Reading Online Novel

Billionaire Bad Boys of Romance 1(91)



The chilly air caressed my cheeks as I stopped, breathing hard with fear and adrenaline. I heard Don behind me, his fine shoes scraping over the dirty concrete, and I hoped they had become scuffed to hell and back. As I had thought, Malcolm had quite a few sculptures, but not as many as I had feared. Good. I just... just had to figure out what I was going to do now...

I stepped forward and dug my fingers into the tight wrapping of one large lump. My fingernails tore at the plastic and tape as behind me Don caught his breath and said, “Ten minutes.”

Fuck you, I thought. What was I going to do? I tugged and swore until the wrapping had fallen away completely and I ran my hands over a large, abstract sculpture made of welded bits of farm equipment. Rusty corners caught my numb flesh, and I gritted my teeth. Was there something here I could use as a weapon? How would I even get close enough to use it?

“Shit!” I said. Tears gathered at the corner of my eyes.

“Eight minutes.”

I whirled around, breathing hard. So many sculptures, and I had no idea what to do with them. I'd bought all the time I could...

I reached for another one, hoping it would give me some kind of inspiration, but the packaging came away easily, revealing a ceramic vase painted with naked ladies. I looked inside it, for appearances, but of course there was nothing in it. The thumb drive between my legs poked and prodded me awkwardly. I moved on, ripping wrapping from sculptures and curios, sticking my hands through the gaps, making a show of looking, my mind racing. If I were a shithead, I thought giddily, despairingly, what would I be thinking right now?

I'd probably be enjoying my frustration... but I'd be frustrated myself. Without knowing where that evidence had gone, I would be forever looking over my shoulder, forever wondering when I would be caught out.

My hands mechanically ripped away the plastic covering another sculpture, and my breath caught.

The Rodin.

I'd thought it was by a student of Rodin when I'd first seen it, but now, close up, my hands actually on it, I realized it was the work of the master himself, and my lungs hitched as I had a tiny, artistic orgasm that had nothing to do with the circumstances I currently found myself in.

It wasn't beautiful. In fact, it was pretty weird looking, a bust of an old man all pushed and pulled and warped until the weariness of the world rolled off it, but that was the mark of Rodin. The celebration of the real, of the run down, of the tired and beaten. I loved it. It spoke to me and for a tiny split second the world ground to a halt. The cold air fell away, the high, tight panic in my chest withdrew, the noise of the street outside and Don's impatient sighs faded as I took a tiny moment to enjoy this piece that I'd admired since I'd first seen it.

A ghost of a thought grazed against my brain. Malcolm saw something in me like I saw something in this sculpture. Something strong. Beautiful despite its flaws. Or maybe because of its flaws.

Something expressive.

And heavy, I thought. It wasn't the traditional bronze of a Rodin, but it was plaster. God. I didn't want to do this. I really didn't. I had to, though.

I'd found the bust sitting on the ground, so I hunched my body around it as I tore the paper and bubble wrap away. I gasped, feigning surprise, and behind me Don's shoes ground over the concrete as he stood up straighter and took notice.

I ran my fingers over the sculpture. “I...” I hesitated. “I think I found something. It's here, I think.” I remembered then how I'd grunted and acted weak as I'd lifted the door, and I did so again. A great groan burst out of me as I struggled to lift the plaster sculpture. My baggy artist's clothes made me look smaller than I was, and I stopped trying to lift it, breathing hard, though it was from fear more than effort. “Help me,” I panted. “I think there's something under it.”

The footsteps behind me were hurried, and my stomach drew tighter and harder. He was buying it, but there was no joy in me about that. Not yet. I was so close. My hands were slippery on the plaster, and I frantically wiped them on my jeans. I'd need a strong grip when the time came.

“What's wrong?” he said. He was only a few steps behind me. I felt the oppressive presence of the gun like a weight in the world.

I licked my lips. “I need you to help me lift it,” I said.

He laughed. “You must think I'm stupid if you think I'm going to put down this gun.”

“But I only have five minutes,” I replied. My voice was starting to shake. If I didn't get him at least close to me, I was fucking dead.

“Try again. Just shove it over if you have to.”

Real outrage surged through me. “No! This is a Rodin, it's priceless. It'll break if I push it over.”

He sighed, but it was impatient. “Here,” he said, reaching down for the head with one huge hand, and there, peeking from the sleeve of his jacket, was a small shiny scar, the size of a cigarette.