Laughing. Flirting. Calculating how to manipulate the situation to her benefit,my dragon grumbled.
And Baumann was eating it up. Clearly, he was one of those men who only considered his own power and ambitions. Hemight recognize potential threats from other men, but women were mere objects, and definitely not rivals.
He ought to have been on guard, though, and not just against Celeste’s seductive charms. Every move she made, every word she uttered, was calculated. But what was her goal?
I checked my watch for the tenth time. Still no sight of Mina or Henrik, and not a peep from Roux. I tugged on my collar and stared at the hallway Mina had disappeared down. What was taking so long, dammit?
Chapter Twenty-Four
MINA
Stepping into the library, we traded the breezy, bustling reception rooms for a quiet, stuffy space. I glanced around nervously. Other than a narrow rear hallway leading to a toilet and an office, there was nowhere to run. Not even a window, at least not in this room.
Not here to run,I reminded myself.It’s time to find that painting.
First, though, I had to check that our intel was correct — right down to the dumbwaiter in the corner of the adjoining office. A peek down the connecting hallway told me,Bingo.
I looked away quickly.
Dobrov made a sweeping gesture. “Apologies. I’ve only unpacked the smaller pieces so far…”
I stared. Was that an Olmec mask? And that jade carving…
“Qing dynasty,” Dobrov said as one of his prospective buyers inspected it.
“Lovely,” the man murmured, while another reached into a crate and pulled out a long, thin object.
“Now, be careful, Rodrigo,” Dobrov joked as the man carefully unwrapped it.
The man whistled. “Is this what I think it is?”
Dobrov nodded smugly. “Sixteenth-century Ottoman scimitar with jeweled scabbard.”
It was amazing and probably worth a fortune if it was the real deal. Hell, even a modern replica would cost a pretty penny.
Henrik turned back to the door. “Not what I’m looking for.”
Maybe not, but I sure was mesmerized.
Dobrov darted in front of Henrik and motioned to the left. “Allow me to direct you this way. Might a Monet be of interest?”
I nearly gave myself whiplash. Monet?
Henrik followed him reluctantly, like a man too polite to turn down an invitation to a friend’s kid’s third-grade musical recital. Except Henrik wasn’t polite, and he didn’t have friends. Not from what I’d witnessed anyway.
“Closer to your taste?” Dobrov asked.
Henrik cocked his head, not too inspired. “Perhaps.”
My eyes just about popped out of my head. The painting propped against the wall on a table there looked a hell of a lot likeThaw, one of the artworks on my father’s list of lost masterpieces.
“And the provenance?” Henrik asked, barely looking at the painting.
I was all ears. Without provenance — proof of an artwork’s origin and legitimate transfer from owner to owner over the years — an artwork couldn’t be considered genuine.
Like that Monet, I quickly decided. The signature looked good, but it was over in the left corner instead of Monet’s preferred right, and the brushstrokes were a little too blurred to have stemmed from Monet’s hand. Probably a forgery — to my eye, at least.
Dobrov pointed to the signature, then pulled an envelope from behind the frame. “You’ll find a full record here.”
