Chapter 5
Five
Giancarlo
Being in close proximity once again—feeling that undeniable electricity dance between us—only proved what I’d already determined.
Rowen was destined to be mine.
He already is.
The challenge was to not appear overeager. I was well aware I could be intense, for lack of a better word, and incredibly fixated when it came to acquiring something I wanted.
And I wanted Rowen Quincy.
It wasn’t difficult to pinpoint what I was drawn to, aside from his appearance. For my entire life, I’d been trained to be courteous, to obey, to not rock the boat carrying my family name.
But I’m the only Luxford left.
Rowen Quincy was everything I’d been denied up until now, and I was craving a taste—of him and what he represented. He was unrestricted by the expectations I still couldn’t seem to shake and the furthest thing from the heirs and socialites currently gawking at my deceased mother’s art collection.
The perfect little rebellion.
“Look at all these rich assholes,” he muttered as we reached the mezzanine before glancing at me with a mild grimace. “Whoops. Sorry.”
I didn’t believe he was sorry in the least, but I managed to bury my amusement and instead, calmly turned to gaze out over the crowd.
“It’s quite all right,” I replied, because it was. “Most everyone here was invited because of how rich they are.”
“Not me, though.” Rowen leaned his elbows on the mezzanine railing and peered at me over his shoulder. “We both know I’d burst into flames if I set foot in the auction house… so why did you invite me?”
I stepped forward and placed my hands on the railing, keeping my gaze fixed on my guests to not give too much away just yet. “I told you. I needed someone with your background—”
“As an art thief?” he interrupted, simultaneously unnerving and delighting me with his bluntness. “I’m gonna be honest, Giancarlo. It seems a little irresponsible of you to invite someone like me into your home—”
“Call me Giano,” I blurted out, surprising myself. “And I trust you.”
“You shouldn’t,” he fired back, straightening and turning to stare at me from inches away, jaw clenched. “You really shouldn’t, because I grabbed this… I don’t even know what it is… when we were on our way up here…”
My gaze dropped to where he was holding a small glass Millefiori paperweight I vaguely recalled Mother buying while vacationing in Italy.
He… stole from me?
Again?
I was momentarily speechless and more turned on than I’d ever been in my life. It was only thanks to my practiced self-control that I didn’t throw him over my shoulder and carry him upstairs to the third floor, audience be damned.
Misinterpreting my silence, Rowen practically shoved the contraband at me. “Jesus, just… take it. You got me feeling bad over a fucking knickknack.”
I suppressed a shiver as my fingers brushed his before dropping the foolish paperweight into my suit jacket pocket.
“Just don’t tell Daddy Pinstripes, okay?” he huffed, pointedly tilting his head toward the guests below. “He already had to save you from me once.”
Daddy Pinstripes…?
Scanning the crowd, I immediately realized who he was referring to, noting the man in question watching Rowen and I curiously from beneath his fedora.
“Franz is protective of me…” I carefully replied, nodding once at my mentor to signal I was fine.
Never better.
“Is he your boyfriend?” Rowen asked, stunning me into silence once again. “More importantly, does he leave the hat on during… you know?”
He paused to gesture obscenely, and I grabbed both his hands to stop the demonstration before angling my body between him and the crowd below.
“What are you doing?” I hissed under my breath, glancing over my shoulder in a panic.
This event was my one chance to increase interest in my mother’s collection—well, aside from what I still needed to discuss with Rowen—and my guests witnessing X-rated hand gestures would not play in my favor.
I pray Mrs. Winchester didn’t see.
“Oh, I’m sorry.” Rowen grinned like the devil as I started herding him along the mezzanine toward a more private area of the apartment. “Are you the one wearing the hat in these situations?”
“I…” I swallowed thickly, no longer sure what we were talking about, but knowing one thing for sure. “Franz isn’t my boyfriend. It’s… not like that at all.”
A brief flash of uncertainty appeared on Rowen’s deceptively cherubic face. “Oh. Oh, no. Are you…” He lowered his voice to a horrified whisper. “A heterosexual?”
I couldn’t stop the bark of laughter that escaped me—the first time I’d laughed so freely in a while—and from the way Rowen’s eyes widened, it surprised him as well.
“No,” I chuckled, turning us down a hallway lined with bookshelves. “I am not heterosexual in the least.”
“Well, that’s a relief,” he huffed as a smirk twisted his lips. “I didn’t want to have to be the one to point out you’ve been shamelessly flirting with me since we met.”
I have?!
Abruptly stopping, I immediately put distance between us, even though I hated it with every fiber of my being. “Forgive me, Rowen. That was incredibly unprofessional of me.”
He cocked his head and observed me for a moment—quietly assessing while giving nothing away. “Are you… wanting to keep things professional between us?”
No.
“What I need to talk to you about is of a professional nature, yes,” I hedged, tamping down the urge to say—or do—more until I’d proposed my plan.
In case it makes him run.
Not that I’d let him.
After another beat of silence, he nodded once. “Lead the way.”
With the easy humor between us now replaced by awkward tension, I turned on my heel and strode further down the hallway, eager to reach our destination and get this over with.
“Okay…” he murmured upon entering my study. “Here you are.”
“What do you mean?” I glanced at him as I circled my desk, intending to sit but then deciding to remain standing instead, even as I grew dizzy with nerves.
Ignoring my question, Rowen walked to the sideboard where my Yankees memorabilia was displayed, immediately snatching my signed 2009 World Series team baseball off its decorative stand.
I hissed, and he turned to face me with a self-satisfied smirk stretched across his face. “Am I not supposed to touch?”
“Well…” I cleared my throat, more distracted by the gap in his teeth than what was in his hands. “The oil from your fingers can transfer to the leather—”
“Do you not like people touching your things, Giano?” he crooned. “Only child problems?”
Then he placed the ball back on the stand while continuing to touch it with a single finger.
Brat.
My gaze involuntarily drifted to Poppy #5. “It depends.”
I wouldn’t like someone else touching you.
I would absolutely hate that.
“Ooh, what’s this?” Rowen’s long legs had him across the room in two strides.
I tensed as he reached Poppy #5, worried he was about to touch the one thing that mattered most to me in this world, but once again he surprised me.
“This isn’t part of the auction, is it?” he softly asked, examining my masterpiece from a respectful distance.
“No,” I replied, rounding my desk again and half-sitting against the edge with my hands clasped in my lap to stop them from shaking. “That one’s mine.”
Just like you are.
As if somehow catching on to my double meaning, Rowen glanced at me sharply—warily—before returning his attention to the canvas. I watched him drink it in, wishing I could hear his thoughts, wondering if he was experiencing what I did when I first saw the painting.
Do you feel it too?
“I like the…” he vaguely waved a hand at the foreground, “colors.”
My gaze flitted from his bright red hair to the poppy field. “So do I. The colors were the first thing I noticed.”
Like love at first sight.
Beyond that.
Rowen shuddered imperceptibly before rolling his shoulders and giving me an assessing sidelong glance. “If you’re such an art lover, why are you selling Mommy Dearest’s entire collection?”
I sat up straighter, determined to be as honest as possible, no matter the blow to my ego. “I need access to a large amount of funds.”
That got his attention. Rowen turned to fully face me, Poppy #5 forgotten. “Oh? Is Mr. Moneybags having money problems?”
I huffed, shaking my head as I held his gaze. “It doesn’t matter why I need the money, just that I do.”
Please don’t ask.
He gave me an incredulous look, and I didn’t blame him. From the outside looking in, I appeared to have immeasurable wealth at my fingertips, but both my parents had ensured I would be forever reliant on the terms of their generosity.
Aside from Mother’s conditional trust, my only source of income was the family business, which meant the majority of my funds were tied up in various real estate and hospitality deals, with too many shareholders involved to redistribute without notice.
The constant buying and selling of Luxford Holdings properties had never interested me before—hence why I allowed others to handle it—but this blind obedience had come back to bite me.
Not for the first time, I wished I’d paved my own way in life, back when I’d had the chance.
Not that I ever had the chance…
“Is this what you wanted to talk to me about?” Rowen asked, and I could’ve wept in relief at the segue. When I nodded, he puffed out a breath. “Okay, well… I don’t really know much about the value of art. The only time it's ever mattered is when someone else has hired me to…”
I silently watched as realization washed over his criminally handsome face. When his bright green eyes met mine again, they were dark with anger.
“Is that what you were planning to talk to me about, Giancarlo?” he gritted out, fists clenched at his sides. “That’s the professional conversation we needed to have?”
I opened my mouth to confirm, but he held up a hand to silence me, as if needing a moment to compose himself.
While I normally would be too polite to push, desperation made me bold. “When we parted ways at The Skyline, you mentioned the value of my collection would increase if it were stolen. Is that true?”
Rowen’s jaw worked beneath the surface, but then he appeared to relax.
Slightly. “Yes… That’s why the Mona Lisa is so famous—because a handyman at the Louvre wanted to liberate her back to Italy.
It’s part of why the value of the thirteen pieces still missing from the 1990 Gardner Museum heist are now worth close to one billion dollars.
” He eyed me suspiciously. “Is that all you need from me? My expert opinion on stolen art?”
Not even close.
I shook my head, and he advanced so quickly, I barely had time to stand before he was on me.
“Who put you up to this?!” He practically ripped open my suit jacket, shoving his hands beneath. “Was it Markel? That asshole has been wanting to pin something on me since the day they brought me in as a consultant.”
“What are you doing?” I gasped as he roughly ran his hands over my chest, making my dick instantly harden.
This close, his eyes blazed, framed by red and filling my vision, and his scent—fresh sage and lemon with an undertone of spicy amber and cinnamon—had me close to passing out.
“Where’s the wire, Giano?” Rowen growled, sliding his hands around to my back, yanking me closer. “Where’s the fucking—oh.” He glanced down to where his groin was pressed flush against mine. “That’s not a wire.”
“N-no, it’s not,” I choked out, dizzy from his proximity—from the way he’d just handled me. “I’m not setting you up, Rowen, I swear.”
I need you.
He abruptly released me and stumbled backward, his gaze lingering on the evidence of my arousal before slowly lifting to my face. “What about this room? Is it tapped?”
“What?” I smoothed out my shirt before rebuttoning my jacket, beyond flustered. “Of course it isn’t—”
“Are you sure about that, Luxford?” He gave me a look that had cold dread skittering down my spine.
“No one comes in here aside from me and my family’s longtime staff,” I huffed, wanting to get on with things before I lost my nerve. “If you would prefer, we can head upstairs, where you can pick any room you like. We could go to the roof for all I care!”
“You have roof access?” he asked in an oddly flat tone.
“Yes,” I snapped, confused as to why he was focusing on that detail at this exact moment. “The apartment has three levels—all the way to the top of the building.”
“Of course it goes all the way to the top…” he muttered under his breath before sighing heavily. “Listen, Giano, I can’t…” His expression was pleading—oddly vulnerable. “I can’t end up in prison. I can’t be… trapped there…”
My protective instincts rose up so forcefully, I blurted out the first thing I could think of. “I won’t let that happen to you. I promise.”
Please, trust me.
His panic instantly morphed into cold calculation—a practiced mask—and, once again, I wished I could read his mind, if only to ease my own.
Please.
“Okay. Get me a piece of paper, a pencil, and a lighter,” he finally said, circling the desk and sitting in my chair, making it abundantly clear who was in charge in this situation. “Then we can talk.”