23. Galahad
Galahad
“Yeah, I got the photo,” Arthur said over the phone fifteen minutes after I’d sent Grace to pack. “Morganna ran it and confirmed Dmitry Ivanov is a licensed PI with fifteen years of experience, primarily in art recovery. No criminal record, no red flags.”
Part of me had hoped it was all a lie, so I could have justified my behavior at Grace’s café, if nothing else. “And the others?”
I knocked on the guest room door. Grace said something that might have been ‘Come in’ or might have been any number of irrelevant responses. Hoping it was the former, I pushed the door open.
She wasn’t packing. She was standing in front of her dresser, staring at an open drawer. Her suitcase lay open on the bed, half-empty.
“It’s a wild story.” The sound of keyboard clacks filtered from Arthur’s end. “Conrad Richter works for a collector named Werner Kessler. German descent with homes in Switzerland, Czechia, and Grand Cayman. He claims he’s descended from the Romanovs.”
I crossed to the dresser and started pulling clothes from the drawer for her. Grace didn’t move. Didn’t even seem to notice I was there.
“His family story traces back to his grandmother, but there’s no documentation to back it up,” Arthur continued.
“He’s petitioned the Romanov Family Association for recognition twice and been rejected both times.
Near as Merlin can figure from his profile, Kessler thinks surrounding himself with Russian artifacts will lend credence to his claim. ”
“Great.” I tucked the phone against my shoulder to fold a wrinkled T-shirt, and set it in the suitcase. A pair of jeans. A cardigan that had been draped over the chair.
“Sending his photo now,” Arthur added.
My phone buzzed against my ear. I pulled it away long enough to open the image. Kessler, in his mid-fifties, had sleek blond hair and wore a tailored suit in the image. I tucked the phone back in place. “And Richter?”
“Bad news. He’s Kessler’s fixer. Has a reputation for getting results by whatever means necessary.”
Fuck.
Grace hadn’t moved. She rested her hands on the open drawer, but her gaze was fixed on something I couldn’t make out. The drawer? The wall? The ruins of everything she thought she knew about her grandmother?
“I need you to dig deeper,” I said. “Kessler, Richter, the Dubois family. Anything you can find.”
“Already on it. Merlin’s running traces now, and he’s pulled Morganna in.”
I spotted a sock behind the chair, found its mate near the bed, and added them to the suitcase. How could a woman with so much energy and a successful business be such chaos? Stupid question, Garrett. Because that much energy couldn’t be contained.
“One more thing.” I lowered my voice, though Grace didn’t seem to be registering anything at all. “We’re heading to Zurich.”
“Zurich?”
“I know, I know.” I’d been telling Grace she needed to slow down and let me check things out before she moved, and now I was the one leaping before I looked. “Dmitry’s arranged for us to meet Henri Dubois.”
“I don’t like how fast things are changing.”
“Me, either, but if Kessler’s on the hunt for Grace or the egg, the farther we get from where he found us in London, the better.”
“True, but—” The keyboard noises picked up on Arthur’s end, then paused. “Morganna’s sent through intel on Dubois. He’s a competing claimant for Romanov pieces, not just the egg. His fortune was funded by pieces his family sold off over the past several decades.”
Shit. “That means Kessler probably knows about him.”
“Possible. If Morganna sends me anything else, I’ll be in touch.”
“Thanks.”
“What’s your read on this Dmitry guy?”
“Jean trusts him, and the story checks out.” I peeked inside Grace’s toiletry bag, which didn’t seem to be missing anything. “We don’t have a lot of options.”
“Call me when you get there. And Galahad?” Arthur paused. “Be careful.”
“Always, brother.” I ended the call and pocketed the phone.
Grace still hadn’t moved.
“Arthur confirmed Dmitry’s legitimate,” I told her. “Licensed PI, solid reputation.”
Nothing.
“Conrad Richter works for a man named Werner Kessler, who is an obsessive collector. Everything from Dmitry’s story checks out.” I zipped her toiletry bag and added it to the suitcase. “The bad news is that Richter’s his fixer and doesn’t sound like a nice guy.”
She blinked. Slowly. Like she was surfacing from a deep sleep.
“Grace.”
Her eyes found mine. Green and lost and somewhere far away.
Don’t do this, Garrett. Don’t get involved. She’s a job.
I crossed to her. Took her by the upper arms. Her breathing accelerated, and I could feel the faint tremor running through her.
Walk away. Tell her to pack. Keep your distance.
Instead, I leaned in until my face was no more than a foot from hers. Close enough to notice the nearly invisible freckle on her left cheek. The dampness gathering at the corners of her eyes. The way her lips parted slightly as she looked at me.
Brain chemistry. That’s all this is.
“I’m going to protect you,” I said. “No matter what happens.”
She sucked in her bottom lip, worrying it back and forth.
“But I need you to hold on, Grace. Just a little longer.” I held her gaze, willing her to hear me. To come back from wherever she’d gone. “Can you do that?”
For a long moment, she didn’t answer. Just stared at me with those green eyes that kept finding their way into my brain no matter how hard I tried to keep them out.
Then the fog lifted a fraction. She nodded. “I can do that.”
I should have let go. Should have stepped back, finished packing, gotten us moving.
But I held on for another beat.
Fuck. Don’t hug her again.
I released her and turned back to the suitcase. “Good. We leave in ten minutes.”
Outside her room, the cottage was a flurry of motion.
Jean emerged with a small leather bag—heading to Lyon, he said, to stay with an old colleague from his academic days.
Dmitry was on the phone in the main room, speaking German.
Too bad I only knew enough of the language to order food and tell someone to fuck off.
I secured the egg in my travel pack and slung it across my body.
Checked the windows out of habit. Ran through exit routes, contingencies, worst-case scenarios.
There was no reason to believe Conrad Richter was on his way to Jean’s at this moment, but there was no reason to assume we were safe, either.
“Henri’s bought your train tickets,” Dmitry announced when he hung up. “He’s very excited to meet you.”
Jean kissed Grace on both cheeks, his hands gentle on her shoulders. “Take care of the egg, ma chérie.” His eyes crinkled. “And take care of the stubborn man with you.”
She nodded and said, “I’ll try.”
Jean threw his arms around me next. His grip was strong, and he clapped my back hard. When we separated, he gave me a wry smile. “My life was getting far too boring, Galahad. I appreciate the opportunity for another adventure.”
“Be safe.”
“Always.” He picked up his bag, and we were all moving.
Jean locked the cottage behind us and left in his old Citro?n.
Dmitry took his car alone. I wasn’t ready to trust the Russian with Grace’s life, whether or not he was a confirmed PI, so we took the rental we’d arrived in, intending to meet him at the train station.
Grace stared out the window for the entire hour to Paris, watching vineyards and stone walls blur past. She didn’t speak. Neither did I.
Just hold on, Grace.
I kept checking the mirrors. Kept running scenarios. Kept not thinking about the way she’d looked at me in the bedroom, like I was the only solid thing in a world that was falling apart around her.
She’s a job, Garrett. Remember that. You’ve protected beautiful women before. She’s no different.
Except, for fuck’s sake, she was.
Gare de Lyon was the exact kind of chaos I preferred when I was trying to put distance between myself and anything.
Crowds and announcements, lines that gave me time to scan our surroundings, and always Grace by my side.
I kept my hand on her elbow, steering her through the terminal.
She moved where I guided her, compliant in a way that worried me more than resistance would have.
What had been the final straw to sap the joy out of her?
It doesn’t matter. Get to the train.
The train was similar to the one we’d taken to Paris, with two seats on one side of the aisle and one on the other.
I let Grace take the window seat and positioned myself on the aisle, between her and anyone approaching from inside the car.
Dmitry sat across the aisle from us, already pulling out his phone.
Paris slid away. Suburbs gave way to countryside—green fields, farmhouses, and the occasional chateau rising from the hills.
And still, Ms. Sunshine said nothing.
She stared out the window while I watched the other passengers. An older couple three rows up. A businessman with a laptop. A woman with young kids who’d clearly had too much sugar and were screaming for a movie.
None of them pinged my threat assessment. But I remained on high alert anyway.
“When we arrive,” Dmitry said, leaning across the aisle, “I have a rental car booked and will drive us to the hotel where Henri is staying. He’s secured us rooms for tonight.”
“What’s he going to do with the egg if Grace gives it to him? If you suspect Kessler’s after us, what’s to stop him from going after Henri?”
“He has resources.” Dmitry shrugged. “We’ll figure out the details once we’re there.”
Not much of an answer.
Dmitry settled into his seat and closed his eyes for a nap. I kept my attention on the car, but my peripheral vision stayed locked on Grace.
She was fading. The brightness that radiated from her was dimming in real time.
Her shoulders had curved inward. Her hands lay still in her lap instead of gesturing, fidgeting, reaching for things the way they usually did.
She hadn’t even opened one of her romance novels since at least this morning.
The woman who’d apparently inspired so much in her life may as well have been a stranger. And now Grace was on a train to Zurich with a Russian man who knew more about her grandmother than she did.
And with me. A man who’d kissed her and then claimed it hadn’t meant anything.
It didn’t mean anything. It was brain chemistry. Proximity and danger and?—
She sniffled.
Fuck.
Without moving my head, I shifted my gaze to see her. Her eyes were glistening. She blinked. Once. Twice. Her jaw tightened as she turned fully toward the window to hide it. But it was dark outside, and the window reflected everything I needed to see. Tears.
She wiped them away quickly. Sniffled quietly.
And finally her shoulders shuddered.
“Don’t cry,” I said.
Brilliant, Garrett. Really fucking helpful.
She nodded. Pressed her lips together. Trying to be brave, trying to hold on like I’d told her to. But I leaned forward and faced her—stupid mistake. Her tears kept coming, sliding down her cheeks faster than she could wipe them. Her breath hitched once, then again.
She’ll be fine.
She definitely was not going to be fine.
I lifted the armrest between us.
That’s a mistake, Garrett. You’ll regret this.
Past her in the window, I checked Dmitry’s reflection. His jaw was slack, either asleep or putting on a good show.
Who cares if he sees this?
I put my arm around her shoulders and pulled her against my side.
She stiffened for half a second. Then she turned toward me, her face pressing into my shoulder, and the dam broke. She cried. Oh my fuck, but she cried. She tried to muffle the sobs against my shirt, but her whole body trembled as her tears kept falling.
My other hand moved to her head and stroked her hair without my permission.
You’re supposed to be protecting her, not?—
Not what? Comforting her? Being human?
Last night she’d tried to do this for me. Tried to hold me, to be there for me when I’d cracked open and shown her something I’d never shown anyone. And what did I do? I ran. Walked out of that room like the coward I was.
But she hadn’t run after I’d told her about my mother.
She’d stayed. She’d kissed me anyway. And now she was falling apart in my arms, and I couldn’t make myself let go.
A small sound escaped her, half sob and half something else—almost a laugh.
I didn’t ask what was funny or ironic or whatever had caused that strangled sound.
I just held her tighter.