Page 88 of My Favorite Kidnapper

We ordered drinks and made small talk. Richard kept glancing at Brianna, often asking her direct questions. He talked more than I was used to. She kept her answers short, sipping her wine too quickly. I leaned over, murmuring in her ear.

“Slow down, Little Bee. Everything is fine.” I gathered her hand in mine, and she relaxed a little. I didn’t want her drunk. I had a feeling that would be a recipe for disaster. The word kidnapped would definitely come up.

“Canadian, are you?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“What part?”

“Toronto.”

“Such a metropolitan town. I enjoy visiting the city.”

“And where are you from, Mr. Wiggles?”

“New York is home now. I grew up in California.”

“Big difference,” she replied.

“Yes. But I enjoy both.”

“Ah.” More wine disappeared.

He kept peppering her with questions, and her answers became a little longer. She even laughed at a joke he cracked. I’d never heard him try to be funny. I looked between them, trying not to smile. Richard, it seemed, was enamored with my little bee. I had never heard him make so much small talk. Yet, oddly enough, I felt no animosity from him, no challenge to our relationship, and, surprisingly, no sexual interest in Brianna. Simply honest curiosity.

We ordered dinner, and he and I spoke of the acquisition of the sculpture. “All has checked out, and I have advised the family of a fair price and that you would be an honorable man to deal with. It was a favorite piece of their father’s, but none of them is fond of it. But they want to know it goes to someone who would appreciate it the way their father did. I assured them you did.”

“I’m grateful to you for that. May I have my lawyers get in touch with the offer? It will match your evaluation.”

“I value your trust.”

“I’m thankful for your help.”

“Have you seen his galleries, Brianna?” Richard asked.

“Two of them,” she said.

“The one in London is spectacular. You should take her there, Dante.”

I smiled in acknowledgment. “One day.”

“His private collection—has he shared those?”

“Some.”

“You must mean a great deal to him, then. How long have you been together?”

She frowned. “That’s a rather private question, Mr. Wiggles.”

He winked at her, and I gaped. I had never seen him wink. Smile. Almost flirt, although he looked at her in a more fatherly way. And he acted as if he was trying to make her…comfortable?

“Mr. Wiggles is my father. Call me by my first name.”

She picked up her glass, taking a sip.

He leaned closer. “Dick. My friends call me Dick.”

The wine in her mouth sprayed wide across the table, hitting him, the cloth, and everything in between. She stared, wide-eyed, then began to laugh.