Chapter 34
Betty
The doorman led us to the elevator, its doors sliding shut as our reflections met our gaze in the mirrored surface. My eyes locked with Gray’s, and I saw no attempt to conceal the heat and barely suppressed desire in his gaze as it swept over me, even now.
“Would you quit staring at me like that?” I murmured. “I’m in jeans and a trench coat. I’m not your next snack.” Even though I was chastising him, it didn’t stop me from trailing my hands along the handrail behind me, striking a sultry pose to defy his intense stare.
“Buttercup,” he warned. “I’m really trying not to smudge your lipstick, but I’m running out of reasons not to.” His hands clenched on the railing, the fingers of his right hand pressing against mine, his pinky seeking a connection.
I grinned, kissing my hand and blowing it toward his reflection. “It’s smudge-proof lipstick,” I teased, holding up the palm I’d just kissed to show the lipstick hadn’t transferred.
His pupils dilated, and he pounced, rolling to face me, his hands caging mine on the rail.
I yelped with surprise.
He gently bit my lower lip, testing my claim of flawless lipstick. Pulling back, he seemed pleased with the result, his mouth curling into a devious smile.
“Told you so,” I goaded.
His fingers tiptoed inside my jacket, resting on my back to keep the painting from scraping the rail as he pressed harder against me. I could feel his ever-growing desire hidden in his ridiculous khaki pants. He looked like Jake from State Farm, and yet he still turned me on.
Looking up, I tried to warn, “You’re going to ruin the artwork. Rembrandt would roll over in his grave if we cracked the panel.”
He nuzzled my nose, his breath warm against my lips. “Did you know Rembrandt was buried in a rented grave?” he asked, giving me a playful peck.
I tilted my head back in exasperation, gazing at the ceiling as his kisses trailed down my neck. This is what he wanted to talk about right now? “Rented?” I asked. “Who rents a grave? How does that even work?”
He chuckled, his heated laughter sending shivers down my spine.
His free hand slid from my wrist to my hip and then under my sweater.
He cupped my breast, growling when he realized that—yet again—I wasn’t wearing a bra.
“Betty,” he chided, “Seriously, how on earth do you manage this? I mean, don’t they just end up flopping around all day? ”
I was panting, but I laughed. “Good genetics,” I breathed out between giggles. “And there is no flapping going on, either, geez.”
He pressed into me again. “Genetics I’m going to exploit if I get things my way,” he licked up my neck until his mouth found mine, tongue sweeping in, deepening our connection.
Damn, this man had a kink for breeding, didn’t he? That’s what it was called, right? Breeding kink? Sybil lent me a few of her romance books, one with a similar subject, and I can’t say I hated them. It felt weird in theory, but sexy as hell in practice. Good thing I wanted kids, and a lot of them.
And knowing all I did about his family? I could entirely understand his want to build one of his own and make up for what he lost. I saw the way he watched me with my brother and Sybil at the cabin, and I could tell he hungered for that sort of belonging.
On top of that, he fit right in. I wasn’t sure how he’d be around a group of people after being alone for so long, but being social was seamless, and looked good on him.
Rocking against him, I had to remind myself we were in an elevator, on the way to get my dad. As much as I wanted to give in and attempt satiating his desire, I saw we were nearing the penthouse. I didn’t want the doors opening on a room full of—who knew what.
“Gray,” I removed my hands from the rail, pressing gently against his chest. “We’re almost there.”
He nipped at my jaw, grumbling but taking a step back.
My manicured nails trembled as I adjusted the collar of his museum staff shirt and the ‘Craig’ name tag. “I don’t think you should meet my dad sporting a boner, polyester, and the name Craig simultaneously.”
He chuckled, his gaze sweeping over my face and lips. “That lipstick is incredible.”
I grinned wide, batting my lashes and straightening my top. “Right? I bought a bunch to take back with us.”
“Take back?” he arched a brow in question while shifting himself in his khakis.
“You want to go back to the cabin?” He then fiddled with his name tag with pride.
What a dork, but undeniably sexy. I had to admit he had that dad-like shape—the kind eager to chase kids through the woods and crack terrible jokes.
He was going to fit the role better than I had ever imagined.
“Maybe.” I gave him a wink, leaving the question mostly unanswered and open for interpretation.
The elevator slowed, chiming as it came to a complete stop. The doors opened into a well-appointed marble foyer. Purple flowers and eucalyptus sat in a vase on a central table, and opera music blared from the speakers. I heard voices, loud, boisterous voices, and they were... singing?
I looked at Gray.
His brow furrowed in confusion.
“What’s going on?” I asked, my voice barely audible above the soprano melody.
He shrugged and took my hand, leading me forward. “David?” he called out to the room. “It’s Grayson.”
I couldn’t help but notice Gray had maneuvered himself in front of me. He was naturally wary, taking measured steps forward and around the columns that separated us from the next room.
My nose tickled at the distinct smell of cigar smoke floating my way. I wrinkled it, breathing through my mouth; I hated that smell. Nash’s office had a lingering hint of it from the past, soaked into the oak wood of his shelves and floor. It was a scent that never went away.
Gray paused as a man, mid-song, shouted over the music, “Grayson, my boy!”
The music volume dipped, and I peeked around Gray’s shoulder, trying to see what was happening.
A tall man with salt-and-pepper hair, who bore a striking resemblance to a Robert De Niro and Al Pacino hybrid, was stepping around a sofa and approaching Gray.
He held his arms wide in invitation, a cigar between his fingers. He reached out to pull him in.
My eyes scanned past them, landing immediately on my father. “Dad?” I straightened, stepping out from behind Gray.
Seeing me, my dad let out a hearty chuckle, his face flushed and a cigar in hand as well. “Bee! My bug! There you are!”
I melted back into my eight-year-old self, grinning and dropping Gray’s hand as I sprinted towards my dad.
He enveloped me in a hug, my arms wrapping around his soft belly.
Cigar smoke wafted around me, but I didn’t mind; breathing in my father’s familiar scent beneath the sweet molasses aroma of the tobacco was good enough for me.
Letting him go, I cupped his handsome, wrinkled face. “Are you alright?” I scanned him from head to toe for any sign of injury—bruises, cuts, scratches—but he seemed unharmed.
“I’m fantastic, darling.” He hitched a thumb through a suspender, a signature part of his style.
He adored wearing them, partly to avoid plumber’s crack, and partly for the sheer amusement.
These particular ones were blue and white striped.
“They didn’t hurt me, but they helped me shed a few pounds, only fed me once a day,” he said.
“But I’m fine now that my new friend David has set me up with five-star accommodations.
” He gestured with his cigar-holding hand behind me in David’s direction.
“I’ve likely put all that weight back on since being here in his penthouse.
His chef is incredible. They even have a pizza oven. ” He patted his stomach.
I turned to find David, eager to thank him.
When our eyes met, the strong resemblance to Gray was unmistakable.
David stood beaming, one arm casually draped over Gray’s shoulder.
Gray, looking a bit dazed and sheepish, hadn’t seen family in ages, much less one so openly welcoming.
He resembled a small child encountering a distant uncle at Christmas dinner for the very first time.
David nodded at me, a confirmation of his end of the bargain.
I returned the nod, reaching behind me and pulling the painting from my remarkably stretchy jeans. With a flourish and a grin, I held it up. “I had to leave the frame behind. I hope that’s alright.”
David looked elated, releasing Gray and stepping towards me. He tucked the cigar between his teeth, taking the panel in both hands and holding it out to inspect the artwork. “Naked as the day we acquired it, over fifty years ago,” he said. “It’s perfect.”
He held it with such reverence and love that it was difficult to resent the fact that the wider world would never again see this Rembrandt.
Glancing back at my dad, he noticed my reaction, a smile playing on his lips.
He, too, could recognize the art’s role in this family, its history, and how that joy illuminated David’s face.
I could tell that, despite his lifelong career in the art world, he was happy it was here, at home, where it could be appreciated more than any museum or foundation ever could.
David’s gaze remained fixed on the painting as he crossed the room. In the corner, an antique oak easel stood, sheltered from the direct sunlight streaming through the windows, and illuminated by a gentle overhead lamp. He reverently placed the artwork on the stand and stepped back.
Removing his cigar, he turned to us and asked, “Incredible, isn’t it?
Looking at this reminds me of my older brother—your father, Grayson—and the best moment of our lives.
The thrill and victory we felt that night and the bond we shared were eternal.
He was an extraordinary man, brimming with life and affection.
” David paused, his voice betraying a slight tremor.
“He had a genuine passion for art, did you know that?” David’s eyes welled up with tears.
Gray also had tears in his eyes. “Yes... he absolutely adored it.”
I squeezed my dad’s hand before leaving his side to go to Gray, wrapping my arm around him and resting my head against his chest.
He pulled me close, kissing the top of my head, his nose buried in my hair. I wondered then if this was truly the end. What now?
A question lingered on the tip of my tongue, but it didn’t feel like the right time to ask. Bringing up the fate of Matteo seemed cruel, especially with the chance that David was the last of the four brothers still alive.
My father chose that moment to step over to David and pat him on the back, comforting him as a brother would.
They shared a look of camaraderie, and I saw it: the making of a new family, knitting together right before my eyes.
My father could use a friend, and based on the atmosphere we walked into today, I’d say that was likely to happen.
Perhaps my father was ready to learn about his children’s secret lives and our love for heists. Maybe he was ready to join us. It was inevitable he’d hear about the latest PERL stunt, and perhaps it was time he learned Sybil’s secret identity, too.
Besides, as far as I could tell, the thrill of adventure looked good on him.