“Tarasov,” he says, looking over my shoulder.
I whirl to find the Russian mobster standing in the doorway. His smile is oil smeared over glass. “Please,” he says. “Do not allow me to interrupt a lover’s quarrel.”
Cole’s eyes flash with anger. I don’t know if that look is meant for Tarasov, for whatever they’re about to finalize in this meeting, or if it’s meant for me.
A hot flash of embarrassment ignites every inch of my flesh, and I know I’ve flushed bright red. The sensation, though, is immediately followed by a wash of glacier melt, the essence of the Cold Room, draining my blood from my veins.
My heart squeezes so hard in my chest that I whimper. Black fog rolls at the edge of my vision. The floor buckles as if an earthquake is tearing loose the luxury carpet, but I’m the only one who sways.
Cole takes a step toward me. “Kate,” he says.
“I’m fine.” I think I say the words. But maybe I only hear them in the depths of my brain. Maybe they’re too far away for me to ever say them out loud.
“Kate,” Cole says again, raising his hand to take my arm.
I pull away as if he’ll scorch me. Stumbling against the table, I bruise my thigh. Before I can register the dull ache, I reel into Tarasov’s side.
His body feels like it’s carved from breeze blocks. His breath stinks of onion. He starts to reach out, to steady me or something worse.
I was wrong to try this. I can’t stay. “I— I’ll be outside,” I say, and I stagger out the door.
Lurching down the hall, I find Alix about to enter another conference room. She looks up in surprise, and I know I must be moving too fast or swaying too much or making some other grave mistake. “Kate,” she says. “Are you?—”
But I don’t hear the end of her question. I throw myself across the lobby, out the door, and over the macadam of the car park. I don’t have the keys to the Mercedes. I can’t let myself into the car. But I can brace myself on the broad burgundy hood and wait to see if this is the moment my pounding heart explodes.
28
COLE
Icame to the freeport with two simple tasks: Hand off my Picasso to Tarasov and fleece his crew to raise money for my blackmailer. I’ve thought through every aspect of both transactions, measuring exactly what I need to say and how I need to act.
Nothing in those plans includes running after my wife, who is clearly slipping into some mental breakdown.
I’ve always known Kate can be unstable. We met when she threw wine in my face, and three hours later, I had her tied up in a hotel room, taking ten lashes from my belt. She’s volatile. Unbalanced. As capricious as a toddler.
But I’ve come to understand her since we married. When faced with the options of fight or flight, she goes all-out feral.
She needs me.
But I need to manage Tarasov more.
“Tarasov,” I say again, because the first time I said his name, it was a warning for my wife. Now, I’m launching a war.
“Wolf.”
I take a sheaf of papers from my breast pocket. My lawyer drew them up last week. They state that I received Picasso’sScreaming Woman at a Mirrorfrom Fiona Ingram for fair and just consideration, including the sum of one hundred and sixty million dollars. I’m delivering the same work to Tarasov for a dollar.
That’s the sum that keeps this transfer remotely legal. This document is the closest thing to a provenance Tarasov will ever see. I pass him the paper to read while I reach for a pen from the holder conveniently set beside the coffee.
For a heartbeat, I consider grasping the carafe, spinning around, and crashing the metal container against the Russian’s temple. If I place a truly lucky blow, I could kill him. I wonder what it would cost to get the freeport to clear away his body.
The moment passes.
I sign my name to three copies of the contract. Tarasov does the same. He pockets one set of papers. I take another. The third is for the freeport. They take one percent on all transactions taking place on their premises. I’ll hand Alix a penny before I leave.
“The painting’s in my gallery,” I say.
“Lead the way,” Tarasov says with a domineering sweep of his hand.
