. “Stay where you are,” our enemy demands before directing the guards around the space.
A number move to the paintings, an electronic scanner in each of their hands as they inspect the pieces on the wall. The rest of the guards surround us, grabbing at us with no explanation. One tries to yank my jacket off my shoulders, and the instinct that RJ and Trips trained into me takes over. I flip the man over my hip before I even wonder if I should show my hand.
“What the fuck are you doing?” I say, pressing my heel against his throat as he scrambles for leverage on my leg to fling me down beside him. I guess that cat’s out of the bag.
Clara’s dad takes a swing at the guard in front of him, while Trips shields Clara from a second guard coming for her on one side. Meanwhile, his brother weaves between bodies, approaching Clara from the opposite direction, and I risk releasing my captive to intercept him. The officiant’s startled expression dodges from one scuffle to the next, a heavy hand on his shoulder keeping him from running.
A surprisingly soft cough from the evil mastermind halts the chaos, the guards freezing to listen to his command. He glances at his phone, then straightens his lapels. “I apologize for the inconvenience, but I need everyone here to strip. Now.”
I’d assumed a pat-down was coming, but stripping? Fuck.
Trips’ father knows something is going down, and we’ve got his attention exactly where it should be: on me. But hisattention wasn’t supposed to translate into getting naked in front of a crowd.
“What are you talking about?” Clara’s dad grumbles, the officiant looking just as perplexed.
“I know this is not ordinary, but I have reason to believe that the security in this part of the house has been tampered with, and with all the priceless art on the walls, I can’t risk any pieces walking away without checking.”
Clara’s dad isn’t an idiot, and the retired crook just motions to the room. “They’re all here. You can see that as well as I can.”
“I have insider knowledge regarding a forger,” he says, his look pointed at me, leaving no one in the room with any question of who he’s referring to.
“So, strip,” Trevor Westerhouse barks, stepping forward like he plans to help Clara with her dress.
Trips lunges to block his brother, but I get there first, my grip on the scum’s wrist hard. It’s the most vicious grab I know, one where I dig my fingers into his tendons until he flinches. “Stay back,” I say. Then, I look at the man in charge. “We’ll do this. But you’re mistaken.”
