I pursed my lips to hold back the automatic retort that women didn’t need a man to buy things for them these days. “We’re in the market for something different.” I exchanged a glance with Zeke, hoping he wouldn’t mind me saying so. “We’re art lovers.”
“Ah.” She smiled. “Then there are other things here that are more to your liking.”
“Exactly.”
She tilted her head in acknowledgment and she and her companion swept away.
“Well done,” Zeke murmured. “I could be wrong, but I think that was Rene Laurent’s wife. Now that she knowswe’re interested in art, perhaps we’ll get an invitation to see the Monet.”
I felt a jolt, followed by the rumble of an engine, and I automatically reached for Zeke’s hand as the yacht eased into motion. My throat tightened, but then Zeke pulled me against his chest and kissed my forehead. The room began to fill with people—the ones who’d been outside coming in.
His lips moved against my skin. “Everything will be okay.”
I straightened and tried to look like someone who boarded expensive yachts loaded with stolen treasures every day. God, I hoped he was right.
ZEKE
Didit make me a bad person that I found Fiona’s nerves endearing? It was rare for me to see her anything other than confident, and it was nice to remember that she wasn’t always the most efficient person on the planet. She was as human as the rest of us.
I edged closer, breathing her in. I loved the way she smelled, and having her nearby soothed me. I was nervous too, although I’d never let her know it. She needed me to be strong, and I could fill that role for her. After all, it wasn’t as if I hadn’t been in high-stakes situations before. Many had been more dangerous than this. It had just been a while since I’d experienced the wild highs and lows that came with undercover work.
A glass chimed, and I looked to the front of the room, where a man in a pinstriped suit was adjusting a microphone clipped to his collar.
“Welcome, ladies and gentlemen.” His voice boomed around the enclosed space and he winced and adjusted the mic. “Sorry about that,” he continued at a more reasonable volume. “As I was saying, welcome to Mr. Laurent’s semi-annual auction. You’ll see that we have an impressive selection to entice all comers.” His smile turned sly. “There’s also a private auction that will be happening near the end of the night. Some of you know what this is regarding. Others of you who are interested can ask Rene or his wife, Claudette, for a viewing at their discretion.”
A faint hum swept through the room.
The speaker cleared his throat. “For those of you who don’t know me, I am John Herbert and I’ll be your auctioneer tonight.” He checked the expensive watch on his wrist. “Please take advantage of the next fifteen minutes to view the items. Bidding will begin at eight thirty.”
He switched the mic off and said something to the pudgy, balding man beside him.
“That’s Laurent,” I murmured, recognizing him from the photographs we’d seen earlier. My gaze wandered away from him, across the room, cataloging every person I encountered.
I stiffened. Shit. I’d hoped we’d have longer before this happened. At least long enough to confirm the presence of the Monet.
“Don’t look now, but we have company.”
Fiona twitched but managed not to follow my gaze. “Who?”
“Your ex.” I locked eyes with Bergen Cole, who was sauntering across the room toward us, one side of his mouth hitched up as if he didn’t have a care in the world. Like me, he was wearing a white suit, but his shirt was black and he wore a gold bow tie. His hair was slicked back, similarly to mine, and he was clean-shaven. I had togive it to Fiona, she’d done a fantastic job of dressing me as him.
“Well, well.” He stopped in front of us, his mouth curled in a smirk, and Fiona finally allowed herself to look up. If I hadn’t been touching her, I might not have noticed the way her muscles tensed. Bergen scanned me and his smirk deepened. “You certainly have a type, don’t you, Fi?”
I kept my eyes on Bergen, so I didn’t see Fiona’s reaction, but I could practically sense the fury vibrating through her.
“He’s nothing like you,” she said, so levelly I was impressed. Nobody overhearing the conversation would know the depth of her emotion toward the man opposite us. I was also surprised by her words. She’d always made it clear that she didn’t think much of me. Perhaps that was changing. I could only hope.
Bergen looked at me pointedly. “If you say so.” He glanced toward the ceiling, and I spotted a camera not far away, presumably filming our interaction. “Being seen here won’t bolster your case,” he continued. “Imagine what the police would think if they saw photos of you around all of this stolen art.”
I drew Fiona against my side to show my support. “If you gave the police any photos showing Fiona here, you’d also be incriminating yourself.”
He shrugged. “There is such a thing as anonymous tipping.” He gave Fiona a faux sympathetic smile. “You’ll look terrible in orange, darling.”
With that parting remark, he strode away. Fiona jerked toward him, as if she intended to chase him down and give him a piece of her mind, but I stopped her.
“Don’t make a scene,” I murmured near her ear, cupping her face so any onlookers wouldn’t see our exchange as anything more than an intimate moment between a couple. “We need to get out of here quickly and quietly.”
It was time to initiate the escape plan.
