Chapter 18
Eighteen
Giancarlo
This wasn’t part of the plan…
That singular, useless thought played on loop as I was hustled away from the throng of shouting reporters by Franz and deposited in my car.
“Y-you’re not coming with me?” I stuttered, snapping out of my daze as he moved to shut the door from the wrong side of it.
“No, Giano…” he replied, reminding me of the only other person who called me that—the one who’d decided to go completely off-script just now.
“I need to get your PR firm started on fighting this new fire while my boss and Agent Lowry figure out what sort of resources Sotheby’s Italy can offer us.That is… if your art is even in Italy.”
Oh, it’s there.
If there was one thing I’d figured out about Rowen Quincy—despite his best efforts to be unknowable—it was that he did nothing by halves.
I’d hired him to steal then hide my art where it couldn’t be found, and sending the entire collection across the Atlantic was certainly one way to accomplish that.
But why not discuss it with me first?!
Realizing Franz was still anxiously waiting for my reply, I nodded, forcing my face back to neutral for his sake. “Understood. You’ll call later to catch me up, though?”
He shook his head. “Not tonight. What I need you to do is go home and relax. I can’t imagine how stressful all this has been, especially so soon after your mother’s passing. Please, let me handle this for you.”
My stomach twisted with guilt, but there was nothing to be done about it. Telling Franz what I’d done would only put his career and reputation in jeopardy, while doing nothing to stop the wheels Rowen had already set in motion.
The machinations, more like it…
As much as I wanted to insist on staying and being included in the emergency meeting, I also knew I wouldn’t be any help.
My thoughts were scattered and my heart ached.
Whatever I was feeling went beyond anxiety.
It felt like free-falling, like the solid ground I’d taken for granted beneath my feet had suddenly revealed itself to be nothing but empty air.
For one horrible moment, I wondered if Rowen intended to steal my art for good—if I’d unwittingly wandered into his trap by sheer coincidence and bad luck.
No.
I trust him.
Despite everything, including common sense, I trusted this longtime art thief and self-proclaimed con man. I knew exactly how foolish that sounded on paper, but I couldn’t bring myself to believe the worst of Rowen, especially as I had the feeling it was what most people who encountered him did.
I shifted uncomfortably in my seat as Scott pulled away from the curb, suddenly incredibly aware of the butt plug I’d obediently kept in place, just like he’d told me to.
While knowing full well that a bombshell was about to drop…
By the time the car stopped in front of my building, I’d messaged Rowen via Signal at least a dozen times, with no reply. While this wasn’t surprising, it was incredibly frustrating given the current circumstances. It also meant I needed to resort to actions he’d get annoyed with in turn.
Too bad.
More desperate measures.
I barely acknowledged Robert’s greeting as I strode through the lobby, clenching my jaw as Rowen’s generic voicemail tauntingly played in my ear. It took three times of me calling back before he finally picked up, and by then my self-control was hanging on by a frayed thread.
“Why exactly are you calling me, Giancarlo?”
The use of my full name—more so than his detached tone and how he’d made me chase him for the barest of acknowledgments—was what finally made me snap.
“What the hell happened back there?” I hissed as the penthouse elevator let me off at the 29th floor.
There was no reply from the other end of the line, and I wished I could see his face—for many reasons, but mostly to determine whether the silence was because of shock over my tone or because he was closing himself off as usual.
Not this time.
I won’t allow it.
“Oh, is that what you’re upset about?” he asked with what sounded like a relieved laugh. “I take it you’re not home yet…”
“I am now,” I huffed, stomping into my apartment and up to the second floor to hang up my coat. “Franz sent me home so he could handle the aftermath while I rested—”
“Maybe you should,” he abruptly interrupted, sounding uncharacteristically nervous. “Rest, I mean. In your bedroom. On the 31st floor.”
What is he going on about?
“Rest is the last thing I would be capable of right now,” I muttered, heading for my study next. “I think you should come over so we can talk.”
I need you here.
Silence again, followed by a shaky exhale. “I don’t think that would be a good idea, Giancarlo—”
“Why do you keep calling me that?” I snapped, flinging open the door and continuing my march across the room before collapsing in my desk chair with an aggravated sigh. “Why are you behaving like this is just business?”
I knew it was a foolish thing to say, especially to someone as notoriously skittish as him, but I was also tired of pretending I didn’t feel Rowen’s absence when he wasn’t around—or when he disappeared behind the seemingly unscalable walls he’d built around himself.
Please, let me in.
“Why are you pretending it isn’t exactly that?” he barked, the way his voice hitched with emotion sending an illicit thrill down my spine. “Business generally involves one party hiring another to complete a job. That’s what we’re doing. That’s what’s going on here. That’s. All.”
That’s a lie and you know it.
It may have seemed delusional for me to believe this man felt what I did, especially when he’d promised me nothing from the start. Yet, I instinctively knew it was true, in the same way I once knew Poppy #5—and now Rowen—were destined to be mine.
Hoping to lower my rising blood pressure, I glanced at the far wall, only to have the rug ripped out from under me for the second time in one day.
Poppy #5 was gone.
Both the canvas and the simple gold frame I’d had custom made for my most prized possession had been removed from its place of honor, with only the mounting hardware left gleaming in the fading sunlight pouring through my window. And I knew exactly who was responsible.
He stole from me.
Again.
“Rowen…” I growled into the phone, hearing his breath catch on the other end. “What. Did. You. Do?”
Now him needing to borrow a jacket made sense—and my thickest, longest peacoat at that. The question was why he’d felt the need to take the painting at all, other than to drive the knife of betrayal in deeper.
And I refuse to believe he’s that heartless, despite his best efforts.
True to form, he huffed a carefree laugh. “Are you referring to whatever the hell happened back there or something else?”
When I didn’t reply—too angry to trust myself to speak—he quietly added, “Now you know why I didn’t think it would be a good idea for me to come over, Giano.”
There seemed to be more behind that statement than what he was saying out loud, but his blessed return to using my nickname caused my brain to go into a strange, almost primal mode.
“Come over here. Now.”
I needed him here—along with my precious painting—and until I could have both of them in my sights again, permanently, I didn’t see how I could be expected to rest ever again.
This is going to be a problem.
“No,” he calmly replied, sounding back to his confident, cocksure self. “And that’s Mr. Quincy to you, because I’m the one in charge.”
Not of everything, you’re not.
I still had an ace up my sleeve, and at this point, he knew it. “Is that so? Tell me, Mr. Quincy. What was it exactly that Agent Lowry wanted to talk to you about before the press conference?”
He went silent again, and this time, I could tell he was seething. “You know damn well what,” he muttered. “But you can forget it.”
I tsked, channeling my mother facing off against anyone she’d seen as an opponent—which had been most everyone. “I don’t think I will. It would look a bit suspicious if I suddenly retracted my insistence that you be my trusted liaison, hmm?”
“Giano…” he warned, and I closed my eyes, envisioning his gorgeous face becoming even more beautiful with righteous anger. “You don’t want this.”
Don’t fucking tell me what I want.
“Oh, I do,” I chuckled, low and dark. “I want you to fly with me to Italy in my private jet, so we can search for my missing art together. I want you by my side every waking hour—right where I can see you—in case I need your expert consulting advice. Doesn’t that sound like fun, Mr. Quincy?”
It sounds like heaven to me.
“Fucking hell, Luxford!” he shouted, and I wished he was by my side at this moment, to see the triumphant smile on my face. “You win. Tell Lowry you want someone else being your personal pet and I’ll return your silly little flower painting.”
Oh.
I see.
Rowen hadn’t stolen Poppy #5 to betray me, or as a keepsake for his personal collection. He’d noticed the seemingly insignificant painting meant something to me and figured he could use it to negotiate with in the future.
Looks like the future came faster than expected.
Unfortunately for Rowen, I wanted him more than I wanted Poppy #5.
And I’ll have them both soon enough.
“No,” I replied, my lip curling in a sneer. “And that’s Mr. Luxford to you. Pack your bags, Rowen. Your new position starts tomorrow.”