Page 28

Chapter 28

Now You See Me

KEENAN

“W here are we going and why do we need a moving truck?”

Vanessa left the house early this morning only to show up with a moving truck, insisting I get inside and come with her. I grip the door handle as she runs over a curb making a right turn. We’re driving through an industrial area so there are no pedestrians about, thank god.

“I’m not used to driving a truck this big,” she mutters, swinging far too wide on her next corner.

She still hasn’t explained where we’re going. “As your bodyguard I should know your itinerary so I can determine if your safety is at risk. I should also be the one driving because…” I flounder for a reason that won’t hurt her feelings, “I can protect you better.”

She frowns. “How can you protect me while you drive? Wouldn’t your hands and eyes be busy, you know, driving?” I feel her rooting around in my head and she gasps before I can block her. “You think I’m a bad driver!”

“God damn mating bond,” I mutter, trying to arrange my features into an earnest expression while lying through my teeth. “It’s not you, it’s me. I prefer to be in control when in a vehicle.”

“That’s bullshit,” she says accusingly. “I read your thoughts, Keenan. I can clearly see an image of a fiery car wreck with you running around with your tail on fire.”

Time to change the subject. “So where are we going again?”

I can tell she wants to pursue the argument, but something is distracting her. She’s nervous. “Ummm… I’m taking you someplace… that is… not totally… legal.” She glances at me from the corner of her eye.

I stare at the industrial buildings we’re passing. “Are you running an underground sweatshop?” It seems unlikely, but I can’t imagine what sort of illegal enterprise my mate might be embroiled in. So long as I’ve known her, she’s been the epitome of law abiding, even insisting we cross streets at crosswalks.

She laughs nervously. “Nothing that bad. More of a Robin Hood kind of thing. Stealing from the rich, although not really giving to the poor. Okay, it’s not a perfect comparison.”

“I’m clueless, but intrigued,” I tell her.

“Good.”

We arrive at a storage lot filled with dozens of buildings containing storage spaces. She circles the buildings, stopping in front of a garage door. Climbing out of the vehicle, she hands me a pair of gloves and a mask.

I take them, raising an eyebrow as I put them on, attempting to fit the mask over my beard. “The intrigue is deepening.”

“Just wait.” Her nervous excitement has her dancing on the spot as she punches in a combination code and pushes the garage door up, waving me inside.

I step into the cool interior. Rows of crates stacked to the ceiling fill the space. “What’s in them?”

She approaches a crate, unlatches the top and shoves it to the side. Reaching inside, she lifts out a flat square object wrapped in cloth. Propping it on the edge of the crate, she moves the cloth aside showing me her treasure.

Understanding dawns and I reach for it, touching the gilded frame. “Tell me.”

Her eyes are shining with excitement, but vulnerability colors her tone. “My mom left all this stuff for me. Dozens of paintings, vases, jewelry, mosaics and more. These are the things she collected but kept for herself. She sold most of what she stole, but not these pieces.” She gazes fondly at the painting, taking in the pastoral scene. “These were special to her.”

“Which makes them special to you,” I say, warmed by her obvious joy at being surrounded by her mother’s things.

She nods. “When I was at my most desperate, I still couldn’t bring myself to sell any of it. I know it was her intent that I sell the pieces when I needed money. It was her insurance that I would survive, but they’re all pieces of her. Too precious to give up.”

“And now you want to move them to the mansion.”

She looks at me with a combination of hope and fear. “I know having these pieces is unlawful and moving them is risky. Now I’m knowingly involving you, which means you’ll be breaking the law if you help me. But I don’t know what to do. I can’t give them up and we’re together now, which means…” She drifts off.

“Eventually I would have noticed the priceless artwork dotting our house,” I point out.

“Well, no,” she says, shaking her head. “Everything will have to stay under lock and key. None of these were acquired legally and an art expert might recognize some of them. We can never show these to anyone.”

Explosions of anxiety are going off in her head as her mind races to come up with a plan, her fear that I might judge her mother nearly overwhelming her. Turning her to me, I massage her shoulders. “I can feel your worry, my love, and it’s unnecessary. We’ll move the pieces to our home today and then we can decide what we want to do after that.”

She takes a breath, her shoulders relaxing. “I was thinking a temperature-controlled room in the basement. One we can easily hide from snoopy guests.”

I think about it, then say, “The castle in Wolf-Haven is another option. The library, archives and crown rooms are all temperature-controlled. And the shifters won’t care how the artwork was acquired. Hell, you can even display a few pieces around the castle if you like.”

Peeking into her thoughts, I see vivid images of her decorating the castle with her mother’s beloved pieces. The idea is appealing to her, but she wants the artwork to stay close so she can see it and touch it any time she wants.

“We can figure it out later,” I reassure her. “For now, tell me what to do. I’m guessing we need to move these crates without drawing notice?”

A few hours later, we’ve moved all the crates into the moving truck and secured them with straps.

“How did you move all this stuff in here in the first place?” I ask, using my sleeve to wipe the sweat dripping into my eyes. “Some of it weighs more than you do.”

“Pulleys and straps.” She slams the back doors of the truck closed and latches them.

I stalk towards her, backing her into the truck where I cage her in my arms. “I can’t decide if you’re a very determined human or a crazy one.”

“Both,” she says breathily.

“Either way, you’re fun to hang out with.” I kiss her nose, then her forehead. “A few months ago, I wouldn’t have imagined I’d be spending a Thursday afternoon moving the stolen artwork of Elizabeth Bedalia into the mansion I now share with my soon-to-be super famous wife.”

Grinning, she runs her finger down my chest. “And I wouldn’t have imagined I’d be spending a Thursday afternoon in an industrial lot with my sweaty wolf mate husband.”

“Who’re you calling sweaty?” I pick her up in my arms, crushing her to me and wiping my musk all over her. My wolf is leaping for joy, urging me to claim her too.

Laughing, she bats me away. “Let’s get out of here.”

Grabbing her arm, I push her toward the passenger side. “I’m driving.”

She dances away from me. “Not without the keys.”

I hold up my hand, the keys dangling from my fingertips. Gasping, she searches her pockets. “You sneaky thief!”

“Takes the child of one to know one.” I stride around the truck and climb into the driver’s seat, leaving her to take the passenger seat.

“I’m not a bad driver,” she mutters, buckling up. I’m not sorry he’s driving though. He’s a cautious driver and will get my precious goods home in excellent condition.

I hide my knowing grin in a shoulder check before pulling out onto the road.

After we arrive at the mansion, we carefully move the artwork indoors, storing it in a basement room, tucked away from curious houseguests.

“We’ll get a secure lock on the door until you decide what you want to do with it.” I crack open one of the crates and carefully lift out a painting, setting it against the wall. “I think we should unpack everything.”

She tilts her head as she examines the painting. “We really shouldn’t. They’re safer packed away until we can install a proper temperature-control, moisture-control system in the room.”

Crouching in front of the painting, I ask, “You want to keep this in a crate?” It really is quite beautiful. “The subject reminds me of the South African lioness queen.”

She sits on the carpet next to me, running her fingers lovingly over the regal woman depicted on the canvass. “She really is stunning. Maybe she can stay out.”

“Who created her?” I settle on the carpet next to her, massaging her lower back as we peruse the painting.

“Gerard Sekoto,” she answers. “He was famous for his depictions of rural South African community and the racial tensions of apartheid. He was one of South Africa’s most important modernists and social realists.”

“How much is it worth?”

“About $20,000.”

I glance at the other crates. “Do you know the back stories on all of this stuff?”

She nods. “I was home schooled and my lessons included writing out the histories of each piece mom brought home. I also wrote out biographies for each of the artists.”

“What sort of grades did you get on your history projects?”

She laughs. “Are you kidding? I was a total keener. If I got anything less than an A+, I’d harass Professor Mom until she relented and gave me extra credit projects.”

I can tell she enjoys talking about her mom, but the artwork has been a burden to her. While Izzy was comfortable leading a life of crime, her daughter has a murkier relationship with her mother’s past. After her death, Izzy’s secrets fell to Vanessa to guard. Talking to me about it, sharing her stories, eases some of the responsibility of caring for her mother’s legacy.

“I’m right here with you every step of the way,” I assure her, tugging her against me. “I’ll be here forever.”

For the rest of my life, as short as that might be , she adds silently. I won’t be here much longer, according to the curse, but Keenan will. The best thing I can do is teach him about each piece in the room and write out instructions on how to care for them. Keenan will love them the way I do because he loves me and that love extends to the things I love.

Her thoughts break my heart, but I have no idea how to ease them when they’re true. Instead, I say, “I have an idea. Why don’t you unpack some of this stuff while I order takeout. We can have a picnic in here with a bottle of wine and some food. You can tell me about your favourite pieces.”

Her bleak thoughts vanish and an image of fried chicken, and gravy and biscuits fill her head. “I like that idea.”

Standing, I pull her off the floor. “I’ll grab a blanket too.”

“A blanket?”

I pull her against me, rocking her into my erection. “After we eat, I intend to lay you out and show you how something precious and delicate should be handled. It will be like a job interview so you trust me to care for all this stuff.”

She laughs, then says in a husky whisper, “You better grab the gloves. Wouldn’t want to get fingerprints on your work of art.”

I swat her ass. “My work of art better get busy while I hunt us some fried chicken or I’ll have to eat her instead.”

As I walk away, my smile falls. I hate that she’s thinking about her death, creating a succession plan for her mother’s art. The days and weeks are ticking by and the curse looms over us. She’s determined to live in the moment and I’m doing my best to give her what she wants. If she has to die, then I’m going to make damn sure she dies the happiest woman on the planet, surrounded by the things and people she loves.