The Swan (The Lovers #2)

ONE PAUL The Auction

Thirty million dollars and a bioweapon—Nicholas always did like to gift-wrap his revenge.

The second painting of the evening shines under the spotlights—a lesser Monet that won't kill anyone, unlike Dr. Gachet, which waits its turn like a loaded gun.

The bid price climbs past eight million, but my mind calculates different numbers.

Ten years since Nicholas and I called each other brother.

Ten days since Vivianne crashed into my world.

Three since she uncovered my secret—and Nicholas returned to steal Dr. Gachet, concealing anthrax beneath Van Gogh's paint.

And just five minutes since Vivianne touched my shoulder and whispered she needed water.

The bidding draws to its close, paddles dropping one by one. Urakov shifts his weight, ready to fight for his motherland's bioweapon. The terrorists think they're buying death in a frame. Interpol thinks they're tracing arms money. Vivianne thinks we're here to recover stolen art.

They're all right, and all wrong.

Nicholas orchestrated this entire setup, and I still don't know why.

"Sold!"

Bidding ends on the second painting, and Dr. Gachet is brought to the podium. Vivianne has yet to return.

Where is she?

After I specifically told her to stay close.

I don't have time to track her down. Dr. Gachet is up, and the opening bid is placed.

Urakov takes position at the opposite end of the room, close to the podium. His back is to me and the rest of the crowd. The Russian intends to bid and reclaim what he hopes is smuggled inside, but if I let Urakov have the painting, it will be lost to the world.

Vivianne wants to return Dr. Gachet to the Musée d'Orsay. I will see it done.

The whole exchange smells wrong, and I can't determine Nicholas's role in either theft.

In a usual exchange, a client who needs to launder several million dollars purchases a painting. Dirty cash transfers for the commodity, becoming washed in the process. In a separate event, that process reverses. The client resells the painting, pulling out clean cash.

The painting serves as nothing more than a vehicle for moving money. Nicholas complicated that transaction by adding the anthrax.

But why?

The seller must have commissioned the theft of Dr. Gachet and the procurement of the anthrax. They combined the two, turning the painting into a mule for the bioweapon.

The buyers intend to exchange cash for the painting and obtain the anthrax. I have no idea what the market value of weaponized anthrax might be, but the numbers don't add up.

Whoever buys the painting will be able to sell it for nearly as much as they paid, perhaps more. The puzzle nags at me.

I've yet to place a bid, but I'm tracking those in the crowd who are actively bidding. Urakov screws with the whole process. He's too obvious and too eager. His attempts to outbid his competitors unnecessarily raise the price.

I scan the room again, looking for Vivianne. Someone here works for the terrorist cell Interpol is trying to take down, and I can't let my distraction undermine that goal.

Is Interpol even aware of the bioweapons exchange?

There was no mention of it in my talks with Agent Radcliffe. It was always about tracing the flow of money, identifying the buyer, and tracking them down. I'm not even tasked with securing Dr. Gachet.

The Americans and Interpol have more critical concerns than whether a painting goes missing. Their intelligence never mentioned a transaction of weapons-grade anthrax. Either they don't trust me with that information, or they don't have a clue.

Urakov's frantic bidding skyrockets the price until the bid frequency drops. Still no Vivianne.

Unlike those I'm working with, I want that painting. I'll let Urakov confiscate the anthrax and return it to his homeland, but the painting belongs to me.

As for the buyers?

There are only three men actively left in the bidding war.

Within seconds of placing my bid, someone outbids me. It isn't Urakov. The Russian shifts on the balls of his feet and rubs the back of his neck. Perhaps his countrymen's pockets aren't as deep as he thought, which works in my favor.

The price climbs, and one of the three men drops out of the bidding, leaving me in competition with two others. I take another look around, making certain I'm not missing someone.

As the price edges past twenty million, another bidder bows out, leaving me going head-to-head with Bald Willy.

Why would William Teniford IV be mixed in with terrorists?

The price climbs, and Bald Willy grows nervous. My bid stands, but another is placed before the announcer pronounces it sold—not by Bald Willy and not by either of the other men.

What the hell?

I scan the room and nearly miss placing my next bid. Annabelle LaCroix, the woman who spoke with Vivianne. In her tight-fisted grip, she swipes the screen—the bid price changes.

I respond, placing my bid, and track her thumb. Unlike me, she isn't paying attention to the crowd. She focuses on the painting and the screen behind it, signaling the current bid price.

She swipes again, and the price ticks upward. I place an answering bid.

We play the game for a time, inching the bid out of the twenties and into the thirty-million range. Merlin would raise a brow, but I'm not concerned. After all, we have the painting's twin squirreled away in the cave.

The arrogant Japanese businessman, who spent more than eighty-two million, thinks to keep it hidden, crated, and stored in a warehouse in Japan, but he owns nothing more than another Starling masterpiece.

The version I bid on now isn't worth thirty million, but the pair will bring in well over a hundred million as a set.

The woman twists toward her date, leaning close to confer in a hurried whisper. Too far to hear, and I can't read her lips, but I can guess.

Like Urakov, they are reaching the limits of their funds.

My bid sits on the screen. The auctioneer raps the gavel.

Once.

Twice.

Where the hell is Vivianne?

Sold!

I'm now the proud owner of a painting and enough anthrax to take out a small city. I've been discreet in placing my bids, but I can't be sure I haven't been watched as well.

Attendants remove Dr. Gachet from the podium and bring up the next piece. Annabelle LaCroix blanches and tugs on her date's sleeve. The two of them head to the back of the room, passing me.

I give a curt dip of my head in greeting but am ignored as she sweeps past with a determined expression. I can only imagine the tense conversation she will have with her partners.

Now, to find Vivianne. I turn toward the restrooms, but Urakov grabs my shoulder.

"A word."

"Not now." I glance at my shoulder, making a point to stare at his meaty hand.

Urakov lifts it and takes a step back. "We need to talk."

"In a moment." I lower my voice. "Have you seen Vivianne?"

"Your woman?"

"Yes."

"Haven't been paying attention."

Without a word, I head toward the exit. The guard sits on a stool next to the door. He stands as we approach. I wave him off.

"Où sont les toilettes?"

The man gestures down a dimly lit hall. "Avant-dernière porte à gauche."

I march down the hall. Urakov follows. I don't stop at the men's toilet but knock on the door of the women's facilities.

"Vivianne?" No response. I bang on the wood-slatted doors of the two privacy stalls. The place is empty.

Running a hand through my hair, I stare at the empty room. There is no other place she could be, and I can't think of one reason she would leave the boathouse during the auction.

"What's wrong?" Urakov stands in the doorway. I didn't realize the Russian followed me.

"Something's not right."

"That's for sure. We lost the painting."

I shake my head. "The painting is being crated as we speak. It'll be delivered within an hour of the auction closing."

"To whom?" Urakov pulls at his chin.

"To me."

"You bought it?"

"I did."

"That is not what we discussed."

I hush him and lower my voice. "Probably not the best place for this conversation."

"My property?—"

"Will be returned to you." I exit the women's restroom and scan the hall.

The low lighting makes it hard to make out details. Bidding continues in the main room. The doorman mans his post, focused on the people gathered rather than on me and Urakov.

Turning the other direction, I step toward the end of the hall, noting how it continues around a sharp bend. I gesture for Urakov to follow. Around the corner, the hall ends at another thick wooden door.

I try the latch.

Locked.

"Merde!"

Something is off, and I hate where my thoughts are headed.

"Come," I say to Urakov.

"Where?"

"I don't want to lose track of that painting." If what I fear has happened is true, I can't afford to let Dr. Gachet out of my sight.

On our way back to the auction, heading past the restrooms, I kick a discarded bottle of water. It careens across the floor, hitting the far wall. Then I step on a piece of paper. I stoop to pick it up. The fold widens, giving me a glimpse inside.

"Merde!" My curse draws Urakov's attention.

"What?"

Unfolding the paper, I look upon a Merlin Falcon in flight. Many think Merlin's name derived from the court of King Arthur, but that isn't its origin. Merlins are fierce falcons, powerful fliers that use surprise attacks to bring down songbirds. Medieval falconers called them lady hawks, and noblewomen commonly used them to hunt. What better name for a thief?

My breathing hitches when I read the inscription. Tu as volé l'amour de ma vie. Maintenant, c'est à ton tour de souffrir. You stole the love of my life. Now, it's time for you to suffer.

It could only have been written by one man.

"He took her." The words grind through my teeth.

"Your Vivianne?"

"Yes."

"Who?"

I gesture back toward the auction. "The man who stole that painting. The one who stole the anthrax."

My brother took Vivianne and is playing a very dangerous game. Like a master strategist, Nicholas leaves me with few options. Without knowing where Vivianne is, I can't pursue, and with Dr. Gachet purchased, I can't leave the building until the end of the auction.

Nicholas backed me into the perfect dilemma. I've been effectively immobilized.

The auction is still in progress. For security purposes, none of the pieces will be removed from the room until the auction concludes. Dr. Gachet has returned to its spot on the wall. Fortunately, only a few paintings are left up for bid.

Once my funds clear, I'll receive text instructions for picking up the piece. After crating, the auction house will either freight ship the piece to a place designated by the buyer or release it immediately after the event.

I intend to oversee that entire process.

When the text arrives, I indicate my preference and confirm my identity with a unique code. I'm instructed to remain after the auction ends. Those who didn't purchase any items, along with those who opted to have them shipped, clear the room.

I, Urakov, and Bald Willy are the only people left.

"Hello." William Teniford approaches. "It seems we are the lucky ones."

"Indeed." I clasp hands with Bald Willy.

Willy gives a pompous bow. "William Teniford the Fourth, and you are?"

"Paul de Gaulle."

Urakov grimaces as the Englishman shakes his hand. "Urakov Tarasovich."

"A pleasure." Willy's eyes are overly eager. "This is the first time I've been fortunate to win a bid."

"Congratulations."

Willy leans forward, perhaps expecting more than the terse reply. "Which piece will you be taking home?"

Urakov clears his throat. The loud, grumbly sound silences poor Willy. Fortunately, the auctioneer arrives, cutting off further discussion about who bought what.

The tall, thin, balding man glances at the three of us with confusion. "I was only expecting two."

There is no way to avoid association with Urakov, and the Russian will not walk out without his motherland's property firmly in his hands.

"He's with me."

The auctioneer cocks his head, wise enough not to ask too many questions. "As you wish." He turns and gestures to a door at the front of the room.

Urakov clears his throat, but Willy speaks into that silence. "If you don't mind, I'd rather not step away from my purchase."

"Of course." The auctioneer directs his next words to me. "Would you like to wait in our lounge while your purchase is crated?"

"No. I'll wait with the painting."

"One moment, please." He excuses himself, speaks to one of the attendants, and returns with two locked boxes.

Willy grabs the one offered and swipes his phone over the lock. I take the other. Before Willy can engage me in ponderous conversation, I stride to the bar, order whiskey, and only then open the box to retrieve my and Vivianne's cell phones. Urakov joins me and asks for a vodka pour, which leaves William Teniford to occupy himself alone.

A few minutes later, four men arrive. Two go to Dr. Gachet, and the others go to a larger but insignificant piece.

"Gentlemen," the auctioneer says, "if you will follow me."

Willy follows the men as they cart off his newest acquisition. Urakov and I bracket the two men holding Dr. Gachet and follow them through the doorway.

My cell phone buzzes. A text from an unknown number.

She's mine.

Only one person could have sent it. Gritting my teeth, I respond.

Nicholas.

Do you know what day this is?

It's Saturday, but that is not the answer Nicholas wants. I rack my brain, wondering what significance this day holds for him.

Don't mess with me…brother.

Although not born of blood, we bonded deeply as brothers. We loved each other fiercely. Defended the other when attacked. We shared secrets and painful truths. And we fought like devils over the same women, even the one who finally came between us and destroyed our fraternal bond.

Love turned to hate on the cusp of a single moment.

Merde. I know this day. Ten years to the day, sweet Catherine died. Now Nicholas has Vivianne.

It's time you paid for your sins.

Anger boils up from deep within, churning in my gut, hungry for destruction. I haven't seen Nicholas in ten years, but the rage returns as hot and fiery as that fated night.

It's nearly too much to handle. I force myself to breathe before I react and regret what comes next.

Urakov glances over. "Everything all right?"

Hatred smolders within, and I narrow my eyes, weighing the pros and cons of all the creative ways I want to exact my revenge. But then I face an uncomfortable truth. Nicholas is already two steps ahead.

"Everything's fine."

Dr. Gachet is mine.

I have no further interest in that painting.

I think you do. Are you interested in a trade?

A long stretch passes without a response. Bald Willy and the men he follows take a sudden right turn, but those transporting Dr. Gachet continue forward. Urakov scans the hall, his gaze darting to either side, forward, and back. His head is fixed on a swivel, tracking everywhere and everyone at once.

I should be doing the same. Instead, I grip the phone and wait for Nicholas's response. I tap Urakov's shoulder and gesture for him to hang back.

Go home, brother. I'll be in touch.

"Be prepared for trouble." I keep my voice low.

Urakov pats his chest. "Always."

My mind races, calculating the next moves in this dangerous game Nicholas initiated. He took Vivianne, and now he holds all the cards. The painting, once my primary concern, now seems inconsequential compared to her safety. But I can't let Nicholas know how much she means to me. That only gives him more leverage.

As we continue down the corridor, I'm acutely aware of every sound and shadow. Nicholas could have accomplices anywhere. I need to secure Dr. Gachet and then focus all my resources on finding Vivianne.

But how?

Nicholas is a ghost, impossible to track unless he wants to be found.

"What's the plan?" Urakov's voice is low and gravelly.

I consider my options carefully before responding. "We secure the painting. Then we need to have a very private conversation."

Urakov nods, understanding the weight of my words. He knows something has gone terribly wrong, but he's smart enough not to ask for details.

At least, not here.

We reach a secure room where Dr. Gachet is to be crated. I watch every move the handlers make, ensuring nothing is slipped into the crate and no switches are made.

Paranoid?

Perhaps.

But with Nicholas in play, I can't afford to take any chances.

As the crate is sealed, my phone buzzes again. I tense, expecting another message from Nicholas, but it's the auction house confirming the transaction details. I breathe out slowly, trying to calm my nerves.

"Mr. de Gaulle, your purchase is ready for transport. How would you like to proceed?"

I lock eyes with Urakov before responding. "I'll be taking it with me now."

The handler nods. "Very well, sir. If you'll follow me to complete the final paperwork."

As we walk, I lean close to Urakov. "I need you to secure transport—something discreet but heavily guarded. Can you manage that?"

A curt nod. "Consider it done."

While I handle the paperwork, my mind is elsewhere. Where did Nicholas take Vivianne? What is his endgame? And most importantly, how can I turn this situation to my advantage?

As I sign the last document, a chilling thought occurs. What if the painting isn't what Nicholas is after?

What if this entire elaborate setup—the theft, the auction, even the anthrax—was all to reach Vivianne?

My jaw clenches, anger and fear warring within me. If that's the case, I've played right into his hands. But two can play at this game. If Nicholas wants to dig up the past, he'll be reminded why I was always the more dangerous brother.

Urakov returns just as I finish. "Transport is ready."

I nod. "Let's move. We have a long night ahead of us."

As we leave the auction house, Dr. Gachet is secured. Vivianne's fate remains unknown. Nicholas may think he has the upper hand, but he's forgotten one crucial detail.

I always win.