It was a command more than a request, but I still acquiesced. Let him think he had me cowed, that I'd fallen for his act. It would just make it that much easier for me to get what I needed from him.
“You're an art trader, right?” I crossed one leg over the other, gratified to see his eyes dropping to watch before moving back up to my face.
“I see my reputation precedes me.” He took a seat across from me.
“I do my homework,” I said easily. I wanted answers, but I knew I couldn't be impatient. This sort of thing needed finesse.
“I see.” He folded his hands over his knee.
His nails were short, manicured. This was a man who'd never done any sort of manual labor in his life. It made sense that he'd have others who'd do most of his work for him.
“Pray tell, how did my work history happen to fall into your purview?”
“I’m working a case, y–”
“Yes, I figured as much,” he cut me off.
I raised my eyebrow but didn’t bother to point out the interruption. Instead, I continued on as if he hadn’t spoken. “There was a robbery at the city’s art museum last week. We believe someone conned their way onto the staff to find any holes in their security setup, then exploited them to make off with a few priceless paintings.”
“Sounds like something out of a movie.” He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. “And this brought you to me?”
“Not directly,” I said. “Your name came up when we were investigating one of our suspects.”
“Oh?” He sounded surprised, but almost pleasantly so. Apparently, the idea of being connected to a criminal wasn't something that was going to provoke a response from him.
I kept my expression neutral as well. “Does the name Bron Du Murier mean anything to you?”
I had to give the man credit, he played it off perfectly. Head tilted, thoughtful expression. Just the right amount of pause before he answered, “Hmm, no, can’t say that I have. But I’m very active in the art scene, so my name in connection to a museum isn't that unexpected. Plus, I do charity work as well, so I meet a great deal of people. I’m terrible with names. I assume there's some sort of physical connection between this person you mentioned and myself, but I don't pretend to know what that might be.”
“Perhaps,” I said noncommittally. “Also, could be a false association due to the whole French thing.”
He chuckled slightly. “The French thing. I’ve never heard it described as such. Do you believe that all those with a French name must know each other? What nationality should I assume you know all of, Agent Melendez?”
He kept his voice calm and even, as if we'd been discussing the weather. Nothing rattled this guy.
“I'm sorry if that came across as a slight.” I gave him a charming smile, tried to play the dumb female card. I wasn't really the type that got away with it much, but I had the feeling Uaine was arrogant enough to fall for it. “I'm new at this job. Haven't quite gotten the hang of the right way to phrase things.”
There was a moment of silence before he spoke, “So you believe there's a connection between myself and this Du Murier? If said connection did exist, what do you believe it to be?”
I had to be careful here. He was fishing for information, but so was I. “As an art trader who has connections to the museum, I hoped that perhaps this con man may have met you, tried to play on a French connection, perhaps attempted to learn about the museum or some of the art work from you.”
It seemed as good a lie as any.
“Unfortunately, Agent Melendez, that was not the case.” He shook back his sleeve and looked at his watch.
A fucking expensive watch.
“And you've never heard the name in any art circles?” I pressed.
“No.” His voice was tight. “Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a board meeting for one of the charities I support.”
He stood, and I did the same. I looked down at him for a minute, trying to take in as much detail as I could, filing it all away for later perusal. He didn't blink, didn't twitch.
“The next time you'd like to speak with me, Miss Melendez, make an appointment.” He held out a business card, then motioned toward the door.
Our interview, it seemed, was over.
Chapter Eight
Bron
Heat enveloped me as I drove into the whimpering Angelina. We'd rendezvoused in the study again, and this time, I was in the chair, and she was on my lap, riding me like some sort of thoroughbred.
And I didn’t mind. Boy, did I not mind. She was slick and hot, and all the relief I was looking for.
I pressed my lips to the side of her neck, grazing her throat with my teeth. She let out a mewl and twisted her hips just right, sending a bolt of pleasure up my spine. Her breasts bounced with every move, nipples hard little points against my chest. I wished I could've felt more skin against skin, but at the moment, I was happy to see those gorgeous tits of hers and feel her pussy clamped down around me.
Like this, it was easy to forget the con and everything else I was running from.
It was easy to forget Bron Du Murier or any of the other aliases I'd used over the years. To forget the child I had been...and the girl I'd once loved.
I was just a man with a woman. Two consenting adults finding pleasure in each other’s bodies. It was natural, and primal, and ju–
“What the hell is going on in here?!”
Everything seemed to happen at once.
The light flicked on.
Angelina screamed...and I realized Leticia was standing in the doorway, her mouth open in shock.
Shit.
“Miss Leticia! I am sorry, I–” Angelina grabbed her shirt, pulling it together as she climbed off my lap, leaving my cock hard and throbbing, sticking up out of my pants.
Talk about blue balls.
“Get dressed, Angelina. I will have words with you later.” Leticia's voice was cold.
Angelina grabbed her pants and ran out, not even looking back at me. I scrambled to think of an excuse as I tucked myself back into my pants. I winced but didn't let it distract me. I needed to think. Normally, sleeping with the help was a faux pas, but not a con destroying one. Most artists were considered rakes to begin with. However, I was supposed to be gay. That was going to be a hard sell now that she'd caught me fucking her very female maid.
Come on, Bron. Think. Think.
I knew I could get through this. I just had to keep my cool. Maybe the same lie I'd given Angelina would work here too.
I tried to smooth my shirt down as I stood. “Please, Leticia, I can explain. I know my relationship with Claude made it seem as if I was gay, but I enjoy relationships with both men and–”
“I don’t want to hear it.” she snapped. “Get your things and get out of my house.”
My mind pin wheeled while I tried to recover. A gift perhaps? Nothing helped forgiveness along like a little material possession. After all, it wasn't like she was some spurred lover.
“Please, you’ve been so amazing to me. I’m sorry I ruined it, but let me give you a gift as a thank you. Please.”
She paused, lips pursed. This was obviously a woman who'd been screwed over in the past, and she wouldn’t take anything even resembling betrayal easily. I couldn’t believe I'd been so stupid, fucking up the con just to get my rocks off, but that was something I would have to berate myself for later. I needed to try to fix it first.
“Very well.” She nodded.
Relief rushed through me. Maybe it wasn't a lost cause after all. “Wait here, I’ll be right back.”
I rushed to the studio that I still hadn't finished setting up. I had to get back into Leticia’s good graces, or all of this would be in vain. Calming myself as best I could, I grabbed one of my boxes with the false bottoms and opened it. Grabbing the first canvas I could, I pulled it out and rushed back to Leticia.
“Here. My uncle gave me this when he passed away. I’d like you to have it. It would look lovely in your
home.” I didn't even know which one it was, but my forgeries were all excellent.
Her eyes softened as I handed the painting to her, but as she looked over it, her kind expression fell flat. Like she was…disappointed.
“Thank you,” she said stiffly. “Now please, go. Leave your address with security. They'll ship you your things.”
Son of a bitch.
The best thing I could do now was play the reprimanded puppy and try to get into her good graces a little later. Maybe after I found something better to give her. Clearly, she didn't appreciate my work. As much as I wanted to kick myself for messing this up, I could still bounce back if I played this right.
“I’m sorry, again,” I said as sincerely as I could. “Goodbye.”
“Goodbye.”
And with that, I walked out. Shirt untucked. Shoes untied.
And still with a fucking hard-on.
I looked out at the bright day, wondering how it had gone from so hopeful to utterly ruined. I'd never been so damn reckless. I needed to get my head on straight and fix this before my entire world came crashing down around me.
But I could hear the clock ticking toward the end of my freedom, and it was becoming nearly impossible to drown it out.
Chapter Nine
Karis
I walked into the station, ready for another day of digging into more endless dead ends. What I didn’t expect was for Benita to meet me just inside the door with a cup of coffee in hand.
“Perk up there, Rookie, we have a visitor.”
“What? Who?” I questioned, my mind filing through a thousand different possibilities in the split second between my questions and her answer.
“A rich white lady,” she said as we strode towards the interview room.
I blinked. Hadn't seen that coming. “And she’s ours why?”
“She’s here to report some sort of art fraud. I figure it's possible it's coincidence, but there's always the chance that the two are linked. She could lead us to...you-know-who.”
I raised an eyebrow. “You-know-who? Really? That’s the code we’re using now?”
“Shut up.”
We reached the door to the interview room, and she paused at the door.
“Remember, this could be nothing.”
I nodded. “But it could be something.”
Benita cracked a small smile. “Exactly.” She opened the door, and we both put on our professional faces. “After you.”
I walked in and looked over the woman calmly waiting for us to arrive. She was a fairly standard middle-aged woman. Curvaceous, with light brown hair that was just beginning to gray, teal eyes framed by gentle crow’s eyes and fine laugh lines. She had the grace and poise of someone who knew she was aging well, rather than trying to hold off the inevitable hands of time with surgeries and chemical addictions. She was also wearing the sort of clothes that told me she had money. A lot of it.
“Hello, Mrs. Backman,” Benita said amiably. “Thank you for waiting. I’m Agent Alverez, and this is my partner, Agent Melendez.”
The woman gave us each a polite nod, studying us with her sharp gaze. She was sharp as a tack, and more than comfortable being in charge of the approaching conversation even though she was in our territory. She was the sort of woman who was used to issuing commands and having them obeyed.
“I’m here to discuss forgery,” she said.
“That’s a pretty broad term,” I countered.
The corner of her lip went up in the smallest of smiles. “Art forgery, to be specific then, my dear. You see, I happened to run across a young man in a tough spot. He was an artist, and I could tell by his hands that he was the creative type. I was looking for a new innovator to sponsor, so I thought life had handed him to me in a stroke of fortune.”
“I’m guessing that fortune turned very fast?” Benita asked.
Mrs. Backman laughed. “He lasted less than a week.” She leaned forward, polite and in control mask slipping a bit in her disgust. “I found him during a very public breakup with his boyfriend and felt that, given his orientation, I was in no danger of him attempting to seduce me for money. However, after allowing him room in my home, I found him in a...delicate situation with my maid. In my study. It was not appreciated.”
“Rude,” I muttered. Benita raised her eyebrow, but didn't interrupt when I continued, “But not exactly a crime unless the encounter wasn't consensual.”
“I am aware of what is an illegal act or not.” Leticia sat back, once more completely put together. “I only wished him off my property at first. It wasn’t until he gave me a gift to apologize that I knew that it was beyond a mere social indiscretion.”
She placed a rolled piece of canvas on the table between us. With another look of distaste, Leticia slid it across the table.
“I knew it was a fake almost instantly. My cousin bought this exact painting three years ago, and I know for a fact that it had been authenticated. I saw her recently, and she spoke of it. Since it has been in a private collection, perhaps he thought I could be fooled. I'm happy to provide you with my cousin's contact information so you can confirm it yourself.”
Benita glanced at me and then asked the question I really didn't want to know the answer to. “Do you have a description of this gentleman?”
She nodded, her perfectly coiffed hair barely moving atop her head. “Late twenties. Very tall, well over six feet. Bronze hair. Beautiful blue eyes. I remember thinking it was a shame he batted for the other team.”
Fuck. That was Bron. There was no way we had two people with that description who were both involved in art scams.
My stomach twisted.
“Is there any chance you know where he would go?” Benita asked.
A shake of her head. “No. However, the driver I hired to help him move his things to the studio knows where his supposed ex-boyfriend lives.”
Right. Ex-boyfriend.
Except he wasn't gay.
She'd caught him fucking her maid.
I tried to ignore the pain I felt. It wasn't a betrayal. We would've had to be together for that to be the case.
I needed to find him and get him out of my life, forever.
I looked at Benita. “Let’s go find out what his sweetheart has been up to.”
* * *
“I gotta say, this is the most fun I’ve ever had breaking the rules.”
I gave Benita a sidelong look as we got out of the car. “Like you've ever even bent a rule before.”
She shrugged. “Where else did you think I learned how to give Colman the run around without breaking a sweat.”
I grinned at her despite the ache still in my chest. “Remind me to ask you for pointers when this is all over.”
“Sure, if we still have our badges.”
A short, dry bark of a laugh escaped my throat. Banter now over, we looked at the small house on the outskirts of the city. We'd done our research on it before coming out. Leticia's driver had given us the address, and a quick internet search revealed that it once belonged to one Maribella Iacabucci, who'd willed it to her daughter Rachel upon her death. Rachel Iacabucci hadn't been seen in years, but her name was still on the deed. She did, however, have a son named Blake McDougall, who'd gotten into a few scuffles in the past.
Leticia had no trouble identifying Bron's “boyfriend.”
I knocked on the door before I could let myself think too much about Bron's...relationships. I heard a bit of shuffling inside, and then heavy steps approaching. I tensed and could feel Benita readying herself as well. But as prepared as we were, neither of us expected the mountain that answered. His picture and stats hadn't really done him justice.
He made me feel small, and that was something that I wasn't used to experiencing.
“Hello?” He looked like we'd woken him up even though it was a little past noon.
I flashed my badge. “Federal Agents Alverez and Melendez. May we come in?”
“No.” His voice was flat, almost completely dev
oid of emotion.
“Okay. Well, then would you mind coming out and speaking with us?”
“Yes.”
I bristled, but Benita just laughed dryly. “Listen, big guy, this is how it’s gonna go. We’re not here to bust your chops or anything like that. We just want to ask you a few questions about your ex-lover boy who tried to con the wrong woman. Now, you can invite us in, give us something to drink like the gentleman I know you are, answer a couple questions, and we’ll be on our way. Or you can force us to go get a warrant, and we can come back here all official-like. Of course, if we do that, there’s no telling what we might find, or how annoyed we'll be. Is there?”
To his credit, his expression barely changed as he silently regarded us. Seconds ticked by, and then he opened the door to its fullest and stepped back.
“Wipe your feet,” he said gruffly as we stepped past him.
I was almost surprised to see the very neat and well-lit interior. Apparently, I needed to work on my stereotypes.
“You can have a seat if you'd like,” he said, gesturing to a couch loaded with throw pillows. I noted that he offered us the seat, as opposed to how Uaine had blatantly told me to sit down. For some reason, even though he was far more physically intimidating than Uaine, his behavior made me relax slightly. Even if he did look like hired muscle.
Hired muscle who had a toasted vanilla air freshener plugged into the outlet next to the couch.
Maybe I should get him to come and make my sparse apartment more homey.
“I have water bottles, beer, and passion fruit juice.”
I was surprised he actually thought Benita was serious about the drinks part, but we rolled with it. It'd already been a long morning.
“Water, please,” I said.
“I’ll try that passion fruit stuff. Sounds yummy.”
He nodded and lumbered to his kitchen.
Actually, lumbered was the wrong word. The guy moved concisely and efficiently, despite his looming size. More surprises.