18. Quinn #2
People rose from their seats as staff appeared with trays of champagne and water. Conversations resumed in soft bursts, everyone politely pretending a dragon hadn’t almost turned the room into a legal incident over a wolf-shifter painting.
I touched Rafe’s sleeve. “I’m on it.”
He looked down at me. “On what?”
“I’m going to fix this.”
“No.”
“You don’t even know what I’m going to do.”
“That has never stopped the answer from being no.”
I groaned. “Give me your cash.”
His brows lowered. “Why?”
“If I explain, you’ll say no again, but more specifically.”
“Quinn.”
“Rafe.”
We stared at each other.
He reached inside his jacket and removed a money clip.
I looked at the folded bills and then at him. “How much is that?”
“Five thousand.”
“You just casually have five thousand dollars on you?”
“Yes. For emergencies.”
“What kind of emergency requires five thousand dollars in cash?”
“The kind one cannot predict.”
I laughed. “I don’t even have five thousand dollars to my name.”
His mouth curved faintly. He thought I was joking.
I held his gaze until his expression changed.
“Oh,” he said.
“Yes. Oh.” I took the cash before the conversation could become either pitiful or economically educational. “Don’t do that face.”
“What face?”
“The one where you pity me.”
His fingers closed briefly around the money clip before he released it fully. “Quinn?—”
“I’m fine.” I slipped the cash into my small evening bag, which was suddenly carrying more money than my checking account had seen in months.
“I should come with you.”
“No.” I held up one finger. “You are tall, recognizable, and currently vibrating at a frequency that says litigate or incinerate. Stay here.”
“I have never incinerated people.”
“Great. Let’s keep the record clean.”
His eyes narrowed, but I slipped away before he could stop me.
The back corridors of the auction house were exactly what I expected: less wood paneling, more fluorescent lighting, and staff moving so fast that no one wanted to stop and question another person moving quickly.
Wealth liked to believe events happened by magic.
In reality, magic had scuffed black shoes, a headset, and no time to pee.
After a moment’s wandering, I found the staff coatroom.
A row of black jackets hung on a rack beside a shelf of clipboards, badge lanyards, and folded white gloves.
I grabbed a jacket.
I convinced myself I wasn’t committing by saying I was borrowing it. Temporarily and in service of justice, which wasn’t technically a legal category, but it should be.
The jacket was too large in the shoulders, but in a place like this, confidence did half the tailoring.
I clipped on a blank visitor badge from the basket, grabbed a clipboard, and mustered all the confidence I could.
I imagined I was just walking down the hallway in the firm to go fix the copier because only I could.
The auctioneer was in a narrow room behind the stage, drinking water and looking clammy.
Good.
Fear wasn’t always useful, but guilt often made people sweat.
He looked up as I entered. “Can I help you?”
“I think we can help each other,” I said.
His eyes dropped to my badge, then moved to my clipboard as if paper might explain me. “I’m sorry, who are you?”
“Someone who watched you ignore a registered bidder’s paddle three times in a room full of witnesses.”
He went so pale, I thought he might pass out. I almost felt bad.
Almost.
“That was an accident.”
“Great,” I said. “Then you’ll be relieved to hear I’m offering you a short break before any more accidents happen.”
His eyes sharpened. “Excuse me?”
I set the cash on the table.
He stared at it.
“Five minutes,” I said. “One lot.”
“That’s absurd.”
“So is torching an auction house’s credibility because a phoenix collector wants to feel special.”
His gaze snapped to mine, and I saw the realization dawn.
I lowered my voice. “I’m not asking you to void anything. I’m not asking you to falsify a bid. I’m asking you to take the break you look like you need and let the relief auctioneer read one lot from the script.”
“There is no relief auctioneer.”
“There is now.”
“You?”
“I have excellent diction.”
“This is insane.”
“Yes,” I said. “And yet you’re still looking at the money.”
His throat bobbed.
“You’re in a bad position. I get that. Someone with too much money and too much leverage has made your job harder.
I’m offering you an exit for one item. You can say you felt unwell.
You can say I was temporary staff from the charity benefit circuit.
You can say nothing and take a very long bathroom break.
But if you go back out there and ignore paddle twelve during Lot 47, you’re going to have a dragon, a law firm, and every person with a phone in that room discussing why this auction house runs private sales in public. ”
His face tightened.
I waited, resisting the urge to tap my foot impatiently.
He looked at the cash again, then said, “The mirror is Lot 47.”
“I know.”
“And if I refuse?”
“Then I go tell Rafe Virelli you’re feeling cooperative but shy.”
He closed his eyes. “You’re terrifying.”
“Thank you. I’m an intern.”
That, apparently, didn’t comfort him.
Three minutes later, I was standing behind the rostrum, wearing a borrowed black jacket, holding a lot card, and wondering whether this was the moment my law career became either legendary or evidence in my upcoming criminal trial.
The guests had reassembled.
Rafe’s face when he saw me nearly made the entire thing worth it. He sat in the third row and stared at me with an expression that suggested his soul had briefly left his body to consult risk management.
I raised the gavel.
Several heads turned. Someone murmured. Dimitris Burelian leaned back in his chair, his mild smile sharpening.
I smiled. “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for your patience. We’ll resume with Lot 47.”
Rafe’s eyes narrowed.
Yes, I had moved the lot order.
In my defense, the lot cards were right there, and the auctioneer had been very emotionally weakened by the five thousand dollars.
A staff member near the side door seemed to consider objecting, then looked at the absent auctioneer’s closed door and chose employment over heroism.
“Lot 47,” I continued, because my voice was apparently steady even if my internal organs were vibrating. “A shrine mirror, late Edo period, silvered bronze and lacquered backing, provenance materials available to registered bidders.”
I didn’t look at Rafe. If I looked at Rafe, I would laugh, faint, or develop a permanent medical condition. “We’ll open at one thousand.”
A pause.
Dimitris lifted his paddle.
“Two thousand,” I said.
Rafe lifted his.
“Three thousand to paddle twelve.”
Dimitris’s eyes cooled.
“Four thousand… Five thousand to paddle twelve.”
A murmur moved through the room.
Luke Gildstein lifted his paddle, possibly because he sensed drama, and rich men loved drama.
“Six thousand.”
Rafe lifted his paddle.
“Seven.”
Dimitris raised his.
“Eight.”
Rafe raised his again.
“Nine.”
Dimitris’s cane tapped once against the floor.
I met his gaze and smiled pleasantly, the way women did when they were about to make life less convenient.
“Ten thousand to paddle thirty-two.”
Rafe lifted his paddle.
“Eleven thousand to paddle twelve.”
Dimitris raised his.
“Twelve thousand.”
Rafe’s paddle rose before the number finished leaving my mouth.
“Thirteen thousand.”
Dimitris paused.
The old auctioneer would have waited. Coaxed. Let the silence soften for him.
I didn’t.
“Thirteen thousand once,” I said.
Dimitris’s eyes flashed.
“Thirteen thousand twice…” I waited a breath. “Sold to paddle twelve.” I banged the gavel, the sound cracking through the room.
Time stretched on as nobody moved.
Then Rafe stood.
I had never seen victory look so restrained and yet so utterly incapable of being hidden. His face remained composed, but something bright and fierce had entered his eyes. He looked at the mirror, then at me.
My heart kicked once, hard.
I set the gavel down very carefully before my hand could shake, then walked offstage.
The actual auctioneer emerged from the side room with his tie slightly crooked and his dignity in pieces. He came straight to me, face pale.
I handed him the lot card and spoke under my breath. “Congratulations. You took a break and retained your credibility.”
Rafe reached us a moment later, his presence immediately making the backstage area feel smaller.
“Ms. Bradley,” he said.
“Mr. Virelli.”
His gaze moved over the jacket, the badge, the gavel, then my face. “We will discuss this.”
“So I assumed.”
The auctioneer cleared his throat. “Sir, if you’ll come with me to buyer services, we can confirm the hammer price, premium, and paperwork.”
When Rafe’s gaze moved to him, the man paled further.
I touched Rafe’s sleeve lightly. “Paperwork first. Moral reckoning later.”
His attention dropped to my shaking hand, and his jaw clenched.
Buyer services occupied a small office off the main hall.
A woman in pearls and reading glasses processed the sale calmly, clearly long past being surprised by how badly rich people could behave over unattractive objects.
The buyer’s agreement confirmed the hammer price, buyer’s premium, tax status, title terms, and collection arrangements.
Rafe signed where required, provided authorization for wire payment, and requested immediate secured transfer to a bonded courier after payment cleared.
The woman glanced at the lot description. “All this for a battered shrine mirror?”
I braced myself.
Rafe looked at the page, then at her. “Yes,” he said.
Just yes.
For some reason, that made my throat constrict.
When the paperwork was complete, the auction house wanted to return to pretending the last fifteen minutes had been orderly. I returned the jacket to the coatroom and left the blank badge on a shelf. The auctioneer didn’t look at me again, which I considered healthy for both of us.
We made it as far as the front doors before Dimitris Burelian appeared beside a marble column, one gloved hand resting lightly on his cane.