Owned: A Mafia Menage Romance(148)

“Jetlag,” I muttered as some kind of explanation for my weepy, burning eyes.

“Thank you, Peter,” Jackson said into his phone as he walked up to me, thumbing it to disconnect. He held out his arm gallantly and I slid my hand into the sturdy crook of his elbow.

“Yeah, OK, have a great time!” Declan called sarcastically from the front seat.

“We will,” Jackson retorted, then closed the door smartly and returned to my side. “You look a little shaky,” he said, a smile turning up one corner of his mouth.

“I must be just beyond tired still… or something, I’m sorry,” I apologized, waving my hand in front of my nose as I begged my weepy sinuses to get a grip.

“Or something,” he said with a knowing wink.

As the Bentley pulled away he guided me carefully across the bike lane to the plaza. I held tightly to Jackson’s bicep as we climbed the steps, the huge building looming ever larger and my knees growing ever weaker.

“Wait right here,” he said suddenly and dashed off, leaving me with my arms out like a unicycle rider.

I watched him zigzag between the few small clusters of tourists and disappear toward a small cluster of temporary-looking kiosks while I waited. In moments he reappeared, grinning as he jogged back, a covered white paper cup in each hand.

“Coffee!” I exclaimed. I took the cup gratefully from him, holding it under my nose and inhaling deeply. He kissed the top of my head and threw his arm around my shoulder, redirecting me toward the museum at a slower pace.

“Ah, you’re a genius,” I sighed, sipping carefully at the hot, strong liquid. “You guys know all the best stuff.”

“You guys?” he repeated in exaggerated disbelief. “No way, my dear. This is a Jackson Burke special. I don’t think Declan’s ever even been here.”

“He hasn’t? I thought he loved art too.”

“Of course not. There’s nothing for sale,” he shrugged, squinting ahead at the stone arches. “Now, step lively… I see our host.”

Jackson charged forward and I struggled to keep up, taking daring sips of the burning coffee as we strode ahead. A very tall man walked out from under the stone arch, lighting a cigarette in the shade.

“We can’t… Jackson, it’s like seven am!”

“Not a problem,” he answered with a grin.

The figure waved a hand at us as we approached, then crossed his arms over his chest and continued smoking. From far away, he looked like a reasonable facsimile of Rutger Hauer with flowing silver hair that shimmered in the half-light. From closer, he looked exactly like Rutger Hauer, only Viking tall and as robust as a demi-god.

“Peter!” Jackson called out as we crossed into the shade.

“Jackson!” the man boomed, gathering my billionaire in his arms like Jackson was a little boy. I tried not to gape, but he really was quite remarkable. Taller than Jackson by four inches and barrel-chested, he had a magnificent, practically resplendent presence. The phrase “larger than life” had probably been invented just for him.

I grinned stupidly as Jackson took a half step back, his fingertips finding mine and clasping my hand firmly. “Peter, this is Margot Trask. Margot… Baron Peter Baarst.”

The Baron cough-laughed, a plume of smoke shooting above our heads.

“Baron!” he repeated in a beautiful, silky accent. “That is so antiquated! Please, my dear, call me Peter.”

“It’s wonderful to meet you, Peter,” I said sincerely. I held out my hand and he plucked it out of the air, bringing it to his lips and kissing my knuckles. My hand looked like a doll’s, pressed against his lips.

Rutger Hauer is kissing my hand!

My heart ballooned in my chest, swelling so quickly with glee and excitement that I expected to be able to hear it when it popped. Jackson began to ask something about a house and my ears filled with white noise. As Peter nodded, listening, he crossed his arms over his chest and dragged thoughtfully on a gold-tipped cigarette.

Just wait til Bridget hears about this.

“All right!” Peter said smoothly, stubbing the cigarette on a gold case he produced from the pocket of his trousers and then sliding the butt into the case. “We have a little time, not too much. You want to start in the Night Watch Gallery I presume?”

I nodded numbly, my eyes as wide as saucers. He leaned toward me confidentially.

“Everyone feels this way the first time,” he said with a reassuring wink. “Even the thousandth time, for some. It gives me great pleasure to show this to you, someone who truly understands what they are seeing.”

“Thank you,” I choked, just above hearing.