Chapter Fifteen
MINA
“All right. Everyone ready? It’s time to get started,” Roux began bright and early the next morning.
Well, not all that bright, but very early — barely dawn in London. We’d arrived on the last train from Paris the previous evening and fallen directly into bed.
Bene let his teeth extend, then slowly retract in a massive lion yawn. “Whose idea was a six o’clock meeting? And what about breakfast?”
“Room service is on the way, so you can eat while you work. And it’s already seven in France,” Roux pointed out.
We were gathered in the living room area of our hotel suite. Yes, a suite — a single, unlockable space I now shared with Marius, Roux, Bene, and Henrik.
God, did I hate Celeste. Couldn’t she have put Henrik on a separate floor?
At least I trusted Roux and Bene to stay in the room they shared. I also trusted Marius. I just didn’t trust myself around him.
But I didn’t trust Henrik farther than I could throw a silk-lined coffin, no matter how ruddy and sated he seemed after his recent visit to Delphine.
It pained me to imagine that. How could poor, deluded Delphine love any vampire, let alone one as unsociable as Henrik?
Then again, I could be called deluded for loving Marius. For aching for him, morning, noon, and night, and even imagining a future together. Who was I to judge Delphine?
Henrik, on the other hand, was fair game, and my judgment of him was harsh and final. I hated the vampire, and I wanted him gone.
But he wasn’t gone. He was bunked out in the room adjoining mine. Both rooms opened onto the living area, where Marius had slept on the couch.
We’ll see how long that lasts, Roux had sighed the previous night.
Not long, I hoped, but Marius hadn’t tiptoed into my room, no matter how hard I wished for him to.
But, no — no nocturnal visit from Marius. No visit from Henrik either, but I still hadn’t slept well. No one had, judging by the bleary expressions of the others.
Roux checked his watch. “Mina is scheduled to meet Madame Petrova at ten. That gives us a few hours to look through Gordon’s list of potential buyers and eliminate anyone who seems fishy. We’re looking for candidates the client is likely to approve of who also have sufficient funds.”
I frowned. “Define sufficient.”
“More than anyone else,” Henrik said bluntly.
“Are you saying we want a bidding war?”
Henrik shrugged. “It’s in the client’s interest to get the highest amount possible.”
“But Anastasia said she wants to sell it to the right person,” I countered.
The vampire snorted. “Money always talks in the end.”
“It’s also in Gordon’s interest to get the highest amount possible,” Marius added a little more gently.
Gently, maybe, but it pounded yet another nail into the coffin of my innocence.
Gordon was earning a commission, I realized. I shouldn’t have been surprised, but I was. Surprised and disappointed in Gordon — and in myself. I would get another chance to see a rare masterpiece, but at what price?
“Let’s say two bidders offer a similar sum,” Bene asked. “Who would Anastasia choose in the end?”
Roux scanned a sheet of paper covered with notes.
“According to Gordon’s intel, Madame Petrova has her principles, but they’re scrambled as hell.
Her father was a Red Army officer who entered Berlin in 1945 with one of the Soviet looting divisions assigned to ‘safeguard’ cultural treasures.
” He made air quotes. “That explains how the painting came into her possession.”
I took mental notes, as if I might someday pen a footnote for an art history book.
Roux continued his briefing. “Our intel shows that Anastasia has always been a committed Marxist. She married an economist who was a communist visionary like her and equally immersed in Soviet cultural circles.”
Bene raised an eyebrow. “Communist visionaries who end up in Kensington?”
Henrik nodded. “Paris and London are full of Marxists with gilded tastes. Once they experience the good life, they never go back.”
Roux backed that up with the next part of his report.
“Anastasia’s husband rose through the ranks of post-Soviet finance, put his principles aside, and got rich during the Yeltsin era.
He died eight years ago, leaving everything to her.
” He squinted at the report. “The summary here says, a woman who believes in art for the people but despises most of the people she’s met. ”
I sighed quietly. Yes, that certainly fit.
“She said she refused to let the painting go to a museum, a capitalist, or an egoist,” I recalled.
Bene snorted. “Who does that leave?”
“I don’t know, but she really does love that painting,” I said. “I can’t see her selling it to someone who won’t value it the way she does.”
“What way is that?” Roux asked.
I made a face. “Selfishly. Exclusively. Passionately.”
Bene sighed. “That won’t make it easy to find a buyer.”
“She’ll sell,” Marius grunted. “When we visited, she was in a hurry to move the painting.”
Roux tapped a stack of files. “These are the candidates Gordon provided. We need to look through their files and come up with a short list to present to the client at ten.” He checked his watch. “We’ll each read a few, report to each other in ninety minutes, and then make our decision.”
Bene leafed through the pile. “Seven files. Five of us.”
“Those of us who can read above sixth-grade level can fight over doing two each.” Roux pointed to Henrik, himself, and me.
Marius growled, but Bene just shrugged. “Less work for us, amigo.” He grabbed the files and peeked into the first. “Sergei Levitsky. Deals in Russian oil and gas. Looks like a shady character.” He handed it to Henrik. “Perfect for you.”
Henrik showed his teeth but took the file.
Bene glanced into the next file, then waved it around. “Bogdan Karachanov. Bulgarian arms dealer. Going once, going twice…” He thrust it into Marius’s hands. “Sold.”
Marius jutted his jaw and glared at Bene, then the file.
“Wow. Sheikh somebody-or-other.” Bene lit up at the next one. “I’ll take that one.”
I groaned. “Where did Gordon come up with these?”
Roux shrugged. “He said he put out quiet feelers among contacts he trusts to be discreet.”
I put my face in my hands. What did that say about the people my godfather associated with?
Bene looked through the next few files. “Here’s a Swiss foundation for the arts…”
I practically snatched it out of his hands. Maybe there was hope after all.
A knock sounded at the door. Roux, Marius, and Henrik jumped and spread out in defensive positions around the door. Bene yawned.
“Room service,” someone announced.
Roux opened the door a crack, then pulled in a trolley. “Thank you. I’ll take it from here.”
Yikes. Either this wasn’t the harmless mission Gordon had described, or old habits died hard. They even checked the trolley for wiretaps and explosives.
Then they settled down again, and Bene thrust a second file at me. “Here. Raisa somebody-or-other from Latvia.”
That left two files. Roux took one and gave the other to Henrik. Everyone piled their plates with food and spread out, and the room quickly settled into the relative silence of munching, the shuffle of papers, and the tap of fingers over keyboards.
I peeked around, impressed. For all their moaning and ribbing, the guys certainly took their work seriously.
Helping myself to a yogurt, I sat on the couch and focused on the two files I’d been assigned. Well, I tried to focus, but my eyes kept drifting to Marius, while my hand drifted to my neck. Without realizing it, I caressed my skin, and all kinds of steamy images drifted through my head.
Then I caught myself, blushed what had to be beet red, judging by the heat in my cheeks, and whipped my hand away. God, what was it with me these days?
Marius shifted uncomfortably in his seat, and when he looked over, his eyes blazed with heat.
Oops. Sorry, I murmured into his mind.
The look he shot me in reply vacillated between Get your mind out of the gutter and Come hither and let me have my evil way with you.
Sex-starved as I was, I was all for option two. But we had a job to do, so I turned to face the windows.
Gordon’s notes were thorough and terrifyingly detailed. Could he find out as much about me if he desired? And, yikes. Had he already done so?
I corroborated and supplemented his findings with some online snooping, then studied the file on the Swiss art foundation.
In the hour that passed, Bene must have changed positions a dozen times, from slouched in an armchair with his feet hooked over the side to belly-down on the floor, like he was reading on a beach — although I doubted he would devote beach time to reading.
Playing volleyball and flirting was probably more like it.
Marius took a seat at the dining table, as did Henrik, while Roux paced by the windows. Not one for sitting still, that tiger. So I assumed it was him when someone came by and refilled my water glass.
“Thanks,” I murmured, barely looking up from my files.
“You’re welcome,” Henrik murmured.
Then I looked up, because holy crap. Since when was Henrik considerate?
Either it was a peace gesture, or he was sneaking poison into my drink.
I discreetly poured it into a plant and got my own refill, just in case. The plant didn’t instantly wilt, which was a plus, but I decided to withhold judgment.
Time flew, and before I knew it, Roux was calling everyone to order.
“All right. Time to compare notes. Henrik, what do you have?”
Henrik shuffled through his research material and held up a picture of a heavily jowled man with a stern expression. “Sergei Levitsky, CEO of Siberitrans.”
I shook my head. “Anastasia said she doesn’t want the painting to go to Russia.”
Henrik pointed to a page in his file. “Well, he can keep it in his villa in Saint-Tropez. Plus, he was a friend of her husband’s.”
“Doesn’t mean he’s a friend of hers,” Marius pointed out.
“Well, this one is intriguing.” Henrik held up his second file. “A Scandinavian tech billionaire.”