Ari shrunk, hoping no one else in the restaurant’s small outdoor seating area was listening in.
“I know. I’m… I’m sorry.” She cringed at the scared sound of her voice. It didn’t matter that she’d learned how to crack a safe by the time she was fifteen, or that she could spot a fake Dutch Master at a hundred yards, or that she’d amassed more knowledge of art history than most PhDs and museum curators twice her age. Davidson and the others on the crew—Lilah, Will, Trick, Keens—had watched her grow from a wobbly toddler into the woman she was today, but in Davidson’s presence, Ari would always feel like a silly little girl getting underfoot while the adults planned their next big heist.
She was also Arianne Holbrook, daughter of the man who’d supposedly betrayed his whole crew and gotten himself killed. And that, more than anything, made Ari a prime target for Davidson’s rage. Especially when she turned up at their meetings with bad news.
Through a cool, gentle voice that belied the anger flashing in his eyes, Davidson said, “You understand that your last several outings have been… less than informative.”
Ari swallowed the knot in her throat, willing herself not to cry. “How is that my fault?”
Davidson slammed his fist on the table, making her jump. The people eating at the table behind them looked over.
Great. The last thing she wanted was another scene at Beyoglu. Just a ten block walk from home, the Turkish café used to be one of her favorite lunch spots on the Upper East Side, but ever since Davidson had declared it their “usual” place, she hadn’t been back on her own. He’d embarrassed her in front of the staff too many times for that. Now, whenever they arrived together, the hostess always sat them outside.
“I’d advise you not to take that adolescent tone with me,” he said, which Ari found ironic, considering he’d never really stopped treating her like an adolescent. His voice was eerily calm, but anger rippled from his body in waves.
Ari was on dangerous ground. Pulling off a successful heist wasn’t like the movies, where everything came together seamlessly over a pack of cigarettes, a few cartons of Chinese takeout, and a music montage. It took weeks—even months—of careful, tedious preparation involving blueprints and public records searches, background checks on the property owners, surveillance, onsite intelligence gathering, payoffs of household employees and security technicians, identity theft, document forging, route planning, in-case-of-injury planning, contingency planning, and yes—lots and lots of Chinese takeout.
Lately, Davidson had been relegating Ari to fact-finding missions at private auctions and events, bringing her in later, cutting her out earlier, sharing fewer secrets. Sometimes she wondered if he believed that she was involved in the infamous double-cross. That maybe betrayal ran in the Holbrook family.
Ari stifled a shiver. If she didn’t do something to regain his trust soon…
Don’t think like that. He needs me. Everything is going to be just fine.
“You’re right,” she said calmly. “I’m sorry. I’m just… I’m as frustrated as you are. The family from last night? They’re basically broke. Almost everything valuable went to auction, probably long before last night. And they didn’t—”
Ari shut her mouth as the waiter approached.
“Get some appetizers,” Davidson said. “Whatever you want.”
Ari had already lost her appetite, but she ordered the hummus to make him happy, along with her favorite lunch platter and some baklava she’d take home for Tasha. After making her feel like a child, Davidson’s second favorite hobby was picking up the check—the bigger the better.
They never talked about money, but despite the fact that her job didn’t exactly offer a salary and benefits, and that most of her father’s liquid assets were stashed in offshore accounts she couldn’t access, the $5,000 monthly maintenance fee on her father’s penthouse always got paid, the lights stayed on, and no matter how often she charged up the credit card, Arianne never once saw a bill.
Tasha may have gotten a scholarship to college, but when it came to everything else? Ari knew damn well who was taking care of them, and it wasn’t some rainy-day insurance policy her father had set up.
Davidson didn’t mind the elephant in the room, though, as long as it was his elephant. It gave him power over her, a fundamental control that guaranteed she’d never, ever leave him. Never mind what she wanted, what she thought was right. Ari didn’t know how to do anything else.
Worse, she didn’t have the courage to try.
She’d helped plan complicated, dangerous heists, evaded the FBI—hell, she’d even been stabbed once. But none of that mattered, because when push came to shove, Ari was a coward. Afraid to look in the mirror. Afraid to live.
Without the life her father had built for her, the person he’d molded her into, what did she have? What did she know?
Watching Davidson shove bread and hummus into his greasy mouth, Ari knew the truth: without Davidson and the crew, Arianne Holbrook didn’t exist.
It was that simple. And if she ever doubted it, Davidson would be right there to remind her.
“Look, Ari,” he said now, a glob of hummus stuck on the corner of his mouth. “I know there are no guarantees in this business. But you’re striking out on every case.”
“It’s this economy,” she said. “People can’t afford all the flash. They’re selling, not buying. Even the old families are downsizing.”
“Not all of them.” Davidson had that look in his eye, a greedy, dangerous gleam that Ari knew well.
“Word is, someone dropped a pretty penny on a Hans Whitfield last night.”
Ari nearly choked on her Turkish coffee. When she caught her breath, she said, “That’s right. Two million, as I recall.”
“He’s already made arrangements to donate the piece to the Jewish Historical Society.”
“What? How do you know?”
Davidson smiled without showing his teeth, which meant he wouldn’t reveal his source. After Ari and Davidson, there were three men and one woman officially on crew, but Davidson had an entire network of seedy freelance associates, every one of them jockeying for position, falling over one another just to make themselves useful. Ari wasn’t surprised that he’d already heard about the painting. In this city even the rats had ears.
“You get a look at the guy last night?” he asked.
Ari shrugged. “Another billionaire in a suit. They all look the same to me.”
But they don’t all feel the same…
Her thighs clenched beneath the table as she tried in vain to stave off the memories of last night, the ghost of his passionate touch still burning her skin.
“Arianne.” Davidson reached across the table, caging her hand in his icy grip. “Are you listening to me?”
“Of course.”
“Look at me.” When she finally met his eyes, he said, “Why do I sense that this job isn’t a priority for you anymore?”
Ari tried not to squirm as shame and anger waged war in her chest.
Fuck you and your fucked-up priorities.
Ari had only one priority—her family. That meant taking care of Tasha and keeping her out of this dreadful life, and—if she could find a way to make it happen—clearing her father’s name and nailing the guy who killed him. The latter should’ve been a priority for Davidson, too, but he didn’t see it that way.
Davidson may have been pissed about Ari’s lack of progress on the job, but she was pissed, too. Pissed that her parents had brought her into this world with no intention of helping her become a legitimate, tax-paying adult. Pissed that no one seemed to know what had happened to her father. Pissed that no one had bothered to find out.
It was her father’s inside guy, everyone had always believed. A man none of them had ever met. Her father—who ran the crew and had the overriding vote on all matters—had vouched for him, bringing him in at the last minute to do a big job in the West Village. The mark was an extensive art collector, and the cache they’d ta
rgeted was valued at about $70 million on the street.
Dressed as contractors, Ari’s father and the guy went in alone, with Davidson and the others in strategic positions throughout the city. Ari was at Davidson’s apartment, coordinating the whole thing through an elaborate system of coded text messages they’d worked out in advance.
The men had made it in, made it out, made it through the Holland Tunnel.
But that was the last anyone had heard from them. They never showed up at the rally point in Jersey.
Hours turned into days. Ari and Davidson were frantic, the rest of the crew looking to them for answers they just didn’t have.
A week after the heist, her father turned up dead in an abandoned tire warehouse in Trenton.
The art he’d boosted—along with the inside guy—didn’t.
There was no evidence found at the scene of her father’s death, nothing to tie him to the theft. The police said that it was a gang hit, gunshot to the head, wrong-place-wrong-time kind of thing. But that was bullshit. People like Ari’s father never died from being in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Davidson and the others were convinced it was an inside job, the worst kind. That Ari’s father had double-crossed them with his man, only to have it all go south on him.
In his life, Ari’s father had been a lot of things. A master thief. A violent drunk. A cheating husband. Even a murderer, at least one time that Ari knew about. But he was a loving father, and unwaveringly loyal to the crew he’d handpicked from the best guys he’d ever worked with. Unwaveringly loyal to Ari. He was not a traitor.
Unfortunately, no one else agreed.
“It is,” Ari said now. “It’s totally a priority. I’m just… I wish I could catch a break, you know?” Ari’s vision blurred with unshed tears, but she refused to cry in front of this man. Crying wouldn’t get the job done, and it certainly wouldn’t win her any favors with Davidson. “It’s just a bad luck streak. I’ll break it. I know I will. So whatever you need me for, I’m there.”
“Good.” He finally released her hand. “I needed to hear that.”
The two finished their meal in silence, Ari picking at her food while Davidson shoveled it in by the forkful, pausing occasionally to leer at women passing on the sidewalk. After his third martini, Davidson finally wiped his mouth, and then tossed the blue cloth napkin over his plate. “I want you to head over to the JHS. Nose around, see if you can find out anything on our mysterious donor.”
“Today?”
“Unless you have something better to do?” Davidson narrowed his eyes, a slow smile spreading across his face like a cancer. “How’s Natasha, by the way? It’s been so long since we’ve all had dinner together. Maybe I’ll call on her for a visit. I think she’d like that.”
Ari trembled inside. That’s all it took. The hint of a threat, a subtle reminder that Davidson knew exactly what mattered most to Ari—and exactly how to leverage it.
“JHS, right? Already on my way.” Ari rose from her chair and leaned in to kiss his cheek. “Thanks for lunch. I’ll call you with an update later.”
“Do that.” He waited until she’d reached the corner before speaking again, calling her so loudly that everyone else on the sidewalk turned to look. “And Arianne, dear?”
She turned to face him, forcing a smile despite the bile rising in her throat, the shake in her limbs.
Davidson held up a to-go container, his grin making her skin crawl. “You forgot Natasha’s baklava. Shall I deliver it to her myself?”
Chapter Eleven
A hard-on was the last thing Jared expected to get from his meeting at the JHS, but when he saw the woman standing at the information desk, all bets were off.
Impossible.
He’d been obsessing about her all day, and suddenly there she was, leaning against the desk with her beautiful ass calling to him like a beacon. She was dressed casually this time, a V-neck blouse and dark jeans that hugged every delicious curve, but it was definitely her. The chestnut hair, the delicate features, that confident, take-no-prisoners stance. He’d recognize her anywhere.
But what the bloody hell is she doing?
Jared never did find out why she’d been snooping around the penthouse last night, and now she was here, snooping around the museum just after his meeting with the curator about the Whitfield.
It couldn’t have been a coincidence.
Without making himself known, Jared crept up behind her, eavesdropping on her conversation with the information desk attendant.
“Let me check,” the attendant said, paging through files on her computer. “Desolate… Desolate Rains. Okay, here it is. Acquisition is still pending, but yes, if all goes smoothly, it will be displayed in our permanent collection later this fall.”
“Is there any other information you can give me?” his woman asked.
“It says here that the painting was one of a series looted during the Second World War,” she said. “From—”
“Poland’s National Art Institute,” the woman said. “Yes, I’m quite familiar with the painting’s history.”
So was Jared. The Whitfield was long thought destroyed. Since he’d heard a rumor of its reappearance in the States three years ago, Jared had been working closely with the museum to locate it, the promise of his donation years in the making. He doubted the family he’d bought it from had any clue about its history.
“I’m afraid that’s all the information I have right now,” the attendant said. “But you’re welcome to check back again next month. The curator should have more details about the exhibit by then.”
“What about the donor?” his woman asked.
“I’m sorry, ma’am. That’s confidential. The donor has asked to remain anonymous.”
“I might be able to answer your questions,” he said, finally revealing himself. “The donor and I have quite a history together.”
The smile on his woman’s face as she turned toward him nearly melted his heart. She tried to hide it quickly, to mask her surprise at seeing him, but the damage was done, and the verdict was in.
She was just as happy to see him as he’d been to see her.
“Hello, Trouble,” he said.
“Hi to you, too, Stranger.”
“Come with me.” He led her into a secluded alcove behind the membership desk, desperate to get her alone. It wasn’t exactly private, but Jared didn’t hesitate to pull her close.
“Are you following me, love?” He teased her skin with his lips, leaving a trail of light, fluttery kisses along her jawline. She was so warm and soft, every inch of her begging for his touch.
She smells so fucking good…
“This is…” She trailed off, her eyelids fluttering closed.
“One hell of a coincidence?” Jared said. “Also, not too bad for a Monday.”
She sighed in his arms, but the momentary excitement of their reunion was already fading. He could see it in her eyes, in the determined set of her jaw as she pulled away from his kiss.
“Okay.” The woman cleared her throat and put a hand on his chest, holding him at arm’s length. “This is really not a good idea.”
Liar.
Jared took a step backward, giving her space.
“Why didn’t you tell me you’d planned on donating the Whitfield?” she asked.
“It was supposed to be anonymous,” Jared said. “Besides, love. You didn’t even want to know my name, remember?”
“I still don’t. I was just surprised to hear about the donation, especially after what you paid. It seemed like you really wanted the painting.”
“I did.”
“Just to give it away?”
He shrugged. “That painting never should’ve ended up on the private market. It’s a cultural treasure, and it needed to be returned.”
She considered his words, her brow furrowed.
“You don’t believe me,” he said.
“It’s not that. I’m just… surprised.” She adjusted the handbag d
raped over her shoulder, catching the neckline of her blouse and revealing the lacy edge of a pink bra. “Most guys wouldn’t give up a trophy like that. Especially without taking credit.”
“Is it so hard to believe that I’m a nice chap?”
The woman laughed, a sound that Jared wasn’t willing to walk away from again. He wanted to hear it in the morning, coming from his shower. Or his bed. Or the kitchen table. Or the terrace…
“I don’t know any chaps that nice,” she said.
He took a step toward her, closing the distance between them again. “Doesn’t mean we don’t exist.”
“Even though you’re totally staring at my tits?”
“What can I say? I’m a nice chap who happens to love your tits. Especially with that pink lace number you’ve got going on there.” He traced a line down the center of her breast, her nipple hardening in the wake of his touch.
The woman smiled again, a look that felt more like an invitation than a goodbye, but then her face darkened, and she pulled her blouse back into place. “I… I should go. It was lovely seeing you again, Stranger.”
“Just a moment there, Trouble.” He grabbed her hand, hoping it was enough to keep her here, at least for a few more seconds. “Is that why you’re here? To find out what I did with my painting?”
“I’d heard a rumor it was being donated. So yes, I came down to confirm.”
“You came all the way down here,” he said, running his thumb along the palm of her hand, “for something that could’ve been confirmed with a phone call? I don’t think so.”
A blush crept across the woman’s exposed neck and cheeks, setting her hazel eyes in sharp contrast. “Enlighten me with your theory, then.”
“I think,” he said, bringing his lips to her ear, “you were hoping to run into me.”
“Why would I want to run into you?”
“Unfinished business.”
When the woman didn’t deny it, Jared released her hand, his fingers moving to her curves, skimming the sides of her firm, beautiful breasts. She let out a soft sigh as his thumbs grazed her nipples, diamond points that rose again at his touch.
Bared to the Billionaire: The Complete Series Page 7