Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 81947 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 410(@200wpm)___ 328(@250wpm)___ 273(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81947 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 410(@200wpm)___ 328(@250wpm)___ 273(@300wpm)
Without saying another word, I got out of the car.
He followed.
Popping the trunk, he grabbed my suitcase.
A porter appeared out of nowhere to take it from him.
He stepped close, pushing me against the warm metal of the car. “Kiss me.”
“Mr. Rubashkin—”
“Var.”
“What?”
“Call me Var.”
“I don’t want to.”
“Do it anyway.”
I sighed. “Fine, Var. I—”
His hand wrapped around my neck and pulled me close as his lips claimed mine. As with everything, he dominated and controlled. Taking and tasting. Stealing my breath away.
When we broke free, my lips were bruised, and I’d forgotten what I was going to say.
He stroked my cheek with the back of his hand. “Go now. Stay in Italy until I come for you.”
Stumbling over the curb, I entered the airport.
I have to admit I was proud of myself for not turning around, even when I heard the Range Rover car door close and him drive away.
I stayed in the airport lounge for over an hour. Ignoring all the strange stares at my odd attire as I downed two Kamikaze martinis.
After hoping enough time had passed, I grabbed the duffel bag full of what was probably incredibly ill-gotten cash and hailed a cab back to my apartment.
CHAPTER 12
VIVIAN
After spending a sleepless night on the floor of my closet inside my dark apartment, I was in a foul mood.
As I sat on the floor of my tub with the shower curtain closed and attempted to do my makeup with only a purse mirror, I went over my plan.
Although the word plan was a bit strong.
More like a to-do item.
Or strictly speaking, a the-only-thing-I-can-think-of-to-do item.
I crept along the floor back into my closet.
I needed to choose a black outfit, but not so black it looked like I was planning a heist.
Because I was.
Selecting a pair of black skinny jeans, I paired them with a low-heeled black riding boot and a black cashmere sweater. After tossing my trusty knife and some of the cash from last night in a black Juicy Couture cross-body tiny backpack, I headed off.
I made the cab stop a few blocks away from the warehouse across from an abandoned lot. Since I’d already made him pull over so I could run into a drugstore to get an actual, physical newspaper, he didn’t raise an eyebrow at the strange location.
It was really annoying not having my phone. My next stop would be to replace the one Varlaam stole. Since I was using his money to do it, it was more like he was replacing it.
While the cab driver drove, I searched the news section for any article on finding a dead dictator.
There was none.
That either meant that Varlaam and his friends had gotten rid of the bodies… or they were still there.
I shuddered as I approached the warehouse.
There were no cars in the lot and everything seemed still.
I half expected to see a bunch of cop cars or at least some police tape.
With a last glance over my shoulder, I snuck in through the warehouse.
As with the rotten egg smell before, the acrid stench of bleach almost took my breath away as my lungs filled with the chemical fumes.
After coughing a few times, I hiked the collar of my sweater up over my nose and mouth and continued toward the office.
The metal security door was set to one side, its melted hinges on display. That must have been the rotten egg smell from last night. They must have used some sort of corrosive acid.
Gingerly stepping over the threshold, I scanned the outer office.
Except for the metal door and the stench of bleach, everything looked neat and tidy. There was no hint of the chaos of tipped-over filing cabinets and thrown-about paperwork and files from earlier. My gaze wandered to the far door. On the other side was where the bodies had been.
Even though I knew they probably weren’t there, I was still grateful that what I was looking for was in the outer office. I didn’t think I could bring myself to enter that door, not even for the money I was owed.
And I was owed a lot.
Fifty thousand dollars for five artworks.
And my parents always said an art degree wouldn’t pay the bills.
Ha!
Although the ten grand per piece I received was nothing compared to the millions my work would sell for on the black market.
But that would make me a criminal. A serious multinational on Interpol’s radar criminal at risk of being charged with art fraud, money laundering, wire fraud, and all sorts of scary shit that would land me in a disgusting rat hole French prison for five years.
As it stood right now, I was simply someone who painted masterpiece look-alikes for art enthusiasts.
And I didn’t need to be greedy. Fifty grand bought a lot of fabulous purses and shoes.
Lowering to my knees, I rolled back the carpet in the center of the room. I’d noticed last night that despite the entire office getting tossed, the wool carpet had not been disturbed, which meant they hadn’t found Abakar’s floor vault.