Chapter 16
CHAPTER
SIXTEEN
Half of me expects Graham to be gone when I glance up again, but he’s still there, motioning for me to ascend.
My gaze falls to the painting—one minute thirty seconds—and my jaw sets.
Bracing with both hands, I lift my weight to avoid swinging and hoist my legs to the sky. The soles of my boots grip the rope. My core is tingling and blood immediately begins rushing to my head. I let out a shuddering breath and strain for the painting.
It’s at my fingertips. Still too far.
One minute.
I grab the top of the adjacent wall and shoot for my last resort.
Time to utilize what I’ve been trying to prevent.
One, two, three, and I push myself away.
I swing too close, nearly smacking into the painting.
On the next go around, my arms stretch and my fingers grasp the frame. I yank it up and off the wall.
One of Graham’s gloves slips on my slick hands.
I bite my lip against a yelp and hug the painting to my chest.
Thirty seconds.
My entire body on fire, I right myself and slam the device back on.
The hasty motion sends me oscillating left and right, forcing the device into overdrive, and my stomach begins to protest as I fight to stabilize the nauseating rocking.
Sweat trickles down my back, thigh muscles twitching.
Twenty seconds and I’m only halfway up. My pulse threatens to rip a hole through my throat.
Graham’s grabbing me before I even notice I’m close enough.
Ten seconds, I’m thinking as he helps me back onto the roof and hoists the rope from the opening. The painting remains safely wrapped in my arms when he easily lifts the pane of glass and rests it back into place, going still.
We both watch the flashlight appear again. The guard does a cursory sweep of the exhibit from the balcony and recedes back where he came from.
Graham begins working around me—removing the suction cups, retrieving his rope from the finial, unclasping the harness from my hips.
I’m planted in place, heart stuttering as the feeling begins returning to my limbs.
The dumb smile that found its way to my mouth finally begins to fade.
He packs everything back in his bag and balances on the adjoining frame.
“Here,” he whispers, peeling the balaclava from my face. “It can be hard to breathe under this.”
Our eyes lock.
The corner of his mouth lifts. “Now I know I’m not the only insane one.”
“It was the mission objective,” I explain, partially to myself. “Give me a mission and I’ll execute it—that’s my job.”
Graham’s gaze crinkles in a way that says he doesn’t believe me in the slightest.
I shove the painting into his chest. “Can we get out of here now?”
Without waiting for a response, I hike back down the dome, careful not to step on the glass. I do hate him more, I decide. But not because this is what he does for a living.
It’s because I did, in fact, have fun. His accurate assessment makes my knees feel funny.
Graham stops me at the stone lip of the roof, right when I’m about to throw caution to the wind and free solo all the way down.
I need a shower and a soft mattress, even if that mattress is on the floor of the foyer, a luxury barrier between him and freedom.
Or so I thought. He kneels down, grabs a tool from his bag, and leans the painting against the base of the bronze statue.
“Why that one?” I find myself asking. “Out of everything, why choose that one?”
I’m positive I’m about to get a high-brow lecture about the painter and why he’ll be able to sell it for more than any of the others.
Graham freezes and rests back on his haunches, as if my question caught him off guard.
“I was at an estate in Lake Como, relieving a particular billionaire from a collection of Ming vases he had no appreciation for—” He tosses me a sheepish grin and clears his throat.
“Anyway, this one stopped me in my tracks. It’s all-but the mirror image of my mother. ”
I tilt my head. Now it’s my turn to be caught off guard. She has near-black hair and brown eyes, exactly like him, but with fairer skin and a calm, detached countenance that’s unsettlingly familiar. I swallow my next question.
We might as well set up camp and start a pot of tea at this rate.
Graham studies the portrait for a few more seconds.
Then, with a quiet gasp on my part, he flips it over and begins prying off the frame.
His movements are quick and precise. In a handful of moments, the frame is in two, gilded paint split apart where it hid the seam.
He reaches inside a hollow in the wood and pockets whatever he came for, then gently rests the painting face-down on the second piece of frame.
“What was that?” I snap.
He retrieves his rope from the bag and begins tying it off to the statue. Without meeting my gaze, he replies, “Something worth more than everything in that exhibit.”
I roll my eyes. Of course I was right—this wasn’t some valiant effort to retrieve a possession of sentimental value. It was about money. That’s all he cares about, anyway, so why should I be surprised?
Seething, I scan our surroundings, a thought lodging in my mind when I spot that one pane of glass. “You lifted me out of there,” I say, “and replaced the panel without so much as a flinch.”
I press a finger onto his solid, supposedly injured shoulder. Graham continues silently working without missing a beat.
“You’re perfectly fine!” I whisper-shout. “You made me do all that—made me believe you needed help?—”
“It was nothing but a glorified scrape,” Graham confirms. He turns suddenly and leans against the statue.
“But I didn’t make you do anything, Sloane.
” He raises a brow in challenge. “And I certainly wasn’t the one who chose to execute an acrobatic routine—now that I think of it, I believe I told you to come back up instead. ”
“You’re—”
“Vexingly precise?” he interrupts.
“—the worst,” I retort through gritted teeth.
Graham checks his watch, unbothered. “We have five minutes to descend.”
He offers me the harness, which I rip from his hands and shove on.
He can rappel down with a shoestring for all I care.
Tying the rope off to my harness, I pull until it’s taut and the slack dangles below.
I step over the edge, gripping tightly with both hands, and brace my legs against the lip. My back faces free air.
“One more question,” I start. “What was the point of all that?”
He presses his palms to the stone between us and leans forward. “Because, whether you’ll admit it or not, I believe you did have fun.”
“So?” I hiss.
“Now I know you’re capable of it,” Graham explains. He pats my calf as if we have some kind of rapport now, lips curling into a bafflingly disarming smile. “And I quite liked you worrying over me, Agent.”
I lift my boot.
And smash his fingers.