Chapter 12

CHAPTER

TWELVE

QUIN

I snuck out of Dimitri’s room as the sun started to rise. It almost hurt to leave him. But he was sleeping peacefully, so I tiptoed out and locked the door behind me.

Back in my own room, I called Felix. He answered on the second ring.

“Quin! Oh, thank god. What happened?”

“I don’t know. You tell me. One minute you were there and the next, I had nothing. We had a close call.”

“Shit. I’m sorry. Are you okay?”

I blew out a sigh as memories from last night scrolled through my brain. Dimitri had felt so perfect in my arms, his lips on mine. I could have done without almost getting caught sneaking around Dasselaar’s estate, but I definitely didn’t regret kissing Dimitri or holding him until he fell asleep. Recalling the sweet little sounds he’d made while he rubbed his cock against my thigh had my cock thickening behind my zipper.

The sound of frantic typing came over the line. “Where is the comm now?”

I picked up one of the leather cases and snapped the earpiece back into place. “I just put it back in the ring, and the ring is in the box.”

“Good. Let me run some tests. Hopefully it was just a blip with the battery and charging it up will help.”

“Did you get my texts?”

“Yes. Having the guest list is huge. Julius is already working on hacking bank accounts so we can monitor the money moving during the auction. I’ve been working with Reuben to pull profiles for all the attendees, and we’re already about halfway through the list.”

“When was the last time you slept?”

“Um, yesterday? Maybe. I don’t remember. I’ll get through a few more names then crash for a while.”

“Dasselaar is doing a preview of the auction today, so I should be able to get some good information on the setup of the pieces and the layout of the room. Can you ask Jules if the account is good to go?”

“Julius says you’re all set. I know Nero is getting nervous about going in blind, so anything you can get us of the inside of the estate helps. I have a program that will create a 3D rendering from the footage your camera picks up.”

A yawn cracked my jaw. “Okay.”

“Sounds like you need to get some sleep too.”

“Yeah.”

“Then I’ll let you go. Text me if you need anything. If I’m sleeping, Nero will answer.”

“Got it.”

Julius said something to Felix, and he ended the call.

Still fully clothed, I flopped onto the bed and stared up at the ceiling. All I could see were Dimitri’s bright green eyes, his pupils blown from pleasure, his lips swollen from my kisses. His soft sounds played on a loop in my head, and I fell asleep thinking of him.

When I woke up, I had just enough time to quickly scroll through the profiles Felix had sent to me, grab a shower, change into a fresh suit, put Felix’s pin camera into place on my pocket, and hustle down to breakfast. Only a couple of Dasselaar’s guests lingered in the dining room, and I recognized both as two of the men who had stayed up until well past midnight drinking and smoking cigars on the veranda. As I picked up a plate to serve myself from the buffet spread, the door to the kitchen swung open, and I held my breath waiting to see if it was Dimitri.

It wasn’t. A member of the kitchen staff came into the room carrying a silver coffee carafe. She set it down and hustled from the room.

I tucked into my breakfast at the far end of the table from where two gentlemen were deep in a hushed conversation. A bite of boiled egg was halfway to my mouth when the dining room door banged open, and Dasselaar strode in.

“Ah, Mr. Hunter. I wondered if we’d be seeing you today.”

My fork fell back to the plate. “My apologies. I overslept a bit.”

Dasselaar studied me, his gaze penetrating, and his lips tipped up in half of a sly smile. “I see. I thought perhaps you were up late.”

His words put ice in my veins. Did he know Dimitri and I had broken into his office last night? He couldn’t know. Felix had been looping the cameras. But there had been that issue with the comms. What if something had knocked out Felix’s feed?

Pulling on my cool, professional persona, I shook my head. “No. I went to bed after I saw you last night. I just had trouble getting to sleep.”

“Mm.” The single syllable conveyed Dasselaar’s skepticism, but he didn’t press the issue further, which made me think he was trying to see if I would give myself away rather than having any real proof of what Dimitri and I had been up to last night. Still, I didn’t like that I was so clearly on his radar.

“I’m looking forward to the auction preview this afternoon.” I lifted my fork again, and this time, Dasselaar let me take the bite.

“My team is making the final preparations now.” Dasselaar pulled out the seat next to me and lowered himself into the chair. “I have made a request that all my guests make a deposit of a half million US dollars to secure their position at the auction. Before I can allow you into the preview, I will need your deposit.”

“That’s not a problem.”

“My banker is here now and happy to meet with you as soon as you are ready.”

Picking up my coffee, I took a sip and studied Dasselaar over the rim of the delicate cup. “Of course. Let me finish here, and I will be happy to meet him.”

“Excellent. He will be waiting for you in the library.” Dasselaar watched my face for any indication that I was already familiar with that part of the house.

“Where is the library located?”

Dasselaar was quiet for a moment, and I returned to my egg, waiting him out. “Follow the gallery to the first hall and make a right. It is the set of double doors at the end of that corridor.” He looked at me intently again. “Right next to the conservatory.”

Somehow he knew Dimitri had been out of his room and with me last night. That was the only reason he would be baiting me like this. But if he had proof, he would have had his security team take care of me, right? He certainly wouldn’t be letting me sit in his dining room, casually eating a meal.

Until I knew for sure that he was aware Dimitri and I had been prowling the estate after hours, I had to remain cool and collected. “If I get turned around, I’m sure there are plenty of people I can ask to point me in the right direction.”

Before Dasselaar could respond, a member of Dasselaar’s security team walked into the dining room and straight to him, leaning down to whisper something I couldn’t hear into his ear.

“If you’ll excuse me, there is something that requires my attention.”

“Don’t let me keep you.”

“I will let my banker know to expect you.”

I nodded and Dasselaar stood, following his goon from the room.

After finishing my breakfast, I made my way to the library, moving slowly so the camera picked up as much as possible. I pretended to get lost, turning down the second hallway on the right instead of the first, then doubled back. I stopped along the way to admire some of the art Dasselaar had displayed on the walls. The only thing the pieces had in common were their rarity and their price points, but otherwise, there was no cohesive vision when it came to the collection. His taste reminded me of someone who ordered the most expensive thing on the menu at a restaurant just because it was the most expensive thing, not because they actually liked the meal.

Today, the double doors to the library were open and the sun streamed in through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Several of Dasselaar’s guests were in the room. A lovely older Asian lady sat on one of the leather sofas in front of the fireplace, reading a leatherbound volume. I recognized her from Felix’s files as Naga Tatsumi, a Komodo dragon shifter and owner of a string of high-end, luxury casinos from Macau to Singapore, including several properties in Las Vegas.

Sergei Lobanov—a wolf shifter and Russian general turned steel magnate—and Gareth Hawking—a falcon shifter and chemist who was one of the UK’s wealthiest people—sat across from each other in leather club chairs, a chess board between them. From what I could tell, it was Lobanov’s move.

“Mr. Hunter?” An accented voice caught my attention, and I turned to find a rotund man wearing a maroon paisley bow tie and round glasses that made his eyes look owlish and wide at a table just inside the door.

“Yes?”

“Mr. Dasselaar said I should be expecting you. I am Emil Mondvogel, Mr. Dasselaar’s private banker. If you’ll join me, we can complete your deposit.”

I nodded and followed him to the table where a laptop sat.

“Do you have any Swiss bank accounts?” Mondvogel asked.

“I do, but I’d prefer to use a different account for this transaction.”

“Of course. Of course. Whatever you prefer.” He spun the laptop around. “This is a private and highly secure wire transfer program. You simply enter your details here.” He tapped a field on the screen. “And I will enter Mr. Dasselaar’s details below, then this panel will take your handprint, and the transaction will be complete.”

I nodded my understanding, and Mondvogel gestured for me to proceed. I typed in the account numbers Julius had made me memorize for an off-shore account that couldn’t be traced back to us. When I was done, Mondvogel turned the computer back to face him and typed in Dasselaar’s details. The palm reader lit up red and Mondvogel pointed to it. “I simply need your handprint to complete the transaction. Place your hand flat and hold it still until the light turns green.”

I did as he said, and within a second, the light flashed.

“Very well. That is done. If you are the highest bidder on a piece, you will just need to scan your palm again to authorize the transfer of funds for your purchase. Enjoy the auction.”

As I left the library, the only thing I could think about was the fact that I would be leaving Dasselaar’s auction with something far more valuable than a painting. I would be leaving with my mate. With my Dimitri.

I had time to kill before the preview, and I spent it slowly walking around the estate, poking into every room I could find, and giving Felix as much of an overview of the inside of the estate as I could. While I was wandering, Julius sent me a text telling me the money had been swept out of the account and he’d been able to use the transaction to trace back into Dasselaar’s accounts.

At noon, I made my way to the wing of the house where the ballroom was located and stood at the back of the group of Dasselaar’s guests who had gathered for the preview. While I’d been wandering, this wing of the house had been cordoned off with two of Dasselaar’s security personnel stationed at each end of the corridor, so I hadn’t been able to explore any of the rooms off this hall. While the items that had been blocking this area of the house had been removed, the security presence was still strong. Two armed guards, their guns visible as bulges under their ill-fitting jackets, stood by the double doors to the room where Dasselaar had told us to meet and several others roamed the hall from end to end.

While we waited for our host to make an appearance, I matched faces to the profiles Felix had sent me and realized everyone in attendance was a high-powered shifter with an estimated personal net worth of at least five hundred million US dollars. Most had questionable ties to at least some level of criminal enterprise and a couple were flat-out criminals. None of the people assembled was an art thief or, as far as Felix had been able to discover, overly interested in The Evolution of Man , though each was an avid art collector in their own right. Inviting this group of people was a strategic move, and one I appreciated. As I’d suspected, Dasselaar was going to use this group to drive up the starting bids on all the pieces, which would in turn net him a fat sum of cash at the end of the night.

Dasselaar kept us all waiting in the hall, building our anticipation and testing our patience, until finally fifteen minutes after he’d told us to gather, he emerged from the room where the auction would take place. He clapped his hands and rubbed them together, grabbing our attention.

“Friends, thank you again for joining me this weekend. It is my pleasure to offer you an exclusive first look at the rare and very difficult to obtain”—he smiled slyly—“pieces. At the end of the preview, you will each be able to cast one private bid for each piece with Mr. Emil Mondvogel. Tomorrow evening, you will be able to actively bid on the pieces during the gala. Now, with no further ado, please follow me.”

The security guards on either side of the double doors pulled them open and we followed Dasselaar into the room. A freestanding temporary wall had been erected not far inside the room to create a traffic pattern, and Dasselaar led us around the right side of the wall. The space beyond had been transformed from a medium-sized ballroom into a museum-worthy gallery. At a quick count, fifty artworks were on display around the room, each appropriately lit to best showcase the piece. I recognized several of the pieces as stolen on sight, but some were harder to place, either because they’d been stolen a long time ago or because their history was unclear. On the back of the temporary wall was a covered piece, and I knew what was underneath. If I had to guess, Dasselaar would show The Evolution of Man off last, in the hope that it would be the piece everyone wanted to bid on.

Dasselaar approached the first piece, then looked around the room, his brow creasing when he appeared to not find what he was looking for. He beckoned one of his security guards over and whispered something into his ear. The guard nodded and disappeared, returning a moment later with Dimitri’s bicep clutched in his meaty fist. Dimitri didn’t struggle in his hold, but I could see the pain on his face. My hands clenched into fists as I committed the guard’s features to memory. He would pay for manhandling Dimitri like that. Dasselaar stood in front of Dimitri with his back to us. I couldn’t make out what he said to Dimitri, but when he walked away there was a heartbreaking mix of impotent rage and resignation in Dimitri’s bright green eyes.

I wished he’d look for me so I could reassure him that everything was okay, but while Dasselaar spoke about the first piece, Dimitri kept his eyes on the ground.

“My colleague”—he gestured to Dimitri, and I scoffed under my breath. Colleague my ass. Dimitri was his prisoner—“has a unique talent. Besides the adequate provenance documents I will provide with each piece, I have a way to illustrate the authenticity of each of these artworks. Mr. Crysanthos’s skin can detect anomalies in paint formulations. If the paint used is authentic for the time of the piece and not an amalgamation of contemporary mediums designed to mimic the effect of older methods, his skin will blend seamlessly into the background colors so you will not be able to discern where his skin ends and the painting begins. If the painting is not authentic, his skin will struggle to settle on a color, instead trying to work through the individual shades used to replicate the color and contributing a muddy overall appearance of the colors.”

Small murmurs of surprise and some of skepticism slithered through the crowd. Several people leaned in closer to the painting, excited to see Dimitri’s talent.

“Mr. Crysanthos, if you please.” Dasselaar swept his hand toward the painting, inviting Dimitri to step up to it. He hesitated for a second, and I watched Dasselaar, his jaw tightening until Dimitri finally held out his hand, his skin changing almost immediately to perfectly match the art behind it.

Gasps sounded around me, and several people nodded in appreciation.

“As you can see, this piece is authentic.” Dasselaar turned and picked up the Vermeer he’d shown me at his gallery. “This piece, however, is not.” Without being told, Dimitri approached the painting Dasselaar held and hovered his hand in front of it. Colors began to swirl on his skin, but the hue was muddy and, like at the gallery, the edges of his hand were clearly visible.

This time the murmurs of surprise came from all sides. Dasselaar’s guests were clearly invested in the theatrics of this display.

Dasselaar set the forged Vermeer aside, and we moved to the next piece. This time, when Dimitri was called forward, his eyes found mine in the crowd. I gave him a reassuring smile, and the corner of his lips tipped up in silent acknowledgment.

For the next hour, we continued around the room in the same way. Dasselaar would talk briefly about the piece, Dimitri would authenticate it for the crowd, and we would exchange small smiles and covert glances.

The collection Dasselaar had amassed was significant and exciting. If any of these pieces had crossed through my gallery, the twenty-five million I’d gotten for Niels Zwart’s Lichtenstein would have looked like pocket change.

Finally, Dasselaar stood in front of the covered piece in pride of place at the front of the room.

“I have saved the very best piece in this collection for last. This is one of the most elusive pieces of art in human history, and I have done what many before me have tried and failed to do. I have procured the original painting, which has not been seen in decades.” Dasselaar’s smug and satisfied smile confirmed another of my hypotheses. He had invited Juno to the gallery just to rub it in that he’d gotten his hands on something she couldn’t, which meant there were definitely going to be other thieves at the gala, and we were going to need to be careful. Very, very careful.

I’d drifted back to the rear of the crowd, watching as everyone leaned forward when Dasselaar’s fingers wrapped around the yellow cord holding up the piece of burgundy velvet covering the painting. Dimitri’s eyes met mine, and I smiled as the curtain fell.

And then the bottom dropped out of my stomach.

Dasselaar was mistaken.

He didn’t have the original.

The painting he had was my forgery.

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