Captive Lies

by Victoria Paige

  “Grant facilitated the transfer?”

  “A man of Mr. Thorne’s caliber knows the right people and …Oh my God,” Jeff broke off as he peeled the last layer of plastic to reveal the painting underneath. Even without looking at the signature, we knew we were looking at the work of a painting legend. “Marie-Thérèse,” the older man breathed. Picasso’s muse and mistress during the 1930s. I was not familiar with the name of this painting, but it could be chalked up as the long lost work of the master.

  We worked carefully to unwrap the next five paintings. Though Jeff needed to take these pieces under a magnifying glass to certify their authenticity, he told me that he was confident that three of the six were originals from the old masters. Hours passed. Tyler and I took a quick break for lunch while Jeff ate at his office. At two that afternoon, we returned to “The Vault” as Jeff liked to call it—an area separated from the main gallery by heavy curtains that dropped from the fifteen-foot ceiling—where all the paintings yet to be displayed were kept. He had the first Picasso we unwrapped under a lit table and was analyzing the brush strokes. Reproductions were usually flat, while some Giclée prints—fine art created on inkjet printers—may have some dabs of paint by the artist to pass as original work. However, there were also counterfeit paintings and it took a very experienced art dealer to validate its authenticity.

  “Shall we uncrate the third box?” I asked. The second crate had contained two Renoirs.

  Jeff looked at me distractedly. “Yes. Yes.” He reluctantly left the Picasso. Tyler helped us pry the boards off the crates with a crow bar. The first painting from that batch was from an unknown artist. “This collector has odd taste.” I could hear the frustration in his voice. We proceeded to the next one. When Jeff lifted the polyethylene to reveal the first half of the painting, I was struck with déjà vu. A familiar landscape of impressionist art stared back at me.

  “What do we have here?” Jeff wondered as he removed the plastic veil to uncover the full view of the painting. “The style reminds me of Van Gogh, but the artist has his own unique strokes.”

  “Sergei,” I whispered.

  “What was that, dear?” Jeff asked absent-mindedly.

  I shook my head as I helped remove the T-frame and when it was done, I looked for the signature. There, in its familiar cursive, it mocked me.

  Sergei Kostin.

  In total, there were twenty-four paintings unearthed from four crates. Half of them could be original works by the old masters and Jeff estimated their worth at more than seven-hundred-million dollars when all was said and done. Some of the priceless paintings were moved to a room secured with an electronic keypad lock.

  I found three more paintings by Sergei.

  Jeff went out on the floor to answer questions from some customers. I overheard Sofia telling Tyler that the shop’s busiest time was between five and seven. Expecting Jeff to be occupied for the next hour and a half, I asked to use his table with the overhead light. It had a swivel arm with a magnifying glass. I was anxious to see what Sergei was hiding underneath. Mounting one of Sergei’s paintings, I studied the brush strokes. It was a different medium, not watercolor, but I could almost see what it was trying to mask under layers of pigment.

  My gut churned and I wasn’t sure if it was from hunger or excitement. Since Grant was working late, Tyler and I decided it was a good time to grab dinner.

  “Bravo-niner-niner, you there?”

  I turned to look at Tyler and noticed the grin on his face. I’d never heard that call sign before, but I figured he was messing with Bobby.

  “Copy. Go ahead,” Bobby’s slightly amused voice answered.

  “We have a situation,” Tyler continued speaking through his wrist comm. “Paintpixie needs to be fed or we’ll be having a crisis on our hands. Something of the high-sodium variety would be ideal.”

  I scowled at Tyler as he winked at me.

  “Copy that. Hotdogs, chief?”

  “Affirmative. Four hotdogs and two Cokes.”

  “She can eat four?” Bobby chuckled.

  “Two are for me, dumbass,” Tyler shot back.

  I shook my head at their continued banter and turned my attention back on the piece before me. After a few minutes, I heard Bobby tell Tyler that he would meet him at the entrance.

  “You’ll be okay while I secure the package?” Tyler asked, deadpan.

  I waved my arm without looking at him. “Shoo! Go play your spy games.”

  Tyler’s bark of laughter echoed in the Vault. Poor guys. They were so bored being my bodyguards, they were trying to liven things up however they could.

  I didn’t realize Tyler had been gone for a while until footsteps clicked behind me. It struck me as strange that no aroma of hotdogs hit me, but I was too engrossed in studying Sergei’s work to turn around. “You had to use a map to find your way back?” I teased Tyler.

  “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” an unfamiliar voice said behind me.

  I whipped around and saw a man dressed impeccably in a suit. He was tall but not quite six-feet. Thick dark hair was slicked back over his head. He had dark eyes, maybe brown, and a lean build. This man would have blended easily with the rest of Manhattan except for the jagged scar that ran across his right cheek.

  “This area is off limits,” I told him. What happened to Tyler?

  His eyes looked over Sergei’s paintings. “My boss wants those four.”

  “Didn’t you hear me?” I hated that my voice grew shrill. “You can’t be here. Please leave.”

  “Don’t you want to find out what’s underneath those, Paulina?”

  Oh my God.

  “Who are you?”

  His head cocked to the side and I realized he was wearing an earpiece. “Your guard dog is on his way back. We’ll meet again.”

  He disappeared behind the curtains. I ran after him and bumped into a couple. I apologized and searched frantically around the gallery. There were a few customers milling around, but the gallery was so big that it was impossible that he’d taken off so fast. Jeff was talking to an elderly couple in front of a colorful drip work piece. Sofia was assisting another man in a suit regarding a bronze sculpture, but the man I was looking for was nowhere in sight. I looked down the hallway on my right.

  “Hey,” Tyler said, hurrying toward me. “Homeless guy took a swing at Bobby and tried to grab the hotdogs … Blaire, what’s wrong?” He looked around frowning. “And where’s Drew?”

  “A man approached me in The Vault.”

  “What?” Tyler’s brows furrowed as he led me back behind the curtains and lowered the hotdogs and drinks. “Just now?”

  I nodded. “He just disappeared. I think he went in the direction of the restrooms, but I didn’t want to follow.”

  “I told Drew to keep an eye on you,” Tyler said tightly as he drew his gun from behind him and held it low at his side. He spoke into his wrist comm and after a few seconds, he swore, “Drew’s not answering his radio. I told Bobby to check on him.”

  “What’s going on?” Jeff asked, alarmed when he saw Tyler’s gun. His eyes widened at our hotdogs on the table. “I told you both that food is not allowed—”

  “Shut up,” Tyler and I said in unison.

  “Stay here,” my bodyguard told me.

  “Nope, I’m coming with you.” I withdrew my own Beretta Pico from my ankle holster.

  “Why are you both carrying guns?” Jeff asked, following us through the curtains and right to the hallway. Tyler ordered him to stay back. Following behind my bodyguard, we walked past the restrooms and headed to the exit. Tyler bumped his hip into the exit bar with his gun at the ready.

  “What the fuck?” he cursed and I got right beside him to see what had unsettled him.

  Bobby was crouched down over Drew. He glanced up at us. “He’s breathing.”

  “Call 911!” Tyler ordered as he yanked the door to the gallery open and shoved me back inside. He was talking to me, but I wasn’t hearing him because Orlov�
�s words came back to haunt me.

  You’re lucky I’m not allowed to kill you.

  Make sure Marco is dead; we need Paulina alive.

  Someone was still after me.

  34

  Grant

  “You and Blaire need to make a statement to the press.”

  “No, we don’t.” Grant narrowed his gaze at August Lynch who sat across the desk from him. The man had a lot of guts showing up here when he knew Grant wanted him gone from the senator’s team and from their lives.

  “Senator,” Gus looked at his dad who was staring out the window. “Talk some sense into your son. We have a responsibility to your donors to make sure they’re not backing a man with links to the Russian mafia.”

  Marcus Thorne turned around and sighed, looking briefly in Grant’s direction. “Grant, as much as I hate to break your rule about not responding to tabloid news, Gus has a point. You know the country is watching U.S. relations with the Kremlin … the rumors of its involvement in the last presidential election.”

  “Not to mention your buying up real estate in Moscow is doing nothing to dispel rumors that you have some officials in the Kremlin and the Russian mafia doing favors for you,” Gus said.

  “The Russian mafia nearly killed my woman,” Grant reminded him darkly, although he wouldn’t deny or admit to greasing a few palms in the Kremlin to facilitate business transactions. A corporation would never survive in a country where the government was corrupt without a couple of well-placed bribes. It usually spelled safety or doom for his employees and saved them the trouble from the government or the rebels. International business wasn’t cut-and-dried, but Grant’s awareness of a country’s political situation, how to work around the corruption, and how to win the loyalty of the locals were very important to its success. He hated to capitulate to Gus’ requests, but he hated to put his father in this untenable position more. “Blaire and I will speak to the DOJ and ask them what we can and can’t reveal.”

  “That’s all I ask,” the senator said. “Now, your mom is waiting at the hotel and she’s been pushing for dinner tonight with you and Blaire. She misses her.”

  “Not her son?” Grant quirked a brow in amusement. “I’m sure Blaire would love to catch up with her. Let me check—”

  There was commotion outside his office and then Jake burst into the room with an angry Morris following.

  “You should teach your people manners, Thorne,” Gus said.

  “I’m sorry, sir—” Morris huffed.

  “Last I checked, this was my office,” Grant snapped at his father’s aide. The look on Jake’s face already had him thinking the worst. He jumped up from his chair and was already rounding the table. “Blaire?”

  “There was an incident in the gallery. Something’s going down.”

  “What?” Grant grated, already heading out the door with Jake.

  “Tyler’s call got cut off. Either they’re jamming the signal or—”

  “Don’t fucking say it,” he gritted out. “NYPD?”

  “Already sent them.”

  “What do we know?” They got into the elevator.

  “We’re down a man—Drew.”

  “How the fuck did this happen?” Shit, his dad. What if this was a coordinated attack? When they got to the ground floor, he called the senator.

  “Grant, what the hell is going on?”

  “I don’t know. Does mom have security at the hotel?”

  “Of course.”

  “Get there and wait for us. As soon as I have information, I’ll let you know.”

  “Be careful, Grant.”

  “I will.”

  Blaire

  “I’m calling Jake,” Tyler said.

  Sofia and Jeff walked over to us. “What’s going on?”

  “You need to close the gallery,” I said, trying to remain calm. “Someone attacked our man outside and …” My words trailed off when I noticed Tyler’s pissed-off expression.

  “Hello … Jake … what the fuck?” He glared at his phone before looking at me. “I can’t get a signal.”

  I turned back to Sofia and Jeff. “Let’s get everyone out now.” People were starting to notice our huddle and the fact that my bodyguard and I were holding guns.

  “Blaire, we need to get you out of here.” Tyler’s demeanor had turned urgent.

  “I agree, but let’s get the people out of here first.”

  We heard screeching tires and what sounded like gunshots in the back alley. There were gasps, small sobs, and cursing from the people in the gallery.

  More gunshots echoed from outside.

  The customers started running for the entrance while Sofia and Jeff sprung into action to lead them out.

  Tyler dragged me down the hallway. His gun-hand doing a sweep between the back alley exit and the gallery entrance. When we reached the ladies’ room, he pushed me inside, put me in a stall, and ordered me to lock it.

  “We don’t know if someone’s waiting outside to grab you,” Tyler told me. “We wait for help here.”

  “You need to help Bobby and Drew!” I slapped my palm against the closed door.

  “No, Blaire,” Tyler said, his voice resolute. “My responsibility is to you.”

  “But Bobby—”

  “Is doing his job.” The gutturalness of Tyler’s tone told me what it was costing him not to help his colleague.

  “This is bullshit!” I whisper-yelled. “We need to help them!”

  “Shut-up,” Tyler hissed.

  I was fuming. I wasn’t helpless. I could fight. I could shoot, but I couldn’t distract Tyler if he wouldn’t let me help him, so I kept quiet.

  The gunshots had stopped.

  Voices filtered from the hallway. They were a bit muffled, but I could decipher their words.

  “Let’s get the paintings and go.”

  “How about the girl?”

  I watched through the space between the stall’s door and frame. Tyler was flat against the wall beside the entrance, his chest rising and falling heavily with both hands on the gun. The door to the bathroom opened a crack and I stepped up onto the rim of the porcelain toilet.

  Sirens wailed in the distance.

  “Shit! Cops!”

  “We need to go. Paintings are priority.”

  “What about the girl?”

  “He may not need her.”

  The restroom door closed and Tyler’s shoulders relaxed a tad as I slowly lowered my feet to the floor. I hadn’t said a word and neither had Tyler, but I was sure his mind was busy figuring out what had just happened.

  As for me, I had one thought: Will this mess ever end?

  Grant

  As was with every rush hour in New York, traffic was at standstill. The race from lower Manhattan to SoHo took on a snail’s pace and each passing second was agony.

  “Did you check Church Street?” he demanded of their driver, Zed, while Jake checked the police scanners for information.

  “Yes, sir. West Street is the fastest route.”

  Grant tried Blaire’s phone again and still couldn’t get through. He wanted to hurl the device out the window. He needed to get to her fast, dammit.

  “The jamming signal is affecting cellular activity for a quarter-mile radius,” Jake informed him.

  When their vehicle hit another red light after barely moving a block, Grant had had enough. They’d be faster on foot with the gallery less than two miles away. He shoved the door open and hopped out. Not waiting for his bodyguard, he took off up West Street.

  “Mr. Thorne,” Jake growled as he caught up with him. “You can’t just take off like that.”

  “I just did, Donovan” Grant told him, weaving in and out of pedestrians.

  “I can’t protect you if you disregard all security protocols.”

  “Fuck the protocols,” he muttered as he jogged faster, shouldering past people who cursed at him. He may have shoved a hipster out of the way who had no business moseying at this hour like he was taking a stro
ll in Central Park. He was single-minded in his determination to get to Blaire, and no one was getting in his way. Jake learned this quickly, kept his mouth shut, and kept pace with him.

  Entering the SoHo district, Grant left the main road and crossed over to the side street where the gallery was located. Less traffic—both people and cars, but a few blocks up he saw the strobing lights of four NYPD cruisers. Grant broke into a run, thanking his daily workouts for enabling him to dash up Manhattan without breaking a sweat. If he was sweating for any reason, it wasn’t from physical exertion but from anxiety and adrenaline.

  The police were getting ready to cordon off the perimeter to keep away spectators.

  Air whooshed out of his lungs as dizzying relief slammed him when he spotted Jeff, Blaire, and Tyler talking to a uniform just inside the gallery. He didn’t even think, he just approached the shop and was immediately stopped by an officer.

  “Sir, you need to stand back.”

  Grant pointed to Blaire. “That’s my girlfriend.”

  “Hold on.” The cop spoke to his shoulder radio. “Hey, Will, guy here says he’s Ms. Callahan’s boyfriend.”

  The uniform talking to Blaire craned his neck to look through the glass doors. “Shit, that’s Grant Thorne. Let him through.”

  Grant and Jake were escorted through the gallery threshold. With long purposeful strides, he headed straight for his woman whose face lit up when she spotted him. Her expression did funny things to his chest.

  Blaire broke away from the huddle and rushed toward him. He quickened his steps and swept her into his arms, held her tight, and buried his face in the crook of her neck.

  “Grant,” she breathed. The manner with which she said his name eased the crazy terror that dominated his thoughts during the fifteen-minute sprint through Manhattan.

  “Blaire. Oh, Christ, baby,” he whispered in her ear. He must be crushing the shit out of her, but he couldn’t seem to get close enough. He wanted everyone to disappear so he could be alone with her. “I was so fucking scared,” he confessed roughly. He planted quick kisses over her upturned face before capturing her lips in a long searing one. Fear and adrenaline were morphing into a primal need to be inside her. He couldn’t stop touching her.