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But seeing art through his eyes these last few days has helped me discover a deeper layer to this thing I do for a living.
My gaze falls on my Seurat, safely returned to the wall above my bed. The relief of having my nest egg back where it belongs is enhanced by my new knowledge that the artist had died at the age of only thirty-one, not much older than I am now. Not only had Atlas rattled off an entire biography of his life and how his paintings had differed from others of his era, but he’d done the same for each and every piece we’d discussed—dozens of them. In contrast, the only consideration I usually make when deciding which jobs I’ll take is how much money the piece will bring with my underground buyers.
Not Atlas. He loves to learn the entire history of the creation and unbelievably, told me he’s turned down lucrative jobs simply because he didn’t deem the buyer worthy of the gift of the amazing artwork in question.
I know I don’t have time, but just thinking about him makes it impossible to resist standing and going out to my living room. I stand facing the wall where previously my hundred-dollar knockoff of Paris Street, Rainy Day by the artist Gustave Caillebotte had been. Now, impossibly, hangs another painting by the same nineteenth century artist, only this one is authentic.
Atlas had taken a worthless piece and replaced it with a true treasure worth an estimated million dollars or more, proving the man is not only dangerous, but insane.
It had been hanging on my wall last night, waiting for me to return from my disastrous meeting with Omar when I’d told the Moroccan I’m not taking the casino job. I shiver, remembering his angry threats when I’d backed out. My refusal to take the job has made me his enemy for sure, and it doesn’t sit well with me that this enemy knows where I live.
And as lucrative as the casino job might have sounded, in the end, I can admit Atlas had been right to turn it down. Tonight’s gala heist won’t have the same kind of payout, especially since I’ll be splitting profits with Atlas, but at least I have a high probability of coming through the job unscathed.
My thoughts return to the priceless work in front of me. I should return the painting. It’s not mine. I didn’t earn it. Hell, I didn’t even steal it, but I loved it already. Not only for its own beauty and rich history, but more importantly, because Atlas gave it to me. In some weird way, I know him gifting me a piece of priceless art is his fucked-up version of roses and chocolates, and the fact that I recognize that makes me giddy.
I don’t normally do giddy.
My phone ringing back in my bedroom reminds me that I don’t have time to sit around and daydream like a schoolgirl. I see Mia’s face on my screen. I haven’t spoken to her in days and don’t really have time to chat now, but I answer at the last second.
“Hey there.”
“There you are. What’s been going on?” Mia asks.
I shouldn’t have answered.
“I’ve been super busy this week.” I leave off the avoiding you.
Unaware of my growing anxiety, she continues on. “I sure as hell hope you haven’t been busy working on the Jar Omar job.”
Oh good, a different distraction. “No, I finally told him I was backing out. He is definitely not happy with me. I hate that he called me unprofessional, but it can’t be helped.”
“Yeah, well better unprofessional than dead.”
“True facts,” I say, reaching to take my new ball gown off the hanger to get dressed and get the hell out of here.
Knowing I need to leave, I start to say my goodbyes. “Listen—”
She cuts me off.
“I got a line on a lucrative estate sale happening out in the Hamptons in two weeks. I’m familiar with the auction house hosting the three-day event. Not only do they only take the highest end jobs, but they are notorious for having lax security.
“I’ve been studying the inventory online and there are several pieces that could bring a good profit for us. Why don’t I pick up a pizza and head over to your place and we can talk through the details?”
Shit. Shit. Shit.
“Em… I can’t tonight. Maybe tomorrow,” I hedge.
“What, you have a hot date tonight?”
She chuckles as if she’s told a joke. She knows I don’t do the whole dating thing, which only makes me that much more uncomfortable since on some weird level, going to the gala tonight with Atlas does feel like a date. I may tell myself a hundred times that it’s just a job, but the reflection of the woman looking back at me from the mirror is calling me a liar.
