Chapter 14
Fourteen
Rowen
The sound of incessant buzzing from the bedside table interrupted the lovely dream I was having about Giano whimpering for me while I slid inside his perfectly prepped hole.
Rude.
I fumbled for my phone, assuming it had something to do with last night but secretly wishing it was a certain billionaire ready to whimper directly into my ear.
A boy can dream.
Unfortunately, it was Agent Markel—he of the unsexiest voice known to man.
“What?” I snapped, even though I knew full well.
“Rise and shine, princess!” he barked, unnecessarily loud for this hour. “Your boyfriend had his art stolen.”
My what?
“Who the fuck are you talking about?” I grumbled, more annoyed by how much I loved that title being applied to Giano than by Markel being the one to use it.
“Giancarlo Luxford’s entire art collection disappeared from his apartment last night. His fiancée contacted the field office an hour ago…”
“His WHAT?!” I hissed, sitting up so fast, a wave of nausea-inducing dizziness swept over me.
Yes, that’s the reason.
“His art collection, Quincy!” Markel huffed, his voice growing muffled as he spoke to someone in the background before returning to our conversation. “You have heard of art being stolen, right? Oh wait… you haaave.”
Careful, G-man.
I was in no mood for this asshat to poke the bear, not when I was about two seconds away from going full grizzly in the streets of Manhattan.
How fucking dare he not tell me he was engaged!
“Are we meeting at Luxford’s apartment?” I growled, fully intending to go there regardless of the answer.
“Yes, genius, we are.” Markel put our conversation on hold again as he loudly banged his way out of the field office, judging by the increasing sound of street noise. “I’ll text you the address. Try to behave once you get there.”
Oh, I will not be behaving one bit.
As soon as we hung up, I immediately started Googling “Giancarlo Luxford fiancée” only to be bombarded with countless images of Giano slow-dancing with Anastasia Bosco at his rich asshole gala event last night.
There was no confirmation of fiancée status, but one particular paparazzi shot caught my eye.
Giano and Anastasia were facing each other, staring so deeply into the other's eyes, I felt like I was intruding on a private moment. Her perfectly manicured hand was cupping his face and I couldn’t help noticing the obnoxiously large diamond ring glittering on her finger.
It doesn’t mean anything, Rowen.
Hot girls love shiny shit.
Anastasia Bosco was the dictionary definition of conventionally hot—all long legs and flowing blonde highlights along with the criminally high cheekbones and naturally striking facial features of an Eastern European aristocrat.
In other words, the perfect match for a blue blood like Giancarlo Luxford.
With a huff, I tossed my phone back on the bedside table and stomped into the kitchen to make myself a pot of watered-down coffee. Then, I stomped back to the bedroom to retrieve my phone, so I could continue torturing myself via Google while the pot brewed.
Yeah, yeah, masochistic tendencies and all that.
What I quickly learned was that the gala had been held in honor of Giano’s late mother, who’d died of complications from Lymphoma.
A weird tightness appeared in my chest as I realized I hadn’t known how his mother passed away until this moment, so then I made it worse by Googling how his father died as well.
Private plane crash when Giano was eight.
Yikes.
Now I was big mad because empathy was crowding out my righteous anger, so I pounded as much crappy coffee as humanly possible and dressed in all-black “office clothes” to match my mood.
Funeral ready.
I splurged on a cab uptown, knowing I could make the Feds pay me back for it as a work expense. It was a public service to everyone, really, because the longer I stewed on the train, the higher the likelihood of me causing a scene upon arrival.
I’ll probably still cause a scene, let’s be real.
Upon arrival, I noticed zero police activity near the service entrance. This didn’t mean they weren’t reviewing security footage inside, but when I easily got past the doorman in the lobby—who wasn’t hot at all, thank you very much—I breathed a little easier.
I’d been tempted to skip showing up at all, not only because of my ridiculously hurt feelings but because the last time I returned to the scene of the crime, it didn’t work out so well for me.
Don’t think about getting caught, Rowen.
You can’t…
Unluckily for everyone, pettiness had won out in the end.
I wanted Giano to have to see my face while he lied to the cops.
I wanted him sweating in the full suit he’d no doubt be dressed in while standing next to his supermodel girlfriend-fiancée and remembering how eagerly he dropped to his knees for me.
It’s just business after all.
I also knew it would look more suspicious if I didn’t make an appearance as the FBI’s token felon, so I strode into the already overcrowded—and brightly lit—apartment like my dick was exactly as big as Giano remembered it.
Here I fucking am!
“Well, look who decided to grace us with his presence,” Markel muttered to another faceless Fed, as if I hadn’t needed to traverse the entire island to arrive uptown. “Get over here, Quincy, so I can brief you on what we know so far.”
“I’d rather talk to the source, thanks.” Knowing my actual boss was out of town, I swept past the agents and aimed for the man I hadn’t been able to get out of my head, ignoring whatever Markel whispered that earned him a snicker from his police posse.
Probably something about how I’m worthless trash.
The usual.
“Mr. Luxford,” I greeted my billionaire in a clipped, businesslike tone, while pointedly ignoring the sniffling supermodel hanging on his arm.
“Mr. Quincy,” he replied, his eyes lighting up, making my stomach flip. “It’s good to see you again, despite the circumstances.”
You made your own bed, Moneybags.
“W-who is this, Gianechka?” Anastasia Bosco cut in, and it took everything in me to not throw my dumb little police notebook at her pretty little head.
Gianechka?!
“Who are you?” I shot back before I could stop myself, and the entire room record-scratched into silence.
“Jesus, Quincy…” Markel muttered as Giano’s perfect mask fell to reveal blatant shock.
Good.
To my shock, my new nemesis threw back her head and loudly cackled like a peasant before wiping a tear from her eye and holding out her hand.
“I’m Ana, and thank you for the laugh. I needed it after what happened…”
I shook her hand only because I had no known reason not to, and when she gave me a firm handshake while smiling in a truly genuine way, I realized I needed to grow up and stand down.
She seems cool.
I still hate her.
“I’m Rowen Quincy,” I grudgingly replied after she released me. “Ex-convict and current FBI show pony skilled in the retrieval of stolen art, cultural property, and wayward billionaires.”
“Quincy!” Markel shouted, but I ignored him.
Giano’s eyes—and Anastasia’s smile—widened the more I talked, but I was saved from being dragged away by the scruff of my neck by the arrival of the forensics team.
Go pretend to manage someone else, Markel.
“All right.” I turned to my wayward billionaire. “Can you tell me the order of events that led to the discovery of the theft?”
Starting with why the fuck this woman spent the night?
Even though I wasn’t talking to her at all, Anastasia answered. “As we told the other officers, when we came home after the gala, we got off on the 31st floor… so we could go straight to bed.”
Refusing to acknowledge how she’d called this apartment “home,” I focused on the facts. “The bedrooms are on the 31st floor?”
“Giancarlo’s bedroom is, yes,” she replied, her brow furrowing.
“No guest rooms, though?” I continued, embarrassingly unable to just drop it.
“Rowen…” Giano warned under his breath, but I gave him a look before he could join me in giving away just how close we actually were.
How close I’d thought we were…
Unfortunately, women were observant creatures, and Anastasia looked noticeably more interested in the conversation than she had a moment ago.
“Oh, I see,” she softly chuckled, blessedly not calling us out. “I think I’ll go make myself an espresso. Would either of you gentlemen like one?”
Giano nodded distractedly as I immediately replied with a curt, “Nope.” When he gave me a look, I remembered my “manners” and turned to give her my full attention. “Sweetheart, if I drink any more caffeine today, I may actually murder someone, sooo… no thanks.”
To my continued annoyance—and respect—she grinned, muttering, “Well done, Gianechka,” before padding away.
Shoo, hottie.
Pointedly ignoring how Giano was staring at me expectantly, I tucked away the notebook I hadn’t written anything in anyway and dramatically snapped on some rubber gloves.
“Looks like we have a pro on our hands here,” I observed—loud enough for Markel to hear, wherever he might lurk—running a gloved finger along the neat cut in the canvas I’d created last night. “I bet they were in and out too. One and done.”
“Rowen,” Giano repeated, stepping closer, enveloping me in that addictive scent of his. “Is there something specific you’d like to talk about?”
“That’s Mr. Quincy to you,” I sassed, carelessly flicking paint specks off my fingertips to give forensics something to do. “And you still haven’t answered my question about the number of bedrooms on the top floor.”
He sighed, looking pained, and my stupid heart tried to trick me into feelings territory once again. “There is a guest bedroom up there, but it’s rarely used.” Then he lowered his voice. “But it’s not like that with me and Ana. Not at all.”
Sure, dude.
“Not like that at all…” I repeated, moving to the next frame and running my fingers over the cut, for no other reason than admiring my own handiwork. “Didn’t you say the same thing about Daddy Pinstripes?”
“Giano!”
Siiiigh.
Apparently, the universe was determined to try me today, as Franz suddenly appeared, wild-eyed and stricken beside us.