Chapter 44
COLE
Of course I wake before Kate does. I lie next to her for a long time, listening to her breathing. I realize that I miss the nightstand lamp, miss the chance to see her calm and relaxed, more trusting than I ever see her awake.
But there’s nothing in the world—no amount of money—that would make me turn that light on.
Not even if the money was enough to replace the clients who will drop me once Tarasov’s blackmail fodder is released.
Not even if the money could pay the tax bill I know is working its way through the system now that my freeport gallery is closed.
Not even if the money could get me back into the Diamond Ring.
But I would pay a considerable amount of my remaining fortune to get back into Trap Prince’s good graces. Alix didn’t deserve my using her auctions to fight my private wars. Her reputation shouldn’t have taken a hit because mine was shot, and Prince had every right to defend her.
I have to admit, though, I have another motive for wanting to clear my debt. I have two dead Russians in my basement with more evidence spattered about than I can ever safely clean. I need to know the bratva—or any police force in the world—can never pin Tarasov’s death on Kate.
There’s only one man I trust to do a clean-up job like that. I’ve seen him manage a total overhaul before, taking hours to complete a task that should have taken weeks. Sawyer Best is the only person I can call.
And Best is off-limits as long as I’m cast out from the Diamond Ring.
Which means I need to make amends. Immediately.
Kate mutters when I ease out of our bed. She half-turns and reaches for the warm spot I’ve left behind. For one crazed moment, I consider climbing back under the sheet, pulling her close and indulging in a lazy morning fuck.
But I don’t have that luxury—not today. If I succeed at what I’m planning, then Kate and I can have a lifetime of exploring each other’s bodies, back in the dungeon, here in the bedroom, wherever and whenever we chose.
It takes me less than ten minutes to shower and dress. I’m texting Nilsson as I pad into the kitchen, but he’s already there, pouring my green smoothie into an insulated cup.
“Good morning, Mr. Wolf,” he says, with his usual formality.
“Good morning.”
“About the gardening sledge, sir. Do you still need it by the mudroom, or should I return it to the greenhouse?”
It’s been sitting out for nearly a week. I should have thought of it before now. “Back to the greenhouse is fine. I’m afraid the wheels ran through something disgusting.”
“I’ll see that it gets a thorough cleaning, sir.”
“Excellent. When you come back to the house, I’ll need your help in my office, for an hour or so. And I’ll need to borrow your car again.”
“Sir,” Nilsson says in absolute acceptance. Then: “Let me just make a pot of coffee for Kate, and I’ll get that sledge to the greenhouse.”
“I’ll make the coffee,” I say, bemused that Kate gets called by her first name.
“It is truly no bother, sir.” If I didn’t know Nilsson’s frozen heart as well as I do, I’d think he has something of a crush on my wife.
“I’ll make it,” I say.
He inclines his head, giving in gracefully before he heads to the mudroom.
I measure the beans carefully before I grind them. While the coffee brews, I take my smoothie into the dining room. Studying the walls, I take out my phone and place a text to get the wheels in motion.
“Maybe I should have come alone,” Kate says. “She would have agreed to see me.”
“You don’t do my dirty work,” I say. But looking at the scarred table in front of us, I’m beginning to wonder if I haven’t made a huge mistake.
The door to the tiny conference room opens. The bank manager’s bald head gleams in the fluorescent light as he licks his lips. He takes care to keep his eyes fastened on mine, as if there’s nothing else in the room. “Can I freshen your coffee?” he asks. “Get you some water?”
I shake my head and resist the urge to look at my wrist. Staring at my watch won’t make Alix arrive any sooner. If she intends to arrive at all. “We’re fine,” I say.
The manager looks like he questions that evaluation, but he wisely holds his tongue.
Kate waits until the door is closed before she says, “I could call her.”
I’m starting to explain why that’s a terrible idea when the door opens. I draw a breath to tell the bank manager—again—that we don’t need his assistance. But it isn’t the bank manager who enters.
It’s Alix Key.
I stand by reflex, twitching the front of my jet-black jacket to make it fall straight.
This morning, I thought about wearing more comfortable clothes—summer-weight linen, a close-fitting T-shirt.
But there’s nothing comfortable about this meeting.
I want Alix to understand precisely how seriously I take the fact that she’s agreed to meet me at Sherman Federal Bank in Dover.
“Cole,” she says. Her tone doesn’t offer anything, not a hint of warmth, barely a shadow of recognition. She doesn’t offer her hand either, and there’s no way in hell I’d dare to kiss her cheek.
“Kate,” Alix fills the silence, and this time she nods, giving a faint smile. I realize Kate was right. She could have come as my ambassador. But I need to build this bridge on my own—if there’s even the vaguest chance such construction is possible.
“Thank you,” I say, letting gratitude warm my words. “I truly appreciate your coming here.”
If anything, Alix’s expression cools even more. “You got a bank to open its private conference room for an outside meeting. How could I possibly miss the opportunity?”
“I knew we couldn’t… I know the freeport is closed to me. But we needed some place to…” Dammit. Words usually come more easily to me. I finally nod at the table beside me. “I had to show you these.”
I don’t have fancy easels. This room isn’t equipped with spotlights. I didn’t want to lean the frames against the wall like some cut-rate, hundred-dollar-a-painting sale.
Alix is close enough to touch the Kahlo, but she doesn’t even glance at the brightly colored canvas. “I’m familiar with them,” she says coolly.
“You’re familiar with the copies,” I counter.
She suddenly decides to study the Mexican self-portrait, as if she’s trying to discern the order each individual brushstroke was applied. Once she’s completed her review, she moves on to the Rothko. She finishes with the Cezanne.
When she finally turns to me, she almost looks shaken. “What are you doing here, Cole?”
“Trying to make amends.”
“These are the real paintings.”
“They are.”
“You owned them the entire time.”
“I did.”
“But you had copies made so you could defraud the freeport—”
“No!” My voice is sharper than I intended, but she doesn’t flinch.
“No,” I say more calmly. “I meant to defraud the bratva. To take Pyotr Tarasov and his crew for every penny I could manage. You were caught in the crossfire. That wasn’t right.
It wasn’t fair. It was one of the biggest mistakes I’ve made in my life.
My only explanation, my only possible excuse, is that I needed to protect Kate.
I needed to keep her safe, and that put me in blinders.
I’m sorry,” I finally say. “More sorry than you can ever understand.”
Alix absorbs my apology without saying a word. It’s only when I get to the end that she glances at Kate. There’s something knowing in her gaze, something almost…indulgent. But when she turns back to me, that softness is tempered by steel. “A church is a better place to make a confession.”
“I’m not giving my paintings to any church.”
“Giving—” This time, I’ve definitely shocked her.
“Cole, you can’t…” She pulls her gaze from the Cezanne, from the apples and pears teetering precariously on the edge of their painted table.
“There’s no going back,” she says to me.
“The instant your goods moved outside the freeport, you owed tax on them. Even if I… If we… If you open a new gallery, you still have to pay your penalty to the feds.”
“I understand,” I say. “I’m not trying to make things right with the feds. I’m trying to make things right with you. You can keep the paintings. Sell them. Give them away. Whatever you want. These three are yours.”
She studies me calmly, as if she’s trying to read something written on the stone that passes for my heart. Only after she’s completed her inventory does she return her attention to the paintings. She lets one fingertip linger on the Kahlo’s wooden frame.
“I’m sorry,” I say again.
She meets my eyes with her solemn whiskey-colored gaze. “I forgive you.”
I’m not prepared for the rush of relief that swamps me. My knees feel weak. My throat is suddenly as dry as Antarctica. I have to wet my lips twice before I can say, “Thank you.”
The door blows open before I can say anything more. Trap Prince stands there, his shoulders blocking out the hallway beyond. As Alix whirls to greet him, thunderclouds break across his face. “Ten minutes are up,” he says to her.
“I’m fine,” she says, as if he just inquired about her health.
He glares at me. “This motherfucker has wasted enough of your morning.”
“Cole has apologized,” Alix says.
“Words are cheap,” Prince says. “And this cocksucker’s made a career out of conning people with his.”
“This isn’t a con,” Alix says. “He’s giving me the paintings.” Prince starts to bluster, but Alix interrupts. “The real ones,” she says. “No strings attached.”
“There are always strings attached.”
I have to defend myself. “Not this time.”
Prince grunts some sort of disagreement.
I glance at Kate, who has followed this entire exchange in silence. She told me this wouldn’t be easy. She said it might not work. She said I don’t understand a thing about how a woman protects herself, how she builds a fortress around the things that matter most.
This once, though, Kate is wrong. I do understand. Kate has taught me more than she can possibly imagine.
“Kate,” I say. “Could you and Alix give me a moment with Trap?”
She doesn’t want to do it. She’s afraid for me. She doesn’t trust that Prince will batten down his temper.
But Alix says, “Come on, Kate. Let’s give the bulls some space to throw their weight around.” She leans in and gives Prince a quick kiss. “Don’t hurt my paintings.”
Kate looks at me, somewhat more concerned. “Um… don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”
I refrain from pointing out how many options she just created for me. At this juncture, Prince wouldn’t respond well to my tossing a glass of champagne in his face. Besides, there isn’t any champagne in the room. Just coffee, and the acid reek is making my stomach tight.
From the hallway, Alix reaches around Kate, closing the door decisively. Prince looks at me like he’s sizing me up for a neck brace. I ease around the table, putting a hundred million dollars of artwork between us.
“I was an idiot,” I say.
He doesn’t respond.
“I was caught. I had to put those bratva motherfuckers in their place, and I didn’t think I had other options.”
He listens, weight forward on the balls of his feet.
“Alix agreed to take the paintings. What will it take for you and me to get square? A blank check to the charity of your choice? To the charity of Alix’s choice? You name it. It’s yours.”
He studies my face, like he’s measuring the almost-faded bruises along my jaw. His eyes go to my gut, as if he can see through linen and cotton to the angry marks he left with his fists.
I take off my suit jacket and drape it over a chair. I loosen my tie and pull it off over my head. I hold my hands away from my sides, as if to prove I’m weapon-free.
“You can break some ribs this time. I won’t fight back. Just don’t get any blood on the paintings.”
“Jesus fucking Christ,” he finally says. “You’re the stupidest motherfucker I ever let into the Diamond Ring.”
“Not the stupidest,” I say after a respectful pause. “There’s Roger Turner. He still can’t keep his tongue in his mouth when a woman’s in sniffing range. Even Alix.”
“Especially Alix,” Prince grunts. “That cocksucker needs a lesson or two in social interaction.”
“You could always throw him out of the Diamond Ring.”
Prince shakes his head. “Not while we’re already down a member.”
I shrug.
“Of course,” Prince says. “If I bring the group back to full strength…”
It’s my turn to wait.
“You missed the June meeting,” he says. “Last week. I got us a box at the French Open.”
I wince. “My tennis game leaves something to be desired.”
He looks at the three paintings spread out between us. “But you’re a motherfucking genius at kissing up.”
“I try.”
Prince shakes his head, staring at the door where Alix and Kate disappeared. “Alix says you did it for the mob princess.”
“For Kate.”
“She says I’d do the same for her.”
“You would.”
“I’m not big on second chances,” Prince says.
“I’ll never ask you for a third.”
“What did you drive up here today?”
The question takes me by surprise. “A Land Rover. It had room for the paintings.”
“If you ever take that Mercedes onto freeport grounds again, I’ll feed you your motherfucking cock.”
Of all the things I did that day, parading that car in front of Alix was the worst. “Understood,” I say.
Prince looks at the paintings. “Tell the bank manager we’ll send a truck over for these,” he says.
“I’ll wait with—”
“Alix and Kate can wait. You need to get your ass over to the freeport. Set the biometrics on your new gallery. Our men can transport whatever you’ve got in the vault here. If you trust them.”
I nod. It’s a generous offer.
Prince pauses a long moment before he holds out his hand. I’m surprised, because I know his aversion to touch. I have to walk around the table to shake. His grip is a hell of a lot more forceful than it needs to be, but that’s part of my punishment too.
“Don’t fuck up,” he says.
“I won’t.”
He opens the door to tell Alix and Kate we’ve made peace.