Page 15 of The Prize

“Are you okay to stay?”

“Yes, with you this place feels different.” He leaned toward me and his lips came close, and then he pulled away as he seemed to remember. “Want to see the library?”

“I’d love to.”

We made our way out and down the central staircase, through the foyer and along a hallway with remarkably well-preserved Art Deco wallpaper.

“What’s down there?” I pointed.

“The old staff quarters.” He followed my gaze. “I took those rooms because it’s quieter.”

“I’m pretty quiet.”

“I meant—”

“More isolated?”

“There’s a gym and I wanted you to feel comfortable to have the rest of the house.”

“What about your bedroom?”

“I want you to have it.”

Another wave of nervousness came over me as I took in this foreign place, wondering how I’d gotten here.

He frowned. “Do you regret coming here with me?”

“It was all very fast.” I mean, we’d lifted off the roof of The Wilder Museum in his helicopter and caught his jet right after. There’d been no time to discuss the plan or consider the fallout of leaving so abruptly. “You know the FBI suspects me too.”

“They know you’re a wrong fit for the MO. You were studying at The Courtauld Institute of Art and a quick cross-reference would prove you were probably attending a lecture or some other event when those other heists went down. They scared you to get to Icon.”

“It worked.”

His back stiffened. “We’re one step ahead of them.”

I turned to face him wary of what might come next because if there was one thing I knew it was some people kept their enemies close.

“Hopefully you’ll be able to catch your breath here. Time can stand still in this place. Much of the decor is original. I want to keep it this way. Although I made a few adjustments to bring it into the twenty-first century.”

Behind that door offered another glimpse into Tobias’s past.

“Libraries have a way of beckoning,” he said. “Lead the way.”

The room was curved and all four walls were stacked with books upon mahogany shelves and the lighting was too soft for reading because several bulbs had gone out. In the corner was a burgundy chaise lounge and I wondered if his grandmother had liked to sit there and read.

“I’d bring my toys in here,” he admitted, and his face brightened as though remembering.

“With your cousin?”

He gave a nod and pulled down a small book from a shelf and handed it to me.

“Winnie-the-Pooh?”I beamed at him. “You read this?”

“Yes, but we had to be very careful because it’s signed by the author.”

In amazement I read the inscription by A. A. Milne, who’d also been a playwright before writing his famous children’s books. “This is adorable.”

“See, my childhood wasn’t all bad.”