Page 178 of Nobody Told Me Thrift Shops Sell Stolen Dragon Heirlooms

I stared at the screen.

Somewhere in the sensible part of my mind, a tiny lawyer began screaming.

But the rest of me, the part still warmed by ramen and the possibility of finishing what Rafe had spent years trying to restore, smiled so hard my cheeks hurt.

I forwarded the email to Rafe.

Good news: I rested aggressively near my laptop and accidentally got us a meeting.

His response came thirty seconds later.

Rafe: Quinn.

I smiled at the phone.

“Yes,” I told Max. “He is absolutely doing the face.”

24

QUINN

A DOGGY BAG FULL OF COAL

Dimitris Burelian’s estate looked less like a house and more like a very expensive argument for why one man should not be allowed unlimited money and several lifetimes to spend it.

It sat behind iron gates on a private road that curved through acres of manicured green, the house itself all pale stone, tall windows, and terraces designed for people who had never carried a laundry basket up four flights of stairs. Two fountains flanked the drive. One had actual fire in it.

“Subtle,” I murmured.

Rafe stood beside me, one hand resting near Max’s leash, his face unreadable in the way that meant he was reading everything. “Phoenixes are rarely subtle.”

“I’m getting that.”

Max leaned against my leg, restored to full dignity after two days of enforced sickroom quiet and one highly supervised block walk. I’d brought him because he was an excellent icebreaker, and because leaving him out of our legal strategy felt rude. Also, if I was going to meet an ancient phoenix collector who had apparently been sitting on Rafe’s family incense burner and smiling about it on television, I wanted my dog for emotional support.

The front doors opened before we reached them.

Dimitris stood at the top of the steps in his younger form, wearing a cerulean suit and the kind of smile that made me understand why people in fairy tales accepted obviously cursed invitations.

He was beautiful in a curated way. Golden skin, dark hair brushed back from his face, eyes bright enough to suggest warmth and old enough to suggest he knew exactly how many people had mistaken warmth for safety. At the auction, his old form had felt like a performance of harmlessness. This was vanity.

“Rafael,” he said, delighted. “Ms. Bradley. And the famous dog.”

Max sat.

Dimitris placed a hand over his heart. “Already judging me. I adore him.”

“He has good instincts,” Rafe said.

“And you have brought them into my home. Very brave of you.”

“I was under the impression you invited us.”

“To discuss an object, yes.” Dimitris descended the steps, gaze sliding to me with cheerful mischief. “Not to wound me with judgment before lunch.”

“I can take him back to the car,” I said.

Dimitris looked genuinely appalled. “Absolutely not. He is the best-dressed person here.”