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Until this point, I hadn’t really thought about what more I could want. Hans? Good-natured, good-looking, and fun to be around. There was only one thing he’d been missing. I hadn’t known sex was so important, but I would never be ashamed of that fact.
“Lizzy.”
I glanced up as Anderson waved to gain my attention. “Sorry, I was thinking.”
“I think your paintings are here.”
Just as I was about to get to my feet in surprise, an email came in. “Give me a minute. I’ll meet you in the back.”
Anderson nodded and left, closing the door.
To: Elizabeth Monroe
From: Connor King
Subject: Apology?
I’ve just confirmed delivery to your place of business. However, if the artist had gotten your last message, I would imagine he’d tell me to void the contract I have. I’ll leave it up to you. Do you want me to send? BTW, you have one minute to reply.
My jaw possibly hit the floor as I checked the time on my computer. I couldn’t be sure if my time was up. How long had it taken me to read? Twenty seconds? More?
To: Connor King
From: Elizabeth Monroe
Subject: Asshole much?
I accept under protest. Original terms still stand. Send me the contract. You have thirty seconds to do so.
I chuckled, knowing the curse in the subject line wasn’t professional, but I didn’t care.
To: Elizabeth Monroe
From: Connor King
Subject: Quid pro quo
The signed contract is attached. I’ll forward financial information if you can manage to make a sale.
I closed the laptop, afraid I might type something else unladylike. As I got to my feet, my phone chimed. A quick check of the display showed it was my brother.
“Matty.”
“I don’t have a lot of time. I got your text.”
“Yeah, jackass. I’m worried. I haven’t heard from you in days.”
“I told you I might not be able to talk you for a while.”
I groaned. “A text or something?”
“I can’t leave a trail to you.”
“I can’t wonder if you’re dead?”
“I’m not dead. Things are coming together. I can’t say more.”
“Just text me you’re alive every few days. And you could also send something to Mom and Dad.”
“You, yes. Mom and Dad, no, and you know why?”
“I don’t. I hate this.”
“Look, I have to go and please trust me. I’m fine.”
Before I could ask more, he was gone. I wanted to go back to my computer and do what he suggested, but Anderson was waiting. I was worried, but I trusted my brother more than anyone in the world. He’d been doing this for years. Before I’d known it.
Reluctantly, I set down my phone and headed to the back while trying to put the fear for my brother’s life on hold. Knowing my assistant, he would have already locked the front door and put up the sign telling anyone wanting entrance to ring the bell.
By the time I’d gotten to the storage room, all the paintings were lined up on opposite walls. I sucked in air at the sheer majesty.
The art in the apartment was mostly landscapes and a few abstracts. I hadn’t been sure what to expect, but what I got was landscapes with a twist. In each, a subject faced away as if enjoying the view beyond.
I didn’t agree with Anderson’s take that the artist was sexually repressed. He—my assistant, that was—injected sex into almost everything. I did think the artist, with his short, almost angry strokes, felt unseen. None of the subjects were facing forward. I wasn’t a psychotherapist, though I had taken a few psychology classes in undergrad, but the landscapes were painted as if the artist was looking through a window. The ones with subjects, it was as if he was watching them without their knowledge or they didn’t notice him.
But the largest of the paintings didn’t have a landscape. In it, the woman was lying on a bed, tangled in sheets, and wasn’t looking in the direction of the artist.
“You have a winner here,” Anderson announced with glee.
I agreed. I couldn’t compare his paintings to Haven’s, but the detail from both was magnificent.
“These will work well with the headliners in the show. This one”—I pointed at the non-landscape painting— “we’ll put in the back. I don’t want it to compete with Haven’s work. But we should show it.”
As much as I wanted to hang them all, I had limited wall space, even with my floating walls. So after another look, I let Anderson know which paintings we would display for the show this weekend. Mentally, I roughly calculated the price I could sell them for. If all sold, for the first time in months, I could be in the black. My accountant would be happy.
As I walked to my office, feeling a smile grow, my phone signaled an incoming message.
Striker: Meet me tonight.
He sent the name and address of a place I’d never been to but had heard much about. Flame wasn’t far from here. I was no prude but had never had a desire to go to the exclusive club. I might have wondered how Striker could be a member, but at the bottom on the message, he’d indicated it was guest night.
