24. Grand larceny in paris – Aurora
24
GRAND LARCENY IN PARIS
AURORA
T hey’re up to something.
I fiddle nervously with my necklace as Elijah leads me through the gallery exhibit. Ahead of us, Seven moves like a shadow, pausing to look at several pieces. But his interest doesn’t seem genuine. Either he really doesn’t care for art at all, or something else is going on here.
They keep glancing at each other in this way that tells me they’re communicating without the need for words. And Elijah has clocked every security guard and camera in this entire room. I don’t think anyone else has noticed. He’s really smooth about it, but standing right next to him, chatting with him, it’s hard to miss every time his gaze wanders.
My mind comes up with several unlikely theories as to why they’re being sketchy as fuck, but the truth is I still don’t know these guys. Who they are. What they do. They said they aren’t mafia and I’m starting to believe that, but then what?
What is it Seven seems to be looking for? Are they meeting someone here? Maybe an exchange?
Is it dangerous?
Am I in danger?
Elijah smirks at the next piece, letting out a small scoff that draws my attention back to him as Seven moves down a dim corridor from the main space into what I assume is another room of the gallery.
I follow Elijah’s line of sight to the painting in front of us, confused at his reaction. It’s a nude portrait with soft shades of blue in the background that complement the woman in the painting’s pale, perfect skin.
“Not your type?” I ask, admiring the model’s shapely curves. I had curves like that once—before Jesse and all the bullshit that came with him.
Elijah shakes his head, leaning in close. “It’s a fake,” he whispers conspiratorially.
“How do you know?”
“It’s messy work. The forger tried to age it. You can see there that the paint is cracked. The canvas material is in too good of shape. Amateur move.”
“You seem to know a lot about art.”
Even though there’s a small smile pulling at the sides of his full lips, there’s pain in his eyes when he answers. “It was my whole life,” he replies, massaging the scarred flesh on the back of his right hand.
“Does that hurt?”
He blinks, releasing his injured hand with a bob of his throat as if he didn’t realize he’d unconsciously begun to massage it.
“Sometimes. The repair surgery made it usable, but it never really stopped hurting.”
We move to the next piece, but I can’t shift my focus to the whorls of spring green and muted yellow. “What…what happened?”
A muscle in his jaw flexes and when a few more long seconds pass in tense silence, I regret asking.
“Sorry. It’s obviously not my business.”
“It’s not that,” he rushes to say. “I want to tell you.”
When his warm honey brown eyes meet mine, I can see that he means it. There’s a depth to his stare that screams with brutal honesty, and if I don’t look away, I might be sucked down into that golden abyss, so I save myself from drowning, tearing my gaze from his.
I can’t afford to feel anything more for this group of men than I already do, and besides, after what happened with Seven…
Well, I don’t think he’d appreciate finding out that I might be just a little bit attracted to his best friend, too.
“But?” I press, wandering to the next piece with him following close behind.
“But I’m not sure if I should.”
What does that mean?
Elijah’s attention shifts to something behind me, and I turn in time to see Seven jerk his chin down the hall.
“Come on,” Elijah whispers, sliding his hand into mine to gently pull me toward the next room. “This room is getting busy. Let’s see what’s farther in.”
I don’t miss the abrupt shift in attention or change in subject, but I don’t point it out, curious to see how this plays out even though my pulse is fluttering.
The next space is smaller. Much smaller. With raised platforms in all different sizes, glass-encased paintings perched atop them on display. It makes the tighter space almost maze-like, and for a second, we lose sight of Seven behind a taller display before he comes back into view, pausing in front of a small piece set on a lower platform near the back.
He moves away to look at the next one, making space for me and Elijah to see the painting he was just looking at.
It’s small compared to most of the others. About magazine-size with a simple but elegant gold filigree frame.
It’s three people standing by a canal, with a windmill far in the distance. Everything is in shades of gray and black, making it feel really quiet and a bit somber. The three figures look like they’re blending into the background, adding to the gloomy vibe of the scene.
I can’t exactly describe why, but I love it.
The way Elijah is looking at it, I can tell he loves it, too. His expression is near reverent. How someone devout might look at religious artifacts or the Pope himself.
Seven coughs, and Elijah’s head snaps up.
His hand, now clammy, releases mine in favor of pressing lightly against my lower back through my borrowed coat. Confused, but not wanting to draw attention to us, I let him guide me to look at a painting near where Seven is standing.
“Excuse me for just a second,” Elijah says in a low tone and shifts to stand next to Seven. I can’t hear them, but I can see their lips moving. See Elijah nodding.
What the fuck is going on?
My skin prickles, and I take a cursory look around the room, tracking the few people in here with us. There are only four including the guard by the corridor to the main atrium. The other way out is a plain black door with a sign that says DO NOT ENTER, DOOR ALARMED in both French and English.
No one else in here looks like someone an artist and a killer would be meeting in a gallery on a Friday night. I swear there’s a punchline to this joke somewhere, but I can’t find it.
“Ro,” Seven says in greeting, bringing me back to where I’m standing as he places himself inconspicuously next to me to look at the large piece in front of us. “Having a nice time?”
I peer around him to find Eli, and see him wandering through the other paintings, but he doesn’t seem to really be looking at any of them like he was in the other room.
“Ro?”
“Hmm?”
“I asked if you were having a nice time.”
“Oh. Yeah. It’s, um, all really beautiful.”
“This one’s a Goya,” Seven tells me, indicating the piece we’re meant to be looking at. “It’s worth about five million.”
That gets my attention. “ What? ”
I look at it again.
It’s morbid—with a pair of dead rabbits arranged in a sort of cross shape. It leaves a hollow feeling in the pit of my stomach. Despite the content, it’s worth more money than most people see in their entire lives.
I wonder how Seven knows that. Why he knows that. And my gears turn some more.
“Do you know a lot about art, too?” I ask, trying not to sound too interested.
“A bit,” he replies with a smirk and a shrug, his eyes flicking to Elijah in the corner so fast I almost miss it.
I turn to see what he was looking at, but he wraps an arm around my middle, pulling me into his side. “Don’t look.”
Adrenaline rushes up my back, and I shiver. “Seven, what’s happening?”
“Do you really want to know?”
We turn to view the artwork behind us, but I’m not looking at it, and neither is Seven. His electric blue eyes are zeroed in on the guard by the corridor just as the man moves from his post to stride back toward the atrium.
Seven coughs, and then grins at me.
My knee-jerk reaction is to look toward Elijah, and I almost do, but he lifts a hand to caress my cheek, drawing my attention back to him. “Uh-uh,” he says. “Eyes on me, Ro.”
The pad of his thumb brushes along my jaw, setting flame to the adrenaline flooding my veins. “We don’t want to draw attention to him while he works. He’s a little rusty at the moment.”
My lips part.
While he works?
I’m having trouble remembering why I should be wary as Seven drops his eyes to my lips.
Fuck.
His hand around my waist squeezes, and a small breathy gasp escapes me. When he pulls his lower lip between his teeth and leans in, my thighs press together, and I start to wonder if I care if he takes me right here on this gallery floor in front of all these posh Parisians…
Then I hear the heavy booted footfalls of the guard returning and panic jolts me out of the trance he has me in.
Elijah.
Without thinking, I cough and see a shifting movement in my peripheral as Elijah deftly rises to his full height and pivots to look at another piece.
Seven’s warm touch drops from my cheek and his shifty eyes search mine.
“Good catch.” He lifts a curious brow at me. “But I had it.”
And I get it now.
Elijah is stealing the artwork.
Art worth millions.
Right under the noses of everyone.
They really are certifiably insane.