Chapter 15
Fifteen
Giancarlo
It had been three whole days since I’d last seen Rowen, since he’d brushed off my attempts to talk about anything other than business, and barely responded to my messages since then.
I felt like I was dying.
Granted, we’d agreed ahead of time that communication between us should be minimal in the days following the heist—even with disappearing, encrypted messages—but I needed to clear the air.
With how platonic Ana and I were, it hadn’t occurred to me that I should warn him about her. She was such a staple of my social life at this point, I hadn’t considered how it might look to an outsider seeing nothing but paparazzi photos scrutinizing our relationship.
Our fake relationship.
If Rowen would simply agree to meet in person, then I could better explain who she was to me, and who she wasn’t.
How I don’t want anyone else but him.
Since the Art Crime Team investigation at my apartment, he’d kept our interactions as brief as possible—confirming that everything was under control on his end but otherwise giving me nothing.
It was as if a switch had been flipped and I was now only getting crumbs after tasting a feast. No emojis, no attitude, no innuendos…
none of the spark I’d grown addicted to in the brief time we’d known each other.
How can I fix this?
The solution struck just as I was getting off yet another Zoom call with Franz, his boss, Mr. Samuel, who was the head of fine art at Sotheby’s New York, and the PR specialist we’d hired to assist with breaking the news to the public.
I’ve got this under control.
I should have been focused on studying the speech I’d been given for today’s press conference, but seeing Rowen in person took precedence over anything else.
And I know exactly how to lure him closer again.
Blowing out a steadying breath, I reached for my phone, resisting the urge to call and instead sending off one more desperate message.
Take the elevator to the 31st floor.
His reply was almost instant, which I chose to interpret as him missing this connection as much as I did.
Poppy #5
Are you asking me or telling?
I laughed, hoping his obvious annoyance was a sign the ice was thawing, yet instinctively knowing it was vital that I show this man who was in charge.
Him.
I’m begging.
Please.
When I’d messaged yesterday with news of my upcoming press conference, along with a more immediate offer of drinks at The Skyline where we’d met, he’d turned down the invite with a clipped, businesslike response.
This time, he read my message, but then took his time replying as I held my breath, bracing for the worst.
Poppy #5
I’ll be there in one hour, and I expect you to be ready for me.
Ready?
I assumed he meant prepped with the gifts he’d provided—which I’d been obediently experimenting with since they arrived.
The prebiotic fiber supplement powder had been an easy enough addition to my diet, and while the rest remained on a learning curve, I still wasn’t entirely certain Rowen hadn’t sent the entire care package as a joke.
I hope not.
Part of me also wondered if he needed me to confirm I understood what he truly meant by that text.
And I think I do.
Because you own me.
This time he didn’t reply, and I had to force myself to set aside my phone and leave it at that, trusting he’d show up like he said he would.
So I can earn back his trust.
Ana had offered to “break off” our relationship if that would help mend things, but I’d declined. The damage was already done and, right now, we needed the press to focus on the missing art, not on my personal life—especially if it meant protecting Rowen from scrutiny.
Unfortunately, it was too late to avoid all suspicion, at least from certain parties.
After the Art Crime Team left my apartment, Franz had pulled me aside, suggesting perhaps Rowen should be questioned, since he’d also attended my art viewing party.
It pained me to continue lying to the man who’d always done right by me, but I had no choice.
Casually brushing off his concerns, I pointed out Rowen had only been there at my request, and that he’d been “bored” enough to leave early.
Franz seemed appeased by my explanation, but he still suggested I distance myself from a former art thief, especially in light of what happened.
Too late.
I understood my mentor was simply being protective, but he’d also been incredibly excited to meet The Rowen Quincy in person in the first place.
It may have been because of my dark mood, but the more I thought of that hypocrisy, the more irritated I became.
Yes, Rowen was an art thief but, despite his attempts to hold me at arm’s length, I knew that wasn’t his entire identity.
He’d only shown me glimpses of himself so far, but I was determined to get to the bottom of who he truly was, and to openly admire anything he showed me.
Whether or not he thinks he wants it.
My gaze drifted from my laptop to where Poppy #5 still hung safely on my study wall. Of course, Rowen had left this painting alone, since not only was it excluded from the publicized auction lot, but only an insider would know it existed.
Someone who’d been allowed in my private quarters.
As usual, a wave of emotion washed over me at the sight of my most prized possession, but now there was an itch beneath the surface—an acute awareness that a single painting hung in a lonely apartment was no longer enough to keep me satisfied.
I want more.
While I still wasn’t sure what I’d do with myself after the estate was settled—once all the dominos fell where they may—there was one man I absolutely wanted by my side, no matter where I ended up.
I simply need to show him it’s where he belongs.
If there was one thing I did have, it was a family name that held considerable sway, so after contacting the lobby to have Rowen added to my permanently approved list of visitors, I made another phone call.
To the FBI Art Crime Team’s Manhattan field office.
In no time at all, I was speaking to Antoinette Lowry, the Supervisory Special Agent for this division.
I’d briefly met Agent Lowry at The Skyline party, but she’d been unable to join the investigation at my apartment due to prior obligations out of state, so the first thing she did was apologize profusely.
Her absence hadn’t bothered me in the least—especially as there had been more than enough agents crowding my personal space at the time—but I knew pretending it had would work in my favor.
Weaponized indignation was one of Mother’s earliest lessons after all.
“Yes, well, I’m hopeful that my case will continue to receive the utmost attention,” I haughtily replied, even as I cringed at my own tone. “Especially as we’ll be going public with the information this afternoon.”
This wasn’t news to Lowry, as she was also scheduled to speak at the press conference today, but I was more interested in what the agency would provide afterward.
Who they would provide.
Lowry cleared her throat. “I can assure you, we have assembled a first-rate team to focus on the case, and they are already doing everything possible to retrieve your art collection.”
“I appreciate that,” I responded, polite but firm. “I would like to request a liaison from that team—a specific person to be at my disposal.”
“O-of course, Mr. Luxford,” Lowry stuttered, clearly caught off guard. “Do you have a particular agent in mind?”
“Yes,” I replied, hopefully not too quickly. “Rowen Quincy.”
My reply hung in the air for a moment, but another lesson from my childhood was to never let the opposition see you sweat. Even though I knew what I was doing was risky, I couldn’t resist manipulating the situation to my advantage.
For a good cause, of course.
Mine.
If Rowen was going to insist on keeping things “businesslike” between us, then I would simply create more opportunities for us to do “business” together.
Both in and outside of the bedroom.
Lowry must have needed a drink, as she cleared her throat again. “Uh, well, Rowen Quincy is more of a… consultant than a field agent—”
“I am aware,” I brusquely interrupted. “Just as I am aware of his particular background and run-ins with the law. It’s this very perspective that makes his insights so valuable.”
One of the many reasons he’s so valuable.
Antoinette Lowry chuckled, seeming to relax now that the cards were on the table. “Yes, Rowen certainly brings a unique perspective to all situations. I will warn you, however, that his… bedside manner could use some improvement.”
I highly disagree.
Of course, I kept that observation to myself, but a now familiar protectiveness flared up within me.
“Personally, I appreciate his frankness, as well as his intelligence. It had apparently not occurred to any of your agents to question the suspect from The Andervelt about a possible connection with this recent incident—not until Mr. Quincy brought it up at my apartment.”
Again, the silence was thick, but I muscled through the discomfort of having possibly offended the Supervisory Special Agent, because Rowen deserved the recognition. He may have been the one in charge of me, but I was the one with the power in the current conversation.
Even if I’m sweating my way through it.
“Well, that’s interesting to hear…” Agent Lowry trailed off, as if checking her notes. “It was Agent Markel who presented the possible connection to me, so I’d assumed he came up with the idea.”
Of course he did.
I recalled a comment Rowen had made the night we met and realized I could not only kill two birds with one stone, but further prove to him that he could depend on me.
Even if he doesn’t see it that way.
Yet.
“Agent Markel seems to make a habit of taking credit for the ideas of others,” I smoothly replied. “In fact, I would like to request that he not be a part of the team working on my case. He has not… impressed me.”
That last line was a favorite of my mother’s, and even though it had been used on me a number of times over the years, I felt an odd sort of thrill utilizing it now—if only because I knew how much Rowen despised Markel.
Tiny rebellions, one by one.
“Of course, Mr. Luxford,” Agent Lowry repeated, more confident this time, and I ignored the guilt twisting in my guts, knowing I was wasting her and the field office’s time with my ruse of a heist.
It’s all for a good cause, Giancarlo.
We ended the conversation soon after that, and I hustled upstairs to prepare myself for my guest. It was only after I’d showered that I decided to be bold and wear the plug beneath my clothing.
While the enema kit had been the steepest learning curve, the plug was the most invasive—physically, yes, but it was also an inescapable reminder of how badly I wanted to give this man a part of me no one else had ever touched before.
That I was squeezing in this illicit liaison in the hours before the most important press conference of my life did not even register as a bad decision, just as I had no regrets getting into bed—figuratively and literally—with Rowen in the first place.
Barring the FBI itself coming between us, I had no intention of stopping whatever this was.
Or of ever letting him go.
I heard the elevator rumbling to a stop at the 31st floor just as I was deciding to not add a tie to the suit I’d put on—to unbutton my shirt a bit instead. Rowen’s eyes lit up as he stepped out into the hallway where I was eagerly waiting, confirming I’d made the right decision with my appearance.
“Hey, Moneybags,” he purred, rolling up his shirt sleeves as he closed in on his prey. “You wanted to play?”