“After, huh?”
Every word that bastard said put Logan’s hackles up.
“I’d be ever so grateful.”
“Goddamn it, Kensey. Don’t even—”
“Yes, you will.”
“Over my dead body.” Logan winced. Thankfully, Kensey wasn’t able to hear him. She wouldn’t, unless something urgent came up and he adjusted her earpiece to send and receive.
Christ, more kissing.
It was getting harder by the minute to think of doing business with that asshole. The money and connections would have meant so much, but the idea of putting the top tier of the United States armed services and Ian Holstrom together now chafed.
He had to believe that there was some other way to raise the money. As for connections, he wasn’t out of the loop. He just didn’t have a track record in the private sector to justify getting the juicier contracts. Still, he’d find another way.
He stopped pacing to watch what had to be an elevator going down. After a moment, Kensey told him exactly what he could expect at that lower level. On such short notice, he’d never make it inside the room, so if Holstrom closed that door with Kensey inside, she’d be on her own.
Shit.
Logan didn’t like that scenario. Not one bit. He waited as long as he could, then decided he had to assume the worst. He’d already figured out how to avoid the cameras, but he still had the guards to consider.
He strapped his tablet into a holster that he’d rigged earlier and made sure the computer was ready to accept any input from the snake Kensey was going to release. Then he set his stopwatch for two minutes, nine seconds, which was when he’d be in the clear to scale the iron gates. He’d have four minutes, forty-eight seconds to get inside the home without being seen by security. From there, he’d go down the emergency stairwell to the bottom floor. That was when he’d turn Kensey’s ear receiver on.
This was fight mode, and this, too, was part of his DNA. God help Holstrom if he touched her...
* * *
KENSEY GASPED WHEN she felt Ian behind her, putting something over her eyes.
“Don’t be afraid,” he said, his voice so close she could feel his breath. “Trust me. You’ll like this next bit.”
It was all she could do not to elbow him in the stomach, then take him down like the pervert he was, before he realized what was happening. Then she’d take off the blindfold. That was the only way she would “like this next bit.”
He propelled her forward, her hands out in front of her because the bright light of the secret room was now an afterimage that would take a while to disappear once he took the blindfold off.
And why the blindfold in the first place? As she took her next tentative step, she remembered all too well what Logan had overheard. The second she could be sure they were inside the room, she would accidentally elbow Ian and use that moment to both release the camera and take the thing off her eyes.
The way he was breathing told her that his fondest wish would be to screw her while looking at his stolen treasures.
“Just another few seconds,” he said.
She didn’t wait. Her elbow went back. She heard his umph as she spun around, and ripped off the blindfold, which was actually his silk tie. “Oh, my God, I’m so sorry,” she said, quickly dropping the bracelet. “Did I hurt you? Is there something I can do?”
She knew she’d hit him hard enough in the diaphragm to wind him. The satisfaction of seeing his red face gasping for air was pleasurable in the extreme. Not that she showed it. Concern was all he would see as she made anxious noises.
“I didn’t realize you were so close,” she said, remembering a bit late that she didn’t want Logan running in. “But don’t worry. I must have hit the wrong spot and made your diaphragm spasm. You’ll get your breath back in a minute, I swear.”
It took longer than a minute. But finally, he was upright and not pleased with her at all. She could see he wanted to punish her, and the only thing she could think to do was turn around to the showroom and gasp at the first picture she saw. “It can’t be, can it?” She looked behind her, all innocence and wonder, before turning back. “That’s Waterloo Bridge. The Monet. It was supposed to have been burnt by the thief’s mother.”
He chuckled, moved closer to her. One look at him, and she could tell he wanted this part of the evening like a junkie wanted heroin. She was his perfect audience. Someone who could actually understand the breadth of his collection.
“Oh, no,” she said, not having to fake her earnest disbelief. “You have both of them? The Charing Cross Bridge, too? I can’t even imagine what they’d go for at Christie’s.”
She started moving faster, anxious to find the Degas among the labyrinth of paintings. The room was large, possibly half the length of his house. And set up a great deal like the Metropolitan Museum in New York. The extensive collection of pieces he’d hoarded was staggering, all properly lit and framed, the temperature and humidity of the room perfectly calibrated. Whoever had built this room understood the care of fine art, and how easy it was for moisture to damage them.
“You have the entire Rotterdam collection?”
“You tell me,” he said.
She moved to the next work, laughing at the sheer joy of seeing that Lucian Freud, and Meijer de Haan’s self portrait hadn’t been destroyed.
She stopped. Couldn’t have moved for anything when she saw Picasso’s Tête d’Arlequin. Tears came to her eyes, but also, a lot of anger. This unbelievable bastard was worse than she’d ever imagined. When she looked toward the back wall, she saw it. The missing Degas. The original.
“So you like my little collection, eh?”
Holstrom had moved directly behind her, and his hands clamped around her arms, holding them tight against her body. “I knew you would. You’re a little art whore, aren’t you?”
Here was the punishment she’d earned by her trick.
He kissed her neck. Then bit her. Just enough for her to cry out. “I am,” she said. “And I want the same thing you do, but I have to see the rest. Please. I’m desperate to see everything.”
The way he squeezed her arms would leave bruises. But instead of giving in to the urge to pull away, she stood her ground and moaned as if she wanted him to hurt her.
“I’ll guide you. After all, I know what you like.”
She just nodded obediently and the pressure on her arms relaxed, but not by much. “Now, what’s this one?”
“Henri Matisse. La Liseuse en Blanc et Jaune.”
Holstrom let go of her arms. “If you’re a good girl, I’ll let you see more,” he whispered. “I want you to put your hands behind your back. Don’t move them until I tell you. You don’t need hands to look, do you?”
“No,” she said. “Of course not. It’s fine.” The last bit was for Logan, certainly not the sadist in back of her. She obeyed, hating him more than she’d ever hated anyone. Still, she kept her eyes reverent, her voice submissive. She had to be sure the camera had enough time to do its job. If Logan barged in now...
Oh, God.
“You’ve kept them in perfect condition,” she said, then sent Logan another message. “It’s smart to have me put my hands behind my back. I’d never forgive myself if I accidently touched one of these masterpieces. I can’t even imagine what they’re worth. Millions.”
“Millions?” Ian laughed. “Turn around.”
She did. His hands went to her wrists this time. Holding them with the intent to bruise.
“Close your eyes. I’ll tell you when to open them.”
Of course, she obeyed. He moved her forward, then turned her and stopped.
“You may open your eyes now.”
Again, she gasped. No wonder he’d laughed when she said millions. She was looking at something she thought she’d never see in her lifetime. “That’s Rembrandt. That’s Rembrandt. Storm on the Sea of Galilee. It’s so...”
He laughed again, but she didn’t care. No matter what happened to her, she had to get these paintings away from this madman. His right hand moved, and she felt it under her sweater. Moving up until he reached her bra. He found a way to tuck the top part of her cup under her bra so her breast was completely exposed.
She wondered if he’d just broken the contact she had with Logan. But then she shifted her entire focus to the painting...on the brushstrokes, and shading. No one had bettered Rembrandt even after all these years.
Holstrom teased her nipple. “Tell me what you know.”
She held in a curse. “It was painted in 1633. Stolen on the morning of March 18th, 1990, from the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum by thieves dressed like policemen.”
“Very good,” he said, then he squeezed her nipple so hard she couldn’t hold back a shocked cry. She wanted to tell Logan to wait. That she was fine. Maybe it was for the best if the wire had stopped working.
Finally, Holstrom let go, and she breathed again. He took her down the row of eleven other stolen or “destroyed” pieces, and she told him about each one. But he didn’t hurt her, except when he reclaimed her wrists. At least his sick game was keeping him occupied. Letting the camera snake do its work.