Chapter 1 #2
Not that Franz had any room to tease on the subject, dressed as he usually was, but suits were what I felt most comfortable wearing. They were my daily armor, a way to remind myself—and others—that I belonged in the same world as my Mother.
Even if she’s no longer here.
Especially now that she’s no longer here.
An hour later, we were in the elevator, ascending to The Skyline lounge at the top of the Manhattan hotel bearing my family’s prestigious name: Luxford.
After only fifteen minutes packed in with the crowd near the bar, I found myself outside on the wraparound terrace, leaning against the railing with one elbow, sipping my Boulevardier and admiring the view.
Well played, Franz.
He knew full well one of my favorite spots to look down on the city was from behind the floor-to-ceiling windows of The Skyline, or on the terrace.
As a young boy, I’d often escape out here when I was brought along as a prop for my father’s business meetings, and I’d once mentioned to Franz how quiet the world seemed from this vantage point.
Well played, indeed.
Unfortunately, it wasn’t quiet tonight, as the event I’d been coerced into attending was loud, with many already well on their way to fall-down drunk by the time we’d arrived.
Furthermore, it was now clear that this “industry event,” was actually organized by a specific group who occupied only an adjacent corner of the art world, but still held enough sway to host a—slightly belligerent—retirement party in this high-end location.
The FBI’s Art Crime Team.
I was doing my best to tolerate the situation because, for Franz, it was an important networking opportunity. The department often reached out to specialized appraisers like him to aid in the recovery of missing art, and the ensuing press for foiled heists heightened his credentials.
For me, it was slightly less lucrative, as I highly doubted any of the federal agents present could afford what I would be putting up for auction.
At least the view is spectacular.
Because it was a private event, the terrace was nearly empty.
In fact, the only other person out here was a man standing several feet away with his back to me and both his elbows resting on the railing as he gazed over the city.
I had no idea what he looked like since, aside from the glowing end of his cigarette, he was completely obscured by the shadow cast by the setting sun on the opposite side of the building.
He seemed content to ignore me and I was more than content to let him.
The perfect companion.
“Giancarlo!” Franz called out, blessedly using my full name as he led an unfamiliar man my way. “I would like you to meet Special Agent Markel. He was the one I assisted with that sarcophagus case. You remember the one?”
An amused snort came from the man in the shadows, but I seemed to be the only one who’d heard it.
I did remember, mostly because of how comical it was.
A reality TV star posed next to the artifact during the annual Met Gala, and the subsequent photos caught the eye of the Egyptian government.
Upon a thorough investigation, it was revealed the sarcophagus had been smuggled out of Egypt during the Arab Spring and sold to the museum for four million dollars with fake documentation.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Agent Markel.” I shook his hand while plastering on my best “society smile.”
“Likewise, Mr. Luxford,” the FBI agent gruffly replied. “And thank you for accommodating us at your hotel.”
I could feel the stranger in the shadows turning to face us as I nodded, even though I’d had nothing to do with renting out this space.
The Skyline’s event manager handled bookings, just like the Luxford Holdings shareholders handled most everything to do with the real estate maneuverings of my family business.
I’m just a showpiece.
The heir to the throne.
Markel swayed a little on his feet. “I was, uh, also sorry to hear about your mother’s passing. She was a mighty attractive woman for her age.”
Excuse me?!
Of course, I was far too well-trained to outwardly show my distaste for such a tacky comment, but a whisper from the shadows did it for me.
“What a fucking creep.”
Agent Markel drunkenly peered around, seemingly confused by the disembodied voice, but Franz smoothly steered us all to safer waters.
“As I was saying…” My longtime mentor and friend cleared his throat while shooting me an apologetic look. “The sarcophagus case was one of the most exciting I’ve ever been involved with, and Agent Markel here was the one who cracked the case.”
“That’s correct.” The federal agent hooked his thumbs into his belt loops and rocked on his heels, his chest puffed up with pride. “The department nailed that French art dealer on fraud and money laundering after we determined the provenance papers had been forged—”
“Am I included in that ‘we,’ Markel?” A velvety voice shivered down my spine as our mysterious guest walked toward us from the shadows—his cigarette stub bouncing off the terrace’s concrete floor ahead of his arrival. “Considering I alone proved the documentation was fake.”
My breath caught as he stepped into the light, just as it had when I first saw Poppy #5.
The similarities were unnerving.
Entrancing, mesmerizing…
Trouble.
The rapidly fading sun was creating a fiery, orange halo around the man’s brilliant red hair and causing his bright green eyes to sparkle mischievously.
This may have been his natural state, however, as a cheeky grin spread across his cherubic face, revealing the incredibly distracting space between his front teeth.
Definitely trouble.
“Oh,” Agent Markel’s tone was sour, as if the sight of this newcomer had instantly sobered him up. “Hello, Quincy…”
Now Franz was smiling widely, already extending his hand toward the glowing angel before me. “Rowen Quincy?! Well, this is a treat. I’ve heard so much about you—”
“All good things, I’m sure…” Rowen purred as he shook Franz’s hand before turning those piercing eyes my way. “How ‘bout you, Moneybags? Am I a treat for you as well?”
It certainly appears so.
I’d experienced this brand of fixation before—in the pages of a Sotheby’s auction catalogue—and I immediately knew there was no escaping the pull.
That one.
Against all reason, and despite, or because of, the danger emanating from his presence, I wanted this mysterious, achingly beautiful man. Not only to admire in an abstract sense, as I had with Poppy #5, but to make him mine.
Something just for me.