Chapter 3
I Think I’m Falling
And back on the balcony…
JOSH HAD been kissed a few times in his life—once by a guy he thought he could really love. But he’d had to pull away and remind Nick Denning that he had a family, for sweet fuck’s sake, and Josh was not that guy.
But he’d never been kissed like this. All those hours he’d spent in the yacht with Liam, playing cribbage, discussing books, baring their souls, and there’d been hugs, falling sleep with his head on Liam’s shoulder, holding hands—subtly, ever so subtly.
While Josh’s friends had gone out and played, leaving Josh behind, he and Liam had become quietly close, until Liam’s scent was as familiar to Josh as his own.
There’d been nuzzles on the temple, chaste kisses on the forehead, Liam’s hands on his cheeks, his hair, rubbing soft circles on his back as he tried to get to sleep with the pain of healing still in his bones.
There had never been a passionate siege of Josh’s senses, a sensual warfare, Liam’s mouth plundering his own as his knees buckled and he fought to be closer, closer, merged forever with this funny, bright, kind, and decent man.
Until now.
Liam tore his mouth away, and Josh fought for breath, to orient himself to the here and now on this darkened balcony when his caper, his identity, hell, his life was at risk if he didn’t pull his brains back into his ears.
“Dear God,” Josh whispered.
“I’ll be here when you’re done,” Liam told him harshly. “And you and me, boy-o, we’re having this out. No more polite emails. No more telling me not to worry my pretty little head about things. I told you in January, I’m all in. Did you think that didn’t mean you?”
Josh closed his eyes and felt the burn behind them, so discombobulated in this instance he was shocked into telling the truth.
“I missed you,” he said.
Liam’s hand cupping his cheek—that was familiar. “My God, so did I.” This next kiss was soft, almost chaste after that carnal apocalypse Liam had wreaked on Josh’s senses. “Now go do what you’ve got to, boy—”
Josh grunted. They had a deal, dammit.
“Josh,” Liam said, one corner of his mouth quirking, just enough for Josh to see his slightly overlapping teeth.
His wildly curly dark brown hair was slicked back tonight, and he was wearing close-fitted trousers and a black turtleneck—not quite thieves’ clothes, but with a brightly colored turquoise scarf as a belt, he fit right into the art scene.
“I’ll be out in the main room, making small talk with your mother.
You go keep your ass away from Ms. Octopus Hands, and we’ll all keep our eyes out for you-know-who. ”
They didn’t need to say his name—that felt almost like summoning a genie from a bottle—but there was no mistaking who Liam meant.
Andres Kadjic was going to show up at Celeste Buenaventura’s for an audience with the painting Josh had just stolen, a heretofore hidden piece called Crown of Roses, a lost work of the surrealist, Gertrude Abercrombie.
And in its place he was going to see one of Tienne’s most excellent forgeries—with a surprise worked into the signature.
Josh and the crew had worked for weeks to get to this point.
It was the whole reason Josh had taken the job, although fake ID or not, he risked exposure in his hometown.
Andres Kadjic, the man who had tried to kill Danny Lightfingers, whose guns had been the reason Stirling and Molly’s parents were killed, and who had ordered the death of Tienne’s father—that Andres Kadjic—had found Danny in January.
Fortunately, he only knew that Danny was alive.
Stirling’s computer system had been very secure, and they were pretty sure they’d left Kadjic searching Helsinki for the famed Lightfingers.
To solidify that impression, they’d dispatched Grace, Hunter, and Carl there for two weeks, with strict instructions for Grace to go on a wild stealing spree, all in the name of Lightfingers.
The three of them had returned exhausted and exhilarated. Carl’s day job was as an investigator for an insurance company, and by making sure at least half the art they’d brought home was insured by Serpentus, he’d been able to stick it to his unscrupulous employers in really delightful ways.
And for Grace it had been a necessary way to blow off steam after the months of worrying about Josh’s health.
For the first time in a long while, Grace was able to worry about Grace, and about Hunter, whom Grace loved with all his soul.
The young man who’d returned to Chicago had been both smug and sober and determined to treat his best gifts—dancing, caring for people, kindness—with as much respect as he treated his gift of kleptomania.
And the trip had done more than just get them two original prints by David McKeown, a photographer who could capture his country’s beauty with simple, enduring elegance and charm.
It had, according to Liam’s sources, thrown Kadjic enough off the scent to have him haunting Helsinki, throwing his weight around art galleries and brothels alike, trying to get hold of the elusive Lightfingers.
Which had given Josh and his parents and friends some time to come up with a plan to lure Kadjic to Chicago and find a way to bring him down.
The job with Celeste Buenaventura had been step one.
Josh stepped away and held his core iron-tight, the better to support his back and the shoulder that felt bruised and tender, albeit serviceable.
“See you out there,” he said, pulling his game face on.
“You’d better believe it, boy-o.”
And before Josh could protest the name, Liam was back off the balcony, and Danny slithered out to give him another once-over.
“It’s about time for you to make your entrance, my boy,” Danny said softly.
“But… here.” Out of nowhere the man who had been Josh’s second father—who had made it to every birthday, Christmas, and performance whether he and Felix were speaking or not, who had replied to every letter Josh had written, and who had listened thoughtfully as angsty adolescent Josh had poured out all of his fears and hopes and plans and joys—produced a handkerchief and cleaned the spit marks from around Josh’s mouth.
“Oh God,” Josh muttered, embarrassed beyond belief.
“It’s fine,” Danny said, giving his nose a brief boop, as he had when Josh had been a child. “I get the feeling that kiss has been a long time coming.”
Josh gave him a smile that even Josh knew was besotted. “I’ve been waiting for that man to kiss me for a year,” he confided.
“Excellent, excellent. Nothing like two glaciers in courtship. Exciting. We can buy frozen popcorn and watch.”
Josh laughed at the absurdity, which was one of Danny’s best gifts—the ability to make people smile, relax, and feel comfortable in their own skins.
“No offense, Uncle Danny, but there are some things glaciers like to do that are private.”
“No-no-no-no,” Danny said, shaking his head. “I’m your father, young man. I don’t want to hear about your privates.”
Josh laughed and then sobered. “Thanks, Uncle Danny. But, uhm, you know.”
“Yes, son. It’s time.”
And then even Danny faded into the shadows, and Josh made his way into the apartment and through the bathroom, his features schooled into a mask of polite efficiency, which was how he’d gotten through nearly two months as a member of Celeste’s staff, her art dealer, with only his ass fondled.
Celeste’s party was bursting with Studio 54 energy.
Artists, actors—everybody hip, now, and happening.
Celeste was a recent Los Angeles transplant, which made her perfect for this caper, because while she came from old money—and old prejudice—she wasn’t au courant with the big names in Chicago.
Julia Dormer-Salinger she recognized because she and her ex-husband still ran their cable network together.
But their son, Josh Salinger, wouldn’t be on her radar, particularly since he’d been ill in the last year and hadn’t appeared at any events with the two of them.
Just in case, Josh had used Danny’s alias, Morgan, and the first name J.D.
It wasn’t Teflon, but he could always say he hadn’t wanted to trade on his parents’ influence to get his job, and most people would buy that.
So Josh could wander in and out of the big names at the party with ease, introducing himself as an art dealer—the one, in fact, who had arranged to buy Celeste’s newest painting.
The painting had been a windfall. Danny had discovered it at an estate sale of a man reputed to be Gertrude’s lover after her first marriage, and he and Tienne had spent weeks authenticating it.
Most of Gertrude’s works had been donated to a collective for Midwestern painters, and to find one in the wild?
Serendipity. The picture had her signature elements—an austere woman in a flowing dress, displaced shadows, forms from nowhere, items of sorcery, owls, and a cat—in this case, arranged around a crown of roses, the thorns of which dripped stylized blood.
Josh had always thought the paintings (like much of Gertrude Abercrombie’s work) had been lonely and haunted, and that the cat had represented emotional connection of any kind, and this one was no exception.
Tienne had grimaced when he’d seen it and had remarked that while she was talented, it would be one of his easiest forgeries.
It was important that the forgery be perfect down to every last detail so the false signature would be so much more jarring.
Besides being made to be forged, the painting was also perfect because Abercrombie had a connection with Dizzy Gillespie, the jazz musician, and Kadjic had a weakness for jazz.
Throwing a giant reception in Celeste’s quarters and then taking everybody upstairs to premier the new painting in her collection should be the perfect bait to pull Kadjic from his foxhunt in Finland and into the Salinger hunting fields.