Grace
He came for me.The words kept circling my brain as we climbed the cellar stairs. He actually came for me. The police had come and left, and no amount of screaming or smashing wine bottles or chairs against the walls had gotten their attention. But Garrett? My big, growly, impossible man had fought his way through a building full of armed guards and kicked in a door to get to me.
Well, he didn’t kick anything down. He ran through a door that was already open. But still, he’d run through it when it mattered.
At the top of the stairs, he raised his pistol, checked the corners, and angled his body to keep me behind him. He was moving stiffly, favoring his right side. He’d been bleeding from a gash on his forehead, so while he’d won the fight with Richter, he’d been hurt.
He got hurt foryou, Grace. And he hasn’t stopped.
“Where’s the rest of your team?” I whispered.
“Spread across the estate, keeping tabs on the guards we put down.” He didn’t turn around, just kept moving forward. “Which way to the egg?”
I pointed past his shoulder. “Left at the kitchen, down the corridor with the paintings, double doors at the end.”
Two hours ago, I’d walked these corridors as Kessler’s prisoner, counting guards. Now the guards were on the floor. The first one we passed was zip-tied at the wrists and ankles, gagged, and unconscious against the wall. A man I didn’t recognize stood over him with a very large weapon in hand.
The pair of guards at the base of the main staircase—the same ones who’d stood watching me when Richter had brought me down to meet Kessler—were awake, but bound, propped up against the wall. Another man who nodded to Garrett nudged one of them with a boot.
“You didn’t kill anyone.”
“That’s not what we do,” he said, still moving forward. “Unless we have no choice.”
The scale of it struck me all at once. These men had been standing, armed, and alert when I came through here the first time. And Garrett’s team had put every one of them on their ass without firing a shot. This was what he did. What he’d spent his adult life training to do. And tonight, he’d come here and done it for me.
For me. For little ol’ me. I wasn’t some fancy person who paid thousands of dollars a day for a security detail. I was a coffee shop owner. An awkward woman who loved romance novels, her family, and who was definitely not going to start crying. But I had to wipe away a tear that hadn’t gotten the memo.
I followed him toward the open double doors to the collection room.
Garrett went in first, sweeping the room from left to right. “Clear.”
He holstered his weapon. The cut and swelling on his forehead weren’t too bad, but when he pressed his hand against his side, it was clear how hurt he was. Richter must have knownprecisely where to hit him to avoid the plate carrier. Despite all of it, he smiled. Smiled. At me. And then he winked. “Pack it up, Grace.”
I was a pile of goo again.
How many times had he said that this past week? Finally, it wasn’t because we were running from the bad guys; it was because we were walking out the other side. What would happen between us once this was all over? Obviously we’d spend a few more days in bed, but would that be the end of it? Would he say goodbye and continue his trip toward DC and his original job offer?
Think about that later.
I crossed to the centerpiece and flipped the glass case’s lid open. First, I placed the golden hen with the sapphire in its beak inside the golden yolk, and snapped it closed.
“Are these photos of the grandmother?” Garrett tapped a finger on the glass of a nearby case. “The one responsible for all of this?”
“He offered me forty million for it.” I ran my thumb over the smooth enamel of the outer shell and looked at Garrett. “Your five or ten percent would have made you a wealthy man.”
His brows furrowed.
“That’s what you said on the plane. Instead of accepting a payment from Arthur, you’d take five or ten percent of whatever I get for the egg.”
“Yeah.” He stilled, his eyes no longer focused on the photos in the case. He turned slowly to face me, his mouth opening, but it took a beat before any words came. “About that. I was thinking?—”
The side door opened, and Garrett and I turned.
“Oh shit!” Dr. Brandon Caulfield stood in the doorway, carrying a pistol. His eyes were wide, and the gun jerked upward to point at me. “What are you doing here?”
Garrett’s hand moved toward his holster, but Caulfield aimed at him, the barrel shaking enough for me to see it.
Caulfield’s voice was too high, too quick, when he said, “Don’t! Hands up, please.”
