She tried to text Rudy, but her brain kept tripping up, her hands shaking, the gloves making it all the more difficult. She needed to get out of there, get some air, and get her head on straight.
Because after tonight, everything was going to change.
* * *
Out beyond the Hudson, the rolling hills of the Catskills turned lavender beneath a curtain of mist and moonlight, an ethereal sight that only made Charley feel more alone, more confused. She’d wandered out to the gardens, trying to decide how to tell Rudy about the painting, but now that the cool night air had cleared her head, she was rethinking it.
Rudy had always believed Charley’s father had double-crossed them. He and the others had agreed they couldn’t waste precious resources seeking vengeance for a man who’d betrayed his crew, no matter that the man was their own flesh and blood. As far as Rudy was concerned, it was a business decision, plain and simple. She didn’t have to like it, but she had to live with it.
Now, Charley leaned against a maple tree at the edge of the garden, its leaves shivering in the breeze, and closed her eyes.
What the hell should I do?
Rudy was hell-bent on stealing the artwork in this house. It was worth a fortune—probably the biggest score the crew had ever attempted. If he discovered the painting and anything else from the missing cache, he’d likely fence it, no love lost. Charley could try to reason with him, but in the end, he’d just tell her to let it go. To move on.
And after five agonizing years, the only piece of evidence in her father’s murder would vanish again.
No.She couldn’t let that happen. If Charley was going to trace that painting back to her father—to whoever killed him—she needed to do it alone.
And that meant going back inside, finishing the job Rudy had sent her here to do, and coming up with a solid plan before he and Travis made their next move.
She’d just decided to head back to the event when she was unexpectedly corralled against the tree, strong arms encircling her from behind, a dark command whispered hotly in her ear.
“Come with me. Don’t make a sound.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
The New York art scene was small and incestuous, Dorian reminded himself. It wasn’t out of the realm of possibility for Charlotte to be here. A coincidence, yes—but not impossible. She seemed intimately familiar with the inner workings of the art world; perhaps she’d heard about the fundraiser and decided to attend. Perhaps she was a companion to one of his guests. Or maybe she was employed by the museum—shedidtell him she had a work event tonight.
You’re a fool, Redthorne. A bloody fool.
No matter his justifications—his hopes—Dorian could no longer deny the fact that she was dodgy. He’d followed her out to the gardens with every intention of confronting her about it too. But by the time he’d gotten her into the guesthouse, his priorities had changed.
Outside the nonstop fantasy streaming through his mind, he hadn’t seen her in days, and his memory was a poor substitute for the real thing. Her black dress clung to her curves, long hair hanging in loose waves over her shoulders, dark red lips damn near hypnotizing him.
And the gloves? Devastating.
An awkward silence crept in.
“You look stunning,” he finally said.
“You’re not so bad yourself, Mr. Redthorne.” Her gaze trailed down to his feet, then back up, her smile devious. “The tux suits you.”
“Really? I bloody hate it.” He loosened his bowtie, unbuttoning the top two buttons on his shirt.
Charlotte smiled again but didn’t say anything else. He hadn’t yet turned on the interior lights, and in the dim, moonlit entryway he couldn’t quite read her expression, though she’d come with him willingly after the garden ambush—almost eagerly. Still, her heartbeat was erratic now, and she hadn’t uttered more than a surprised greeting in the gardens, offering no explanation for her presence at his fundraiser, or—more importantly—for why she’d been sneaking around upstairs.
He hadn’t asked about that yet. Part of him was afraid of the answer—afraid he’d have no choice but to send her away for good.
Or worse.
Whowasthis woman?
Was she somehow connected to Duchanes? They’d both been at the Salvatore auction as well, but… no. Charlotte had seemed genuinely afraid of the vampire when Dorian had found them in the bedroom that night.
Had Armitage sent her to spy? To unearth secrets more desperate and depraved than the truths that had left the Redthornes unallied and witch-less?
Dorian took a breath, steadying his nerves. Ravenswood held only one dark secret, and right now, that secret was secured in the crypts, undeciphered from the mountains of journals his father had left behind.
