Chapter 4
Four
Rowen
Squinting up at the towering building blocking out the moonlight, I took another drag of my cigarette and counted the floors, trying to determine if I was headed to the penthouse tonight or not.
Whether or not this one was built with superstition in mind, it appeared the Luxford family compound was still a few floors down from the top, and that tickled me to no end.
Sorry, Moneybags, but only the evilest villains are allowed at the tippy top.
Giancarlo Luxford didn’t strike me as a villain personally, but he was still a billionaire. If there was one thing I despised with every inch of my soul, it was anyone who’d been lucky enough to have everything handed to them on a silver platter.
Maybe I’ll take home a silver platter of my own tonight.
As a keepsake.
Glancing down at my phone, I scrolled through the brief text exchange that ultimately brought me here.
Is this a black tie affair? Because the only tux I own is imprinted on a pair of incredibly tight briefs.
Moneybags
You may dress however you please, but there will be photographers.
His reply had simultaneously surprised and annoyed me, because not only had he not taken the bait of my teasing, he’d somehow known exactly what to say to make me put in effort.
Rude.
I could have just not acknowledged Giancarlo’s initial voicemail—because who the hell leaves a voicemail?—but being invited to step inside a famously old money apartment building for an exclusive event had been too tempting an offer to ignore.
And we all know the hors d’oeuvres will be top tier.
That the man extending the invitation was also a tasty treat sealed the deal, even if a peasant like me had no chance of getting anywhere near his gilded bedroom.
It’s probably for the best.
My dick might turn to gold upon entry.
I didn’t want to think too hard about my dick entering… anywhere, because I was already questioning my—questionable—morals by willingly agreeing to hang with the uber rich.
But there’s just something about this particular golden boy…
Finishing off my cigarette, I flicked it into the street just as a delivery van pulled up to the curb. I vaguely recognized the floral and plant design company logo on the side, but all that mattered was them getting me in through the service entrance.
Since no way in hell am I walking in the front door with the black tie crowd.
It wasn’t that I couldn’t clean up good when I wanted to.
I was currently looking sharp in one of the nicest things I owned—a light grey, Calvin Klein slim-fit suit I’d convinced the FBI to bankroll when I needed to look respectable while playing the fence during sting operations.
I’d wanted vintage Tom Ford for Gucci, but Agent Markel—he of the forever wrinkled beige suit—had the nerve to tell me I wouldn’t look “natural” wearing it.
If anyone could pull off a single-breasted, velvet suit jacket in dark violet it would be me, thank you very much.
The issue was that, even if I was wearing off-the-runway couture, I would never fit in with this crowd. An entire bottle of Sauvage Dior couldn’t mask the smell of low-income from the noses of those bred to sniff it out.
It’s not gonna stop me from crashing the party though.
Those hors d’oeuvres are calling my name.
I waited until the delivery crew started wheeling a large flatbed cart full of floral arrangements and houseplants toward the back entrance to sidle up to a cute, stocky guy about my age.
“Hey…” I offered up my best “aw, shucks” smile, knowing the gap in my teeth played in my favor. “Can I sneak in with you? My wife just sashayed in through the front and the last thing I need is to watch her throw herself at the doorman yet again.”
“Your wife is sleeping with the doorman, bro?” Plant Boy hissed, eyes widening from behind the wall of greenery.
I leaned in close as we walked through the door together, lowering my voice conspiratorially. “Well, I don’t have proof… yet. I hired a private investigator who’s tailing her as we speak.”
“Dang,” another underpaid member of the crew cut in as we all clambered onto the janky service elevator. “Is the doorman hot?”
RUDE!
“Passable,” I huffed, even though I hadn’t seen the doorman at all. Then I slapped the less presumptuous one on the shoulder before slipping one of Giancarlo’s fifties into his back pocket and helping myself to his keycard while I was in there. “But never fear, my prenup is ironclad.”
This seemed to appease the crew on my behalf.
As we rattled upward, the conversation drifted to where the, frankly, hideous floral arrangements were headed—and of course, I knew the Wentworths!
My cheating wife and I had dinner with them last week—before the others got off at a lower floor, leaving me alone with my thoughts.
Always a dangerous place to end up.
Now that I had nothing to distract me from watching the numbers light up one by one, I could feel my anxiety rising in time with the elevator car.
What the fuck am I doing?
That was a question, although not the question, which was more along the lines of why Giancarlo had invited me here in the first place.
Because the service elevator was moving at tortoise speed, I had more than enough time to replay the voicemail he’d originally left for me—like a Boomer in a thirty-something-year-old’s hot body.
“Hello. This is a message for Rowen Quincy…”
That part made me smirk, knowing my generic outgoing message probably threw him for a loop.
“Giancarlo Luxford calling. We met at The Skyline during the FBI… team event.”
A slightly awkward clearing of the throat happened at this part, and the vision of Mr. Easy Street sweating his way through this exercise delighted me to no end.
“…I’m calling with an invitation to an exclusive pre-auction art viewing event at my family’s home on the Upper East Side. With your background, I was hoping you could attend.”
Then he’d rattled off the address before repeating that he hoped to see me there.
Someone with my background…
Does he mean my current gig or former hustle?
As I continued to ascend to the not-quite-tippy-top of the building, I was no longer sure I wanted to go through with this—whatever this even was.
But the instant the doors opened on the 29th floor, that expensive Giancarlo scent wafted into the elevator car and I drifted out into the hallway like a cartoon skunk.
It’s like a goddamn sex potion!
Ignoring the nondescript door with keycard access straight ahead—and instinctively turning away from the security camera mounted above—I rounded the corner, following the murmur of voices echoing off the gold-veined Italian marble floor.
As I rounded the corner, I spotted an elderly woman looking straight out of Bridgerton, hunched beneath the weight of her sparkling jewels and hobbling toward the short line awaiting entry.
That’s my cue!
“Please allow me to help, ma’am,” I murmured, flashing a chivalrous smile as I offered the old dowager my arm.
“Oh, what a polite young man you are!” she chirped, slipping her thin arm through mine. “And so handsome.”
“My looks are entirely thanks to my mother’s side,” I lied, since I had no idea who I looked like. “Unfortunately, my father’s family practiced the storied tradition of consanguinity—you know, to consolidate the wealth—so they all had pretty big chins.”
“That’s nice, dear,” she absently replied, either stamping historical intermarriage with a seal of approval or not hearing me at all.
Maybe both?
“Names, please?” A pert blonde with a metal clipboard and boobs nearly up to her chin smiled brightly as we reached the ornate door.
“Mrs. Robert A. Winchester,” my companion announced with a wavering voice. “Of the Connecticut Winchesters.”
As opposed to the San Jose faction.
The blonde checked something off with a fluffy pink pen before turning her expectant gaze my way.
For one horrifying second, I wondered if I would even be on the list. I doubted Giancarlo left a voicemail at Mrs. Robert A. Winchester’s Connecticut mausoleum, so the possibility was there that my personal invitation might have gotten lost in the administrative shuffle.
“Rowen Quincy.” I lifted my chin, determined not to show any fear in these shark-infested waters. “Of the Fire Island Quincys.”
“Robert and I used to love Fire Island in the summer,” Dowager Winchester added as we were miraculously waved through. “I would spend hours sunbathing while he disappeared with his friends…”
Disappeared into his friends more like it.
Once inside, I led my geriatric bestie to a salmon-colored velvet couch before waving down a waiter to bring over the drinks and nosh.
Lemme get a look at those cocktail weenies…
Of course, the selection was more like puff pastries full of air and garnished twigs, but I still loaded up a napkin and grabbed two flutes of champagne.
“Oh, nothing for me, dear.” Mrs. Robert A. Winchester waved off my alcoholic offering, her diamond bracelet catching the light. “I came for the art. Angelica Luxford had such an eye for beauty…”
Following her rheumy gaze, I finally took in my surroundings. The art was a well-curated yet predictable mix of Art Nouveau, Abstract Expressionism, and Cubism—with a few newer pieces thrown in the mix—but the decor was what truly caught my eye.
For some reason, I’d been expecting the Luxford compound to be decorated like Versailles but fancier, with taxidermied wild boars and formal family portraits covering the wallpapered walls.
Instead, I was getting Old Hollywood vibes—black, white, and gold accented by jewel-toned velvet and lacquered finishes.
The lighting was dramatic and, thanks to all the mirrored surfaces, created a glamorous atmosphere I hated.
Because I don’t hate it one bit.
As my gaze fell on what was probably an actual Picasso, I felt the hairs on the back of my neck prickle, my body instinctively tensing as I realized I was being watched.
“Hello, Mrs. Winchester. You’re looking well.”
Slowly turning, I mentally prepared myself to take in Giancarlo Luxford in all his glory.
I still wasn’t prepared.
Good Lord.
I’d thought he’d looked delectable at The Skyline, but apparently, that getup had been what he probably considered “casual.” The black suit he was currently wearing screamed bespoke tailoring, the structure so flattering and the fabric so rich I wanted to run my hands all over it.
All over him.
To add to my daze was that scent of his—smoky and warm. I caught leather and tobacco with a hint of citrus, and I would bet my stolen money that even the bottle looked expensive.
I just want to bathe myself in it.
“Rowen…” I snapped out of my stupor to find his gaze running over me appreciatively as he added, “I’m so glad you came.”
Don’t you dare take that opening.
There’s an ancient lady present!
“Mr. Quincy has been playing host in your absence, Giancarlo.” Mrs. Winchester patted my hand in what I assumed was a grandmotherly way. “The perfect gentleman.”
Pffft.
Giancarlo pointedly cleared his throat. “Yes, Rowen is known for his excellent manners.”
His eyes met mine, sparkling with humor, and my stomach flipped.
It would definitely be bad manners to run for the door, right?
As if sensing my internal panic, Giancarlo’s brow furrowed, but then our chaperone blessedly spoke.
“Well, it’s nice to see you making friends.” She turned to address me alone while not lowering her voice one bit. “Giancarlo was always such an odd child…”
Oh?
“May I steal you away, Rowen?” The “odd child” in question hurriedly cut in, adorably blushing beneath his naturally tan skin. “I would like to… ask you a few questions about my mother’s art.”
“Of course,” I purred, downing one champagne flute and setting it on a passing tray before raising the other at Mrs. Winchester in salute. “Stealing is my favorite thing.”
Giancarlo had already turned his broad back to me as he led the way through the crowd, but I could have sworn I heard him snort over the chatter.
Along the way, we were stopped several times by guests praising the art, thanking him for the exclusive invitation, and offering condolences for his mother’s passing.
He patiently spoke to everyone—and introduced me when appropriate—effortlessly playing the part of the gracious host even though I sensed he’d rather be doing anything else.
Odd child indeed…
Once we finally made it past the throng of bodies, we stopped in front of a Jackson Pollock hanging next to a metal staircase leading up to a second floor mezzanine.
After a few moments of silence, he blew out a breath. “Thank you for coming.”
“You said that already,” I teased, hoping he’d blush again. Then I decided—uncharacteristically—to give him a break. “But you wanted to ask me about the art?”
Or was that just pillow talk?
He swallowed thickly, his gaze darting around before meeting mine again. “Yes. Let’s head upstairs so we can speak… in private.”
Unlike my moment of panic earlier, the idea of being alone—in private—with this walking dollar sign didn’t bother me one bit. This I could handle.
“Lead the way, Moneybags.” I grinned, setting my second empty glass on what might have been a priceless antique. “Whatever you want to ‘talk’ about is fine by me.”