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“Eventually I would have noticed the priceless artwork dotting our house,” I point out.
“Well, no,” she says, shaking her head. “Everything will have to stay under lock and key. None of these were acquired legally and an art expert might recognize some of them. We can never show these to anyone.”
Explosions of anxiety are going off in her head as her mind races to come up with a plan, her fear that I might judge her mother nearly overwhelming her. Turning her to me, I massage her shoulders. “I can feel your worry, my love, and it’s unnecessary. We’ll move the pieces to our home today and then we can decide what we want to do after that.”
She takes a breath, her shoulders relaxing. “I was thinking a temperature-controlled room in the basement. One we can easily hide from snoopy guests.”
I think about it, then say, “The castle in Wolf-Haven is another option. The library, archives and crown rooms are all temperature-controlled. And the shifters won’t care how the artwork was acquired. Hell, you can even display a few pieces around the castle if you like.”
Peeking into her thoughts, I see vivid images of her decorating the castle with her mother’s beloved pieces. The idea is appealing to her, but she wants the artwork to stay close so she can see it and touch it any time she wants.
“We can figure it out later,” I reassure her. “For now, tell me what to do. I’m guessing we need to move these crates without drawing notice?”
A few hours later, we’ve moved all the crates into the moving truck and secured them with straps.
“How did you move all this stuff in here in the first place?” I ask, using my sleeve to wipe the sweat dripping into my eyes. “Some of it weighs more than you do.”
“Pulleys and straps.” She slams the back doors of the truck closed and latches them.
I stalk towards her, backing her into the truck where I cage her in my arms. “I can’t decide if you’re a very determined human or a crazy one.”
“Both,” she says breathily.
“Either way, you’re fun to hang out with.” I kiss her nose, then her forehead. “A few months ago, I wouldn’t have imagined I’d be spending a Thursday afternoon moving the stolen artwork of Elizabeth Bedalia into the mansion I now share with my soon-to-be super famous wife.”
Grinning, she runs her finger down my chest. “And I wouldn’t have imagined I’d be spending a Thursday afternoon in an industrial lot with my sweaty wolf mate husband.”
“Who’re you calling sweaty?” I pick her up in my arms, crushing her to me and wiping my musk all over her. My wolf is leaping for joy, urging me to claim her too.
Laughing, she bats me away. “Let’s get out of here.”
Grabbing her arm, I push her toward the passenger side. “I’m driving.”
She dances away from me. “Not without the keys.”
I hold up my hand, the keys dangling from my fingertips. Gasping, she searches her pockets. “You sneaky thief!”
“Takes the child of one to know one.” I stride around the truck and climb into the driver’s seat, leaving her to take the passenger seat.
“I’m not a bad driver,” she mutters, buckling up. I’m not sorry he’s driving though. He’s a cautious driver and will get my precious goods home in excellent condition.
I hide my knowing grin in a shoulder check before pulling out onto the road.
After we arrive at the mansion, we carefully move the artwork indoors, storing it in a basement room, tucked away from curious houseguests.
“We’ll get a secure lock on the door until you decide what you want to do with it.” I crack open one of the crates and carefully lift out a painting, setting it against the wall. “I think we should unpack everything.”
She tilts her head as she examines the painting. “We really shouldn’t. They’re safer packed away until we can install a proper temperature-control, moisture-control system in the room.”
Crouching in front of the painting, I ask, “You want to keep this in a crate?” It really is quite beautiful. “The subject reminds me of the South African lioness queen.”
She sits on the carpet next to me, running her fingers lovingly over the regal woman depicted on the canvass. “She really is stunning. Maybe she can stay out.”
“Who created her?” I settle on the carpet next to her, massaging her lower back as we peruse the painting.
“Gerard Sekoto,” she answers. “He was famous for his depictions of rural South African community and the racial tensions of apartheid. He was one of South Africa’s most important modernists and social realists.”
“How much is it worth?”
