Chapter 26
Twenty-Six
Giancarlo
I’d believed nothing Rowen could do would bother me enough to stay truly angry with him, but that was before his actions had affected someone I cared about.
One of the few people I care about.
It wasn’t as if Franz didn’t know art forgers existed, since part of his job involved authenticating the provenance of pieces in his clients collections.
But to witness Rowen wave the antithesis to his career in his face—presumably for no other reason than to be an asshole—was more than I could bear.
So now, it’s time to have a chat.
“Sit.” I pointed at the armchair in the lounge area across the room. “And don’t speak until you’re spoken to.”
I was admittedly testing his willingness to obey with my choice of words, but Rowen surprised me by not only keeping his mouth shut but dutifully crossing the room before sitting where I’d indicated.
Smart man.
The issue was, along with anger, my senses were alight with near blinding lust. Yes, Rowen had orchestrated this scenario to mess with Franz specifically, but I had no doubt he enjoyed riling me up just as much as I did him.
You want to play?
Let’s play.
I took my time removing my suit jacket and hanging it in the closet near the door. Then, I removed my cufflinks and set them in a nearby copper dish along with my money clip and phone before checking my appearance in the gilded mirror above the small credenza.
“Start talking, Rowen. Tell me why you did it.” My neutral tone became firm as I added, “And I want the truth.”
Please.
Rowen awkwardly shifted in his leather chair, looking every bit the delinquent sent to the headmaster’s office. “Well…” He cleared his throat, his nervous gaze darting around the room before meeting mine. “Which offense are we talking about specifically?”
Sigh.
“Is my art even in Italy?”
With the way his eyebrows shot up, that was the last thing he’d expected me to ask, but what Rowen Quincy didn’t understand was I’d been raised in a house of smoke and mirrors, where everyone I encountered—including family—had an angle they were playing.
Do you finally see?
Do you finally see how alike we are?
He swallowed thickly as I approached, watching as I rolled up my sleeves, although he didn’t seem afraid. “No.” He shook his head, sharply inhaling when I stopped a few feet away. “Your art was never here.”
Now we’re getting somewhere.
I nodded and crossed my arms. “The photos sent to the Post came from Mick, I assume?”
“Yeah…” He grimaced. “I mean, Mick reproduced the Picasso so the sighting would seem legit, and then took the photos at one of his client’s villas, but it was Lucy who hacked the IP address so no one could trace the email back to the source.”
This is all just a game to him.
I blew out a slow breath. “So your foster siblings know about the job?” I gritted out, clenching my fists by my sides, mostly to stop myself from putting him over my knee.
His brow furrowed, his cherubic face displaying genuine confusion. “Well… yeah. They’re my partners—”
“Then what am I?” I growled, taking another step toward him.
Rowen’s green eyes widened in alarm. “You’re… my…”
Say it.
At this point I was daring him—to lie or tell the truth, I wasn’t sure—but I was tired of chasing the inevitable when we both knew how this needed to end.
With him being mine.
“Your client?” I sneered, hungrily tracking the movement as he swallowed again. “The party who hired you to do a job. That’s it, right?”
He dropped his gaze. “Like I said. I’m sorry.”
Oh, no you don’t.
“If it’s just business, then why play cat and mouse with me?” I continued mercilessly, knowing we were dancing closer to the truth. “If all you were doing was fulfilling your end of the bargain, we wouldn’t be here in Italy together—”
“The only reason we’re in Italy together is because you strong-armed me into being your liaison!” Rowen yelled, hands gripping the arms of the chair, fury making him even more beautiful—like a vengeful angel in a Renaissance painting. “You just had to control me—”
“I wanted to free you!” I shouted in return, throwing my hands in the air. “I wanted to have a valid excuse to see you and be seen with you, while giving you an excuse to get away from the FBI Art Crime Team, where you clearly don’t belong!”
Because you belong with me.
He scoffed, looking unconvinced as he leaned back in the chair, but he also didn’t argue.
You know it’s true.
“I don’t need your charity, Giano,” he huffed, refusing to make eye contact. “Your fucking matched luggage and closet full of sprezza-slut outfits. Your fifty-thousand-dollar watches and liaison liberation. I don’t want any of it—not if…”
“If it means I own you,” I quietly filled in the blanks as the anger bled out of me, as another puzzle piece fell into place.
“It doesn’t. Not at all. Just because I enjoy spending money on you—enjoy making things better for you—it doesn’t mean you owe me anything.
Jesus, Ro…” I laughed and ran a hand through my hair, wishing I could make him see.
“I’d have an easier time trying to control the weather than control you, and I wouldn’t want to even if I could. ”
I like you exactly how you are.
His eyes were still averted, his jaw working as he absorbed what I was saying—hopefully along with what I wasn’t saying as well. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet.
“I decided to pretend your art was in Italy partly because I had to find out about your fiancée from fucking Markel, of all people,” he muttered, peeking at me from beneath his lashes before looking away again, cheeks flushed.
“I know you told me your relationship with Anastasia means nothing, but we both know she’s exactly who you should be with. ”
None of that matters.
“The press has said a lot of things about us over the years,” I replied, smiling sadly.
“Ana has played her role as my steadfast companion all this time precisely to help both of us exist without constant scrutiny, but we’ve never claimed to be engaged.
It doesn’t matter now, because I don’t need to hide who I am anymore.
I don’t want to. I want people to know the real me, and who I choose to openly be with now that I have the choice. ”
I don’t want to hide what I feel for you.
His gaze snapped to mine, dark with anger once again. “What do you think is gonna happen here, Luxford? The eligible bachelor billionaire leaves his supermodel faux-fiancée to announce he’s got a hard-on for a dirtbag instead? The Post will have a field day with that one…”
“Stop it,” I hissed, equally furious. “You will stop speaking so badly of yourself—stop even thinking it. You are a good man, Ro, and there’s nothing you can do to convince me otherwise.”
What do I have to do to show you how worthy you are?
He threw his head back and laughed, a bitter sound that felt like a knife to the gut. Then his gaze met mine again, glassy eyes filled with pity as he pulled a cigarette out of his pocket and placed it between his trembling lips.
“Okay, fine. You want to know why else I staged this whole ‘runaway art collection in Italy’ ruse, Giancarlo? Because I could. Because I’m a dirtbag who enjoys doing dirtbag things, especially if it means getting to eat the rich.
Nothing gets me harder than hearing a billionaire beg me for what he wants—whether it’s for my tongue in his ass or for his stupid, priceless art collection to be returned to him, safe and sound. ”
The force of his rage had me stumbling back a step, but then I realized to my acute devastation, that his biting, vicious scorn wasn’t aimed at me at all.
He truly believes everything he’s saying.
My chest ached to the point of pain. I already knew Rowen stole Poppy #5 as a potential bargaining chip, because he expected to need a reason to negotiate with me. By “strong-arming” the liaison situation, I proved him right, even if I hadn’t taken the bait.
Even if all I’d wanted was to keep him close.
His actions were understandable, in a sad sort of way, since I hadn’t earned his trust yet.
Even now, even after giving him the chance to explain himself, to tell the truth, he continued to hide behind the same story he’d probably always told—and been told—about himself, because he assumed I’d believe it too.
Unredeemable, unwanted, unlovable.
Well, allow me to show you how wrong you are.
Instead of replying—because he wouldn’t believe anything I said anyway—I wordlessly dropped to my knees and began to crawl.
“What are you…” he began, eyes widening and unlit cigarette falling out of his gaping mouth. “What the fuck are you doing?!”
Anything I need to make you mine.
“Please, Mr. Quincy,” I begged as I stopped in front of his beautiful Berluti boots, gazing up at him with all the desperate longing I legitimately felt. “Please tell me what you’ve done with Poppy #5…”
Tell me you love it—love this—as much as I do.
He stared down at me in clear disbelief for several seconds before huffing a laugh and spreading his legs, that delicious confidence of his returning in full force.
No matter how false it may be.
“I dunno, Moneybags…” he drawled, tapping my thigh with the toe of his boot. “What will you do for that information?”
“Anything,” I murmured, lowering my head and licking a wet stripe from his toe to his ankle.
“HOLY FUCKING SHIT, GIANO, WHAT THE FUCKING FUCK?!” he hollered, practically kicking me in the face with how he jumped. When I laughed, he grinned, displaying that perfect gap I couldn’t get enough of. “Well, don’t stop, my little stealth slut. Lick my boots until they shiiine.”
With pleasure.
I returned to my task, running my tongue over every inch of expensive, coffee-brown leather while willing myself to remain conscious.
This is bliss.
“Fine…” Rowen purred, finally relaxing as he carded his fingers through my hair, making me moan.
“You wanna know what I did with your precious Poppy #5? I hung it over my pillow in my shitty little Chinatown apartment. I figured the placement would make it easier to jerk off to before I go to sleep every night.”
What I wouldn’t pay to see that…
I needed to steer the conversation in another direction before I came in my pants, so I lifted my head and sat back on my heels. “Why did you take it—really?”
Tell me the truth.
I’m begging…
He ran his thumb over my wet lips before licking his own. “Because I was jealous,” he whispered, his gaze still fixed on my mouth. “I think I might have been more jealous of that silly flower painting than I was of Anastasia fucking Bosco.”
You have nothing to be jealous of…
“When I first saw that painting in my mother’s Sotheby’s catalogue, it was like getting a glimpse of heaven,” I explained—tried to explain—cautiously edging closer. “I was certain I’d never want anything more in my life, and that’s been true… until now…”
As soon as I spoke the words, I knew I’d broken the spell, because Rowen reared back like I’d slapped him.
“No. Giano. You don’t want this. Trust me…”
Don’t. Tell. Me. What. I. Want.
Before he could continue lying to my face, I wrapped my hand around the back of his neck, praying it would have the same subduing effect on him as it had at Mick’s, before resting my forehead against his.
“Stop running from me,” I growled, daring to move my lips closer still.
Please.
Rowen Quincy, master art thief, the most ridiculously cocky man I’d ever met, was shaking.
“I don’t know how to stop…” he replied, barely audible, so deliciously dazed as I finally brushed my lips over his.
You will.
Trust me.