Dangerous Desires

by Siren, Tia

  I looked over the galleries and saw they were small and only had in-house art. Only a few originals. I had no idea which gallery it was. The pin points were all over the map. It only said that the money was coming specifically out of Brooklyn.

  “They have an exhibit coming up, and a shipment from Britain is expected. It’s the biggest buy out yet. And it is probably all they need to finish the job.” Marx added.

  I nodded in agreement. These guys meant business. I saw it in their cold eyes. Their last photographs were taken when they were still part of the Army, so I could only imagine what they looked like now. What they were planning? I hoped to never even find out.

  “We need to shut them down,” I said.

  “Exactly. Problem is figuring out who it is. Which is hard to do from here.”

  I nodded. Another assignment, and I was still jet-lagged from the last one.

  “So, once we touch down in England, we will get your affairs in order and send you over there. As always, no relationships beyond the work. You need to be focused on the job and nothing—no one else.”

  “Of course,” I nodded. He said that every time, since I took my first assignment ten years ago.

  I was fresh out of the Army. Had no work, and nowhere to go until I was recruited. I worked under Marx for about three years before he turned me loose. I hadn’t made any mistakes since.

  “Once we set everything up, you will be sent undercover.”

  There was no more discussion. For the rest of the flight, I learned the ins and outs of the new assignment. The curator involved was good enough to make these pieces look real. The hard part would be finding the gallery they sold to. They dealt in cash, making back alley exchanges. It would be hard, but wasn’t it always?

  Once we touched down, I was driven back to my penthouse in the city. I had spent maybe ten nights total here in the few years since I had bought the place. The agency had access of course, so the fridge was fully stocked. I made a simple dinner of chicken and vegetables. I was surprised I still knew how to work a television. The last assignment had me out in the slums, posing as a merchant to get closer to the tax collectors. They hadn’t been honest, and were using taxpayer dollars in their underground smuggling ring. Cars, government funds, anything they could get their hands on to make a fortune. I was there for seven months and finally made the break last week. Interpol took over, and I spent the night in the hotel. Cue the woman in my bed.

  It wasn’t that I didn’t want human contact, but it was a necessity. My first and only focus had to be the mission. I didn’t have another option.

  Tonight though, I rested. It wouldn’t take long to get affairs in order to go out on assignment. I was prepared to leave tomorrow evening.

  As I sat in my living room that I barely recognized, the loneliness took over. I lost my parents a long time ago, which was why I had to join the Army at only sixteen. I served four years, saw a lot of tough shit, and now I do the tough shit.

  Pretending got easier over the years. Lies were now completely interchangeable with the truth. But it kept people safe, kept empires from falling under innocent noses. It helped me sleep at night; with all the things I had to do. The things I had done. And would do again.

  2

  Eli

  The incessant ringing of my phone woke me up. Damn Headquarters already. It was barely seven in the morning, but I had to get up and pack. Word from command said I was taking off at noon, arriving in the States by eight. They set me up in a brownstone in the city, which fit since I was supposed to be posing as an art inspector. Attached to the message were also files to look over, and what the hell an art inspector actually does, which was good because I had no fucking clue.

  Usually I had a consultant on call, and they had his contact information in there too. I could call him if I ever needed to, which I probably would.

  I packed four suits, some shirts, khakis, and loafers along with my dress shoes. Transport was at my door just in time. I grabbed my coat and headed out.

  “Is this all, sir?” The guy was very young, in fact he could have been a teenager. Definitely not my usual transport type.

  “Yes.” I handed him my garment bag.

  I locked up and we headed out. The weather was cool, the sun barely shining through the clouds. I was never home long enough to miss it when I was gone. In all my years of fieldwork, I had never been to America. But I had heard enough about New York to know that I would probably hate it.

  In the back of the limo, I helped myself to water. I never ate before I flew. It was my only flaw; I got airsick sometimes.

  Marx was on the airfield when we arrived, standing by the railing in his dark suit. My bags were loaded as I met him.

  “You know the job?” His narrow eyes stared at me. I was almost a foot taller, but he was still scary.

  “Yes, I got it. Find the gallery they deal with and shut them down.”

  “Good. It’s the fastest way to find them. Good luck.” He clapped my shoulder as he ushered me on the plane.

  It was a small, four-seater jet, but it was comfortable enough for the long flight. The attendant was nice, a pretty girl with dark hair pulled into a bun. But she looked awfully young, and the way she leaned over me every chance she got showed me she was awfully flirty. Her breasts were practically falling out of her little navy uniform. And I watched as she swayed her ass when she walked away from me.

  But no one gets away from me.

  “There’s a cabin in the back,” she whispered in my ear and waltzed away again, leaving it up to me.

  I smirked, and followed her into the back.

  I didn’t plan on landing and starting the new assignment with a dry spell.

  3

  Kennedy

  I was up to my neck in spreadsheets and arbitrary numbers. Well, they were important numbers but there were so many, it was hard to tell.

  It was my six-year anniversary on the job. I was the only one counting, but it was important to me.

  It got me closer to my dream job of curating for my own gallery, though right now I was only an assistant.

  “Kennedy, where is the data for tonight?” Julian had a voice that boomed through the entire gallery. He leaned over the second floor balcony, but it sounded like he was right behind me.

  “It’s color coded and labeled in the filing cabinet.” I replied back simply. I couldn’t see his face, but I heard his feet shuffle away.

  Julian was a traditional old British man. Seriously, he looked like an old James Bond, and he had his tea every day at noon. But he was very kind and understanding, and I enjoyed working for him. It was a chance meeting. I had just graduated and was skimming art galleries, hoping to at least drop off my resume or schedule an interview. When I came across this gallery, I was so engrossed in the art they carried that I forgot why I came. Then Julian came by and we got to talking. It wasn’t until the end of the conversation that I mentioned being an art major and needing a job.

  He hired me on the spot and told me to come back the next day. So we had always had a sort of connection, I suppose. He trusted me easily, but I liked to think I hadn’t let him down yet.

  “Are you ready for the exhibit coming up?” This time, he was directly behind me. I turned from my desk.

  I didn’t exactly have an office. My desk was behind the farthest wall of art, separated from the main floor by a narrow hallway. It wasn’t very private, but I didn’t really need much privacy anyway. I loved being right across from some of the greatest works of art I had ever seen. From lesser-known artists to bigger ones, we carried pretty much everything.

  This new exhibit was going to open us up to more artists from overseas, particularly Britain.

  “Just about. I have a spreadsheet you can look at.” I glanced at him. Julian had a better head of blonde hair than I did, and a bright set of green eyes. Even in his old age, he attracted a lot of women. I think it’s the accent; but he has always just been my boss. One who wears white linen suits almost
every day.

  “No need. I actually have to go away on other business, so I am leaving you in charge of the exhibit.”

  I stared at him, almost laughing because I thought he was in one of his humorous moods again. But the lines of his face were heavy set, he was dead serious. No freaking way.

  “Oh. You want me to run the whole thing? You don’t have anyone else coming in?” I tried to sound nonchalant.

  Sometimes he had consultants who would do some of the grunt work if he needed it. At least he had one for the last exhibit.

  “No, just you. Do you think you need help handling it?” He arched his graying brow at me with an old smile.

  I was freaking out on the inside, not sure I could even handle it. But how could I ever admit that? If you deny your first chance to step up, you may not get another chance very soon. Or ever.

  “I can. It’s no problem.” I feigned a smile, but on the inside I was cringing at the thought of messing anything up.

  “Very good. I will be sending you an email with all the necessary information. I leave town tonight. Of course, you can still reach me if you need anything.”

  I nodded and smiled. “Thank you. I won’t let you down, Julian.”

  He touched my shoulder gently and smiled, “I know you won’t.”

  Then he was gone, and I could breathe normally again.

  I knew what to do, but I was still going through the necessary period of freaking out about something new. Or taking on a big challenge. The Iron Art gallery ended up in every important magazine and blog article when we had an exhibit, and I was going to do anything to prevent the headline from saying, Assistant Screws up International Exhibit.

  Anything.

  So I spent the next few hours and stayed past closing to look over the details again and again, and when I got his email I practically memorized the account numbers and shipment number. The art was supposed to arrive tomorrow, and the opening was on Friday. It gave me three days to put it together. It was mostly done anyway, except that I would just be doing all the things that Julian usually does.

  But I left that for the next day.

  I put on my jacket and locked up before walking the short three blocks to my studio. It was small and unassuming, but it was home. I decorated it with good art, so it wasn’t as bad as all the other ones in the building.

  I took a hot shower and threw on some sweats while I made dinner, still repeating the numbers in my head. I couldn’t screw this up. No way.

  * * *

  Every Wednesday I went through old reports just to make sure everything added up. Then Thursday rolled around, and I was fully panicked. There was so much more to do than I thought. I triple-checked the shipment and even called the driver three times to make sure they knew the drop-off point was in the back and not the front. If they came to the front, people on the street could damage the art somehow or steal it. It was just safer to bring it in the back, even though it was farther.

  The next thing was pre-making the labels. It wasn’t hard, but the worst part was doubling something up or missing something. So I triple-checked that just to be sure. Usually I cataloged the art essays and descriptions the day of the exhibit, because I wasn’t running it. But now I was, so I had to do that as well.

  It was nearing closing time and I was ready to drop dead. I smoothed out my skirt and took a short walk around the gallery. Everything looked good. Thank God.

  Suddenly my cell started going off. Finally, the art had arrived.

  “Hello?” I answered.

  “Hi, we’ve got an order outside. You gotta sign for it.” The deliveryman sounded like he couldn’t care less that he was transporting millions of dollars of art.

  “Sure.”

  I went out back, and the early night air hit my bare arms. The driver was tall and muscular. He actually didn’t look like he had any business delivering artwork. He looked more like a hit man, with his tattoos swirling around his thick arms and neck. He was actually kind of intimidating. It was weird. Our usual delivery service didn’t look like this one.

  “Sign here.” He shoved an electronic tablet my way, and I signed on the blank line.

  He stalked off, his blue jumpsuit hugging him too tight. Like he stole it and it didn’t fit. Weird. I was being paranoid and I knew it.

  He whistled through the open window of the truck, and two more men came out. I stood off to the side, inside the gallery as they brought the art in. I instructed them to put it on the far wall, because the people who actually hung the art wouldn’t come until the morning. But once they were done, I unwrapped it to make sure it was right, and then labeled it.

  Once I did that, I catalogued the art on the spreadsheet, and triple-checked it. By then, it was ten minutes until closing. I started shutting off lights, but a figure off to the back caught my attention.

  I couldn’t make much out from where I was standing, only that he seemed young and was very tall, and had wavy brown hair that I wanted to run my fingers through. The khakis he wore hugged every inch of his sculpted legs, and his Henley tugged at every shapely muscle on his body. I realized I was just staring, peeping at him from behind.

  He was far too beautiful for me to talk to him, and I hoped he would just leave when we closed. He shuffled to the next piece of art, and then I noticed he had a camera. Ugh, pictures weren’t allowed.

  I would actually have to talk to him. And hope I didn’t melt right on the spot.

  4

  Eli

  I was staring at my computer so long, I began to hate it. Because it wasn’t getting me anywhere close to where I needed to be.

  How many damned art galleries were there in Brooklyn? It was really bloody frustrating. Not to mention Marx blowing up my phone every chance he got. Usually, he just lets me work on my own and go at my own pace, sort of, but for some reason he was really up my arse about the whole thing.

  “Have you made any progress?” He said as soon as I answered his fifth call of the day. I had been here only three days, and he expected me to have it all figured out.

  I was good, but I wasn’t that good.

  “No. I am still crossing the galleries. It is hard to match their catalogs.” I explained.

  “Well,” he huffed, “just go into each one and see for yourself. It is field work, after all.” He hung up before I could tell him how absurd that was, not to mention how long it would take.

  After I had a shot of whiskey and cooled off, I considered his plan. Perhaps it would move things along, no matter how slow.

  Come Thursday, I ran around the block a few times, shielding my face with a hood even though it might not have been necessary. I got back to the penthouse, evading the stares of women. Perhaps this weekend I could take my mind off of the stress of the case, but today I had to focus.

  I didn’t want to walk around with a conspicuous camera, so I planned to use my phone for the pictures. I stopped outside of Iron Art gallery in Brooklyn, deciding to start at the last place on the list with blind hope. Most of the lights were off, but the sign said they were open for at least ten more minutes.

  I stepped inside, thankful there was no annoying bell to alert anyone of my presence. I saw the sign that said no photography, but I dutifully ignored it and started on the far wall. I felt her presence before she said anything.

  I suppose she wasn’t sure if she should say anything, so I moved on. When I took the next picture though, her heels came clacking towards me.

  “Um, excuse me, sir. You can’t take pictures of the art.” Her voice washed over me, sultry and sweet at the same time.

  When I turned to face her, I wasn’t disappointed. The dark blue dress she wore wrapped every curve of her bountiful body, her face blushed a light pink as she gazed at me. Her blonde curls were pinned atop her head, and her blue eyes were wide and worrisome. She looked how I felt.

  “Sorry, pictures just last longer. I couldn’t help it.” I grinned at her, trying to lay on as much charm as I could.

  I
really didn’t want to come back and do this again. She blinked up at me a few times before she smiled timidly.

  “I agree, but it’s the policy. If I had any say in it, I would take photos too.” She giggled softly. The sound went right through me. I wondered why she was even affecting me. I had put up a wall, not allowing any emotions in. The wall and the lies kept people safe. Kept me safe too.

  But for some reason, I didn’t want to lie to this woman at all.

  “Pictures just last longer, especially for beautiful sights.” I widened my smirk until it became a full smile. She shifted on her feet, and her eyes widened as I raised my phone to her instead and snapped a picture.

  She looked awfully shocked, like no one had ever taken a picture of her or even alluded to her stunning beauty. Which was ridiculous because she was gorgeous.

  “Um, did you just…take a picture of me?” She crossed her arms behind her back, which made her chest strain against her dress. But she hadn’t done it on purpose, and it made it all the more sexy.

  “Yes. Like I said, it will last longer.” I smiled, and her rosy cheeks flushed deeper.

  “You can take pictures of the rest if you want, our little secret, but it’s nothing compared to what is coming in tomorrow. But you definitely can’t take pictures of those.”

  I relaxed, realizing my plan had worked. Though part of it wasn’t forced at all. I was completely taken by this American beauty, so much so that I didn’t even realize she had given me permission to take the rest of my photos. But as I moved to the next one, she followed by my side.

  “Can you stand a little farther back though? The flash is not good for the casing,” she said.

  I found myself awfully distracted by the way her lips curled and pursed as she talked, so it took me a minute to really hear what she said. Usually, I am the one making women hard of hearing.