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I tried to turn my chair, but he tightened his grip. “I swear all the time, Brand,” I snapped. “It isn’t like you’ve been around the last four years—longer, really—to know what I do and don’t do.”
“Why is this upsetting you? Were you close to his last wife?”
I laughed out loud. “I don’t even remember her name.”
“I’m not letting you get away with this. I’ll keep you trapped in your chair all night if I have to.”
I sighed and looked into his eyes. He wasn’t bluffing. He was going to keep after me until I told him.
“Meeting his girlfriend isn’t what upset me,” I finally said. “It was the second half of the message. He said he also wants to talk to me about the property on Fire Island.”
Brand raised a brow. “What about it?”
It wasn’t him I was mad at; it was my dad, but when I jerked the chair harder, he let go. Maybe he did because he saw my eyes fill with tears, mortifying me. When I stood and looked out the window, he put his hand on my shoulder.
“He’s supposed to be giving it to me. When he told me he was going to sell it, I begged him to let me buy it. Instead, he offered to quitclaim it. Now, he says there’s been a change of plans.” I brushed away my tears and turned around. “It’s just really bad timing. If he wants me to buy it, like I originally offered, I doubt I’ll be able to come up with the money.”
“Because of the forged art? I’m sure the gallery’s insurance would cover the loss.”
“Even if they do, they don’t hand the money over immediately. They’ll conduct their own investigation. It could be months. Even years. In the meantime, I feel as though we should be prepared to refund our clients as soon as the FBI notifies them. I can’t ask my partners to pony up for this. I’m the one who handled the acquisitions. I’m the one who purchased the forgeries. It’s my responsibility.”
I looked up at the ceiling. Why was I telling him this? Brand was no different than a stranger walking in off the street. Except that we’d kissed. Still, I hadn’t seen him in years. I barely knew him.
So why, when he spun me around and pulled me into his arms, did I feel so much better?
2
MICHELANGELO
Penelope Ramsey was the strongest, most independent, and most stubborn woman I’d ever met. That was saying something, considering Tara, my half sister, was almost as bad. As were the other three women she’d mentioned who made up their tight-knit circle of friends. The very ones she was insisting shouldn’t have to cover the cost of the refunds.
The five met at boarding school when they were still in single digits—maybe seven or eight? I couldn’t recall exactly since I hadn’t known Tara existed at the time.
Each of them came from broken homes. In Penelope’s case, her father had been on his fourth marriage when he divorced her mother. Last I knew, he was up to seven. Divorces, that was. I wasn’t sure if she was aware, but the new girlfriend was a well-known actress, famous enough for one of the online entertainment magazines to write about the engagement to her dad.
Normally, I wouldn’t pay attention to shit like society gossip, but prison was damned boring. I shook my head. Actually, gossip of any kind held zero interest for me, no matter how bored I was. Butterfly, on the other hand, consumed my thoughts almost constantly. She had since the first day we met.
Penelope had been sixteen; I was eighteen and happened to be having lunch with my mother the day she and Tara stopped by her father’s office. He was my father, too, although I didn’t know it yet.
I remembered every detail about the moment I first laid eyes on her. Long hair the color of sable, and chestnut eyes, with a body far more developed than Tara’s. Pen at sixteen was a woman. Tara looked ten years younger.
I couldn’t recall exactly what she’d said when we were introduced, but I’d never forget the way I felt. Her voice had swirled around me like a warm breeze or a song that married the perfect melody and lyrics. Its tone had soothed the angst inside my eighteen-year-old body but lit my libido on fire.
Her eyes had bored into mine, and she smirked as if she’d picked up on my attraction and was challenging me to act on it. When I smiled, her eyes trailed down the length of my body. I would’ve done the same to her if my mother’s voice hadn’t ripped me back into reality.
“Your dad is in a meeting. Is there something I can assist with?” she’d asked Tara. I didn’t catch her response, but the next thing I knew, my mother had suggested I escort the ladies downstairs and hail a cab for them. While I did as my mother asked, as I’d anticipated, the two were far more adept at securing a ride than I was.
“I’m okay,” Penelope said, wriggling out of my arms, bringing me back to the present. “It’s just a piece of land, right?” She squared her shoulders, took a deep breath, and put her hands on her hips. “So, what else do you need from me in terms of the investigation? Like I said, I doubt there’s much beyond what I’ve already given to the agents.”
It was an abrupt change of subject, but I’d go along with it if she was done talking about her dad—for now, at least. I cleared my throat. “K19 Security Solutions will be conducting an investigation of our own.”
“I wish you the best of luck, and I mean that sincerely. Insurance or not, once word gets out, the gallery’s reputation will be left in tatters. It won’t matter if we have evidence the forgeries of the certificates of authenticity and provenance were just as good as the artwork.” She groaned and turned her head in the opposite direction. “God, this is so fucked up. We’ve worked so hard to build up a respectable client base—Tara especially. We should probably just close now. I’ll figure out a way to pay her, Aine, Ava, and Quinn back for their investment. You know, after I refund our clients.”
I doubted her friends would agree to what Penelope was suggesting, but she didn’t need to hear that from me. Regardless, I had something more proactive in mind.
Before going to prison, I’d made a name for myself in the world of forged art. It’s what had gotten me arrested. What I’d learned, though, was what led to my release.
Dealing in stolen art was commonplace among crime families, particularly in Italy. Possession of artistic masterpieces was considered great wealth. Sure, those pieces couldn’t be sold through legal means, but that was true with most everything that changed hands on the black market.