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Royce nodded. “I haven’t been there in over twenty years, but yes.”
Wow. Marc had a hard time computing that. “What does he want you to get for him?”
“That’s where it gets weird.” Royce started to step away, but Marc held on to his arms. He nodded and put his hands back on Marc’s thighs, his thumbs rubbing the sensitive inner surface. “He saw the fake articles Quinn put out about you and me, and he knows who you are. Seems he’s an art collector.”
“Art? But that’s good. I can get him that.”
“Not the kind he’s asking for.”
He wrinkled his brow. “I don’t understand.”
“He wants something rare. Something priceless. Something that wouldn’t normally be in your gallery. A piece worth up to 150 million dollars. You know of anything like that?”
The cold terror that shot through Marc was so painful, he went completely still. His heartbeat began to race so hard and fast, it filled his ears. He nodded and closed his eyes. “Yeah,” he whispered. “I think I do.”Chapter Twelve1:47
It was as if the harsh, red numbers on his alarm were glaring at him. Marc couldn’t sleep. He’d lain there for a few hours, trying to settle his brain, but his thoughts kept churning in useless circles. He’d told Royce that he’d be able to save his mother, get her free of his uncle, and he did have a plan, but it was risky. Too damn risky.
What if he wasn’t good enough? What if there was a flaw to his plan that he didn’t foresee?
It would possibly get Royce killed or thrown in jail. And what did he know? He knew art. As Richard liked to put it, he liked to schmooze. He knew how to work a room, ease the fears of an artist, and get a client to crack open his wallet. Those were the useless skills he had. What the fuck did he know about breaking into someone’s house and stealing a painting? Because that was exactly what he was proposing.
He couldn’t just stand by and do nothing. He’d seen it when Royce spoke of his mother, the ever-so-gentle softening in his hard eyes. The slump in his shoulders. Royce needed his mother. She was the only family that he had left. Well, family worth anything, from the sound of it. He still couldn’t believe Royce came from the Karras family. He’d seen stories about them in the news. Frightening ones.
Sighing softly, Marc lay listening to Royce’s steady breathing, occasionally cresting into a light snore before dropping off again. For the first time, he’d stretched out next to Marc in his bed, but he’d only drifted to sleep a few minutes earlier. Royce deserved to have a few blissful moments where he wasn’t torn apart by rage and worry.
Carefully, Marc slid out from under the covers and pulled on a pair of soft sleep pants before padding soundlessly out of the room.
He needed to think, and there was only one thing that he could do that would clear his head enough to come up with a viable solution to Royce’s problem that would keep him safe, get his uncle the painting, and his mother free.
The stone floor of the kitchen was cold under his bare feet, but it didn’t slow his steps. He welcomed the cold. Let it sink straight into his bones and wrap around his heart. Maybe it would keep him from feeling anything for Royce. Or at least keep him from hurting when Royce decided to walk away from him. Dominic’s warning made it perfectly clear that Royce wouldn’t be interested in dating when their time was up. For now, he was a job and a willing body.
Very fucking willing.
Each winding step he climbed worked its magic, closing the doors in his brain, so that thoughts of Royce and his own insecurities were locked out. By the time he reached the back of the house to the one room he’d kept hidden from Royce over the past two weeks, he was burning with purpose. He hadn’t been able to even think about the room over the past few months, but tonight the contents were like a siren song, beckoning him. There was a buzzing along his muscles and a restless twitch in his fingers that kept building until he was sure he would climb out of his own skin.
A paintbrush in his fingers, colors spread across his palette, and he’d feel better. The air would flow back into his lungs, and the pressure on his thoughts would ease enough that he’d be able to come up with a viable plan.
“Fuck,” he said when he flipped on the overhead light.
The room was in total chaos.
When Lilah had asked to live in the guest house, he’d been forced to quickly move out all his supplies in one afternoon. He’d been using that building as his private studio. There he’d been able to spread his paintings, sculptures, and various supplies around.
