“I think we’re just going to have to deal with it. Chalk it up to being new parents. And remember, people have had children for thousands of years. We’re not alone.”
Abbey giggled as she snuggled closer to him. “And in the meantime, while we try to fall asleep?”
Sloan nudged her face toward his, engulfing her lips with his. As they parted, he grinned. “I could sing to you.”
“Or we could just cuddle and talk.”
“If that sort of thing works for you.”
“You’ll wake the baby.”
“Very true.”
He held her close as she buried her face in his shoulder. Being close to her soothed him. It wasn’t long before he heard her snore. He followed after her.
Chapter Ten
Bartholomew stepped inside the gallery, brushing the newly fallen snow from his coat. He glanced around at the polished, aged wood and the couple dozen paintings hanging on the walls and kiosks built throughout the main floor.
He had to admit, he loved working side-by-side with Sloan again. There was no stress in this job. That was, aside from working with the brother of his new love. He knew how protective Sloan was of Maggie. He also knew just how dangerous the man was. It kept him on his toes.
“Sloan!” he called through the empty building.
“Back here,” the answer came.
Bartholomew knocked the excess slush from his shoes and then strode across the wood plank gallery floor to the back room. Sloan sat at the antique desk that doubled as his office.
“Good morning,” Bartholomew greeted.
“Good morning.” Sloan sat back in his chair, an evil grin sliding across his face. “I have a job for you to do.”
Bartholomew’s heart seized in his chest. Is my time up? Is Sloan ready to enact revenge for whatever sin he thinks I’ve committed against Maggie?
Sloan pulled the phone on his desk to the middle of the leather desk blotter. He pressed a business card beside it and then stood. “I have a call for you to make,” he instructed, his Irish brogue dark, smooth, and dangerous. He gestured to the chair he had just vacated. “Have a seat.”
Bartholomew sat hesitantly in the leather office chair. Sloan leaned against his workshop table, his large, powerful arms crossed over his chest. “I want you to broker my art deal,” he announced.
“I can’t…I have no idea…” Bartholomew stammered.
“You can and you will. The painting is worth four million. I will settle for three. That crook Albert won’t budge from two. Your job is to make him budge.”
“Sloan, I can’t do this,” Bartholomew protested.
Sloan didn’t answer him. Instead, he lifted the receiver of the phone and handed it to Bartholomew.
Bartholomew took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. He drilled his fingers against the numbers of the keypad. His heart thundered as the phone rang.
“Albert Weist,” the voice on the other side barked.
“Albert, this is Bartholomew Evans. I’m calling on behalf of Sloan O’Riley. I’m brokering his painting Explosive Sunrise II.”
“Tell that son of a bitch two million. Not a penny more.”
“It’s been appraised at four million.”
“It’s not worth four million. It’s not worth the canvas it’s painted on. Tell him two million. Final.”
“I don’t think—”
“I don’t think you hear me. Sloan O’Riley is a talentless hack. The only reason he got this far in his career is that he screwed his way there. Slept with enough airhead socialites to send them running to their daddies for money to buy worthless art.”
Bartholomew felt his face harden as his nerves turned to molten rage. His blue eyes flickered around the desk for an idea. Suddenly, he plunged his hand into his jeans pocket and pulled out his cell phone. He stared at it for a moment. Is it worth the gamble? Most definitely. He found his ringtone app, chose one, and pressed Play.
“Sorry, Albert. Gotta grab that call. Hold on for a sec.” Bartholomew set the receiver down and then put the cell to his ear, despite the fact that no one was there. It seemed easier to play act the part that way. Sloan probably thinks I look like an idiot.
“Bartholomew here… Hey man, how’s it going? Great, glad to hear it… Explosion Sunrise II? Is it still on the market? I’ve got an interested party looking at it. Why? You want it? Really? Five million? Absolutely, it’s yours. Let me call you back. I’ve got to let this other guy go.”
Bartholomew set his cell on the desk. He paused for a second and then picked up the receiver. “Sorry, Albert. We’re done here. Thanks for the interest. Talk to you later.”
“Wait!” Albert shouted through the line. “You can’t sell that. I have a corporation ready to buy it. Just wait!”
“My guy is offering five million.”
“Six. My bid is six. I will pay six million.”
“For Explosion Sunrise II?”
“Yes!” Albert’s voice was laced with desperation.
“Deal. You know where to wire the money, right?”
“Yes.”
“Great. I’ll check the account in an hour to make sure the transaction is complete. The transport company will be in contact with you to set up shipping. It’s been a pleasure.”
Bartholomew set the receiver on the base as the realization of his actions flooded him. That had been completely unlike him. He had been cold, calculating, and devious.
Just like Sloan.
Bartholomew looked up into his boss’s amused, ice blue eyes. Sloan uncrossed his arms and clapped his hands. “Bravo.”
“I guess,” Bartholomew agreed, reluctantly.
“You got me twice what I wished.”
“Yes.”
“Now, to discuss the part of this transaction we omitted.”
Bartholomew looked at him, confusion and worry etching his features. He couldn’t even imagine what else Sloan might want him to do.
“We failed to discuss broker fees. I believe ten percent of each transaction is fair. Do you agree?” Sloan inquired.
Bartholomew shrugged. He was utterly flabbergasted. “Sure,” he answered.
Sloan paced back to his desk. He waved Bartholomew to the side and then opened the top desk drawer, removing his checkbook. Smiling slyly at Bartholomew, he took the pen enclosed and scribbled. Then he ripped the paper free and handed it to Bartholomew.
“You are hired as my personal broker.” Sloan set the checkbook on the desk and disappeared into the gallery showroom. Bartholomew looked down at the paper in his hand. It was a check for six hundred thousand dollars.
»»•««
That evening, Bartholomew stabbed mindlessly at his salad. The commotion of the Italian restaurant around him could not distract him from his thoughts.
“Sweetheart?”
He shot up in his seat, dropping his fork to the glass plate with a loud clatter. The diners surrounding them stopped eating and stared at them, silently demanding an excuse for the noise. He turned, meeting the bright blue eyes of the woman he loved.
“Sweetheart, are you all right?” she pressed.
“Yes,” he answered. “Why?”
“You seem distracted.”
He shook his head. “Just something at work.”
Her eyes narrowed to dark slits. “What did Sloan do? I swear, I’m going to tear that man apart…”
“No, Maggie. It was a good day. Trust me. I just don’t know if I’m comfortable with…aw, crap…”
“Comfortable with what?”
He was jolted again by the vibration of his cell. Slipping the phone from his pocket, he glanced down at the text message from Sloan.
We’re leaving tomorrow to broker a deal in Vegas. Meet me at the gallery at eight. Plane leaves at nine.
He sighed as he slid the phone back in his pocket.
“Is everything all right?” Maggie asked with concern.
Bartholomew forced a smile onto his face as he took a bite of salad. “Of cou
rse it is.”
»»•««
The sounds of slot machines rang through the hotel corridor. Bartholomew shot a sideways glance into the casino main floor. The rows and rows of zombies staring at the screens while they pressed buttons or pulled levers disturbed him. He just couldn’t see the entertainment value in it. Reading a good book, yes. Being distracted by the bells and whistles of a slot machine, no.
His brief observation took him out of step with Sloan’s stride. He jogged to catch up with his employer. As Bartholomew reached Sloan’s side, Sloan thrust a gold object out to him.
“Put it on,” Sloan barked, his brogue thick and quiet.
Bartholomew took the object and gazed down at it. He flipped open the clasp on the metal band of the Rolex and slipped it on his wrist.
“How much does this watch cost?” Bartholomew breathed.
Sloan laughed, clearly amused. “More than your yearly salary as a paramedic.”
Bartholomew wanted to claw the watch from his wrist right then. Instead, he obediently clasped it shut.
The two men slowed their pace as they reached the club. The high-pitched bells of the machines were replaced quickly by the dull, bass thud of the music drifting out. The bouncer was attempting to fend off several drunk, obnoxious girls from the door. The man glanced up at Sloan as they drew near.
“Rex,” Sloan demanded.
“Private room, Mr. O’Riley. He’s waiting for you.” The bouncer flicked open the scarlet velvet rope defending the door to allow Sloan and Bartholomew to pass through. Then Bartholomew heard it click closed behind him.
They wove through the gyrating bodies on the dark dance floor to the curtained doorway leading to the private rooms. Sloan tossed the drape aside and stormed through. Bartholomew held his breath, his insides anxiously churning as he followed.
The first thing Bartholomew noticed was the women. They were everywhere, beautiful and scantily clad with long legs, full breasts, and flowing long hair. Their eyes locked on Sloan and Bartholomew like tigers did on fresh meat. He suddenly ached for Maggie. He looked at Sloan in bewilderment, seeing Sloan’s chiseled face set like stone, his blue eyes piercing. How in hell can Sloan go to these places as a married man? Is he faithful to Abbey?
Damien Rex sat reclined on the couch, accompanied by at least six women on each side of him. He sneered as he noticed the two men. “O’Riley. Glad you could make it. Should we get to it?”
Sloan smiled and shook his head. “I brought a broker to make my deal.”
Bartholomew stiffened as he felt Rex examine him. “Well, junior. Have a seat. I don’t have all day.”
Bartholomew stared at Sloan warily as he lowered himself into an overstuffed, burgundy, velvet chair. As he descended, he felt Sloan’s breath in his ear. “You’ve made me a profit on the last two sales. Don’t screw up this one.”
Bartholomew swallowed hard as he faced Damien.
“Let me make this easy for you, junior,” Damien began. “The price is two million for the painting. I’ll give you one. Final offer.”
Bartholomew stared at him in disbelief. He felt his insides clench and then go cold. Any fear, any trepidation he felt at being put in this position, fled him. He shot a half-cocked smile at Rex. “You did make that easy for me. Not happening. I have clients begging me for that painting, willing to give three. So, I guess we’re done.” Bartholomew stood, shoving his hand in his slacks pocket while making sure Damien got a good look at the watch.
“Sit down, child,” Damien bellowed. “You have no idea who you are dealing with…”
A chirp from Bartholomew’s pocket disrupted his tirade. “Sorry. Got to get this.” Bartholomew slipped the phone from his pocket and pressed it to his ear as he stormed from the room.
Bartholomew scrolled through his speed dial and pressed send. He met the voice on the other end, talking as loud as he could over the music, yet quiet enough not to be noticed. He glanced back into the private room to see Damien lashing out on the still-standing Sloan. “What is the meaning of this, O’Riley? Bringing that immature, insolent runt here to waste my time and—”
Bartholomew poked his head into the room. “Come on, Sloan. I have a buyer on the phone. Three million.”
“The devil you do,” Damien snarled.
Bartholomew met Damien’s gray-eyed glare evenly as he crossed the room to him. The women pawing him seductively parted to give Bartholomew space.
Bartholomew handed Damien the phone. “See for yourself.”
Damien ripped the cell from Bartholomew’s hand and pressed it to his ear. Before Damien could speak, a very enraged, deep voice blared from the earpiece. Bartholomew shot a side-glance at Sloan. The Irishman’s mouth twisted slightly in a knowing grin.
It was Robert’s voice cursing Damien through the phone. Bartholomew turned back just in time to catch his airborne cell.
“Four. I’ll give you four. And shut that…that thing on the phone up,” Damien growled.
Bartholomew slid his thumb gently across the touch screen, ending the call. “Deal. Once you wire the money to the account, we’ll ship the painting.”
“Fine.”
Bartholomew extended his hand as he flashed a cocky smile. “Great doing business with you.”
Damien snarled at the offering.
“Let’s go,” Sloan ordered quietly.
Bartholomew spun on his toe to comply. He stopped suddenly as a pair of large brown eyes framed in a delicate crème face greeted him. The red-haired beauty slowly, sensually slid her hands around Bartholomew’s arm, her ruby lips pouting for his attention.
He froze in place. His cool bravado disappeared. He ached for Maggie as the redhead pressed closer to him, her breasts flush as she vied for his attention.
“Bartholomew,” Sloan warned.
Gently, he shook himself free from the beauty’s grasp and followed Sloan from the room, noticing Sloan excusing himself from the clutches of a blonde and a brunette. Bartholomew couldn’t breathe until they reached the hotel corridor.
Sloan clapped Bartholomew across the back. Bartholomew coughed violently in response. “That was fantastic,” Sloan praised. “Let’s go get something to eat. Then we’ll go back to the suite to go over some financials and catch the rugby game on ESPN.”
Bartholomew glanced at Sloan. “I have something I need to do right now. I’ll catch up with you.”
“I will see you later, then.” Sloan strolled away toward the hotel lobby. Bartholomew watched him disappear before he retreated to his room.
»»•««
Bartholomew pulled his suit coat tighter to himself to block out the biting wind ripping across the prairie. He glanced across the snow-covered fields looking for any signs of life. There wasn't a cow or rancher in sight. Good. He was hoping to avoid his brothers for a while. I don't need their grief right now.
He knocked on the chocolate-brown aluminum door of the unfurnished, large, wood-sided house. His heart thundered in his chest. How long has it been? He thought hard as he ran dates in his head. He sighed as only one answer came to him. It's been way too long.
The large door creaked as it was wrenched open. A young woman stood in the doorway, her long, blonde hair brushing against her back. She barely came to his chest. Her warm, brown eyes flew wide in surprise.
"B!" she screamed in excitement as she flung her arms around him. "I can't believe you're here!"
He hugged his little sister to him. "Hey, Rachel. How have you been?"
"I've been great. We haven't seen you for so long. Mom! Dad!" Rachel grabbed her big brother's large hand in both of hers and tugged him inside the house, slamming the front door behind them. He followed as she led him down the hallway of the ranch house to the kitchen.
"Where are Tyler, Kyle, and Travis?" he asked warily of his older brothers.
"Out with the ranch hands. They won't be home until after sundown," she answered.
She dragged him breathlessly into the kitchen and then smiled at her
parents proudly about her discovery. Bartholomew met their parents shocked faces with a nervous smile.
“Hey, Dad. Hey, Mom,” he greeted weakly.
Neither of them answered him for a moment. Then his mother shuffled across the kitchen, throwing her arms around him. He noticed the tears misting in her eyes. He looked up to see his dad stand, offering his hand. Bartholomew hugged his mother with one arm as he shook his father’s hand with the other.
His mother looked up at him. “It’s good to have you home, B,” she beamed.
His father glanced around him. “Is there more company we should be expecting, son?”
“No. Just me,” Bartholomew answered.
“What brought you home?”
Bartholomew slumped in the seat his mother offered to him. He watched as she scurried across the kitchen to get him a cup of coffee. “I needed to clear my head. I couldn’t think of a better place than home.” He glanced around the room. “Everything looks great.”
Bartholomew’s mother set the steaming, white ceramic mug in front of him. “We wouldn’t have this house without you.”
“We are so proud of you, B.” His father’s smile radiated across the table to him.
“Hold that thought, Dad.” Bartholomew sighed. “I lost my job as a paramedic. Got in a fist fight with a doctor.”
He watched his father’s eyes grow wide in alarm. “A fight? Over what?”
“Maggie Morrison. Sloan’s sister.”
“Maggie, huh?” Rachel teased. “Do you like her?”
“I love her, Rachel,” Bartholomew confessed. “I’m back working for Sloan, but…” He shook his head.
His father nodded toward his suit. “Where were you?”
Bartholomew glanced down at his black, tailored suit coat, slacks, and white linen shirt. He had lost the silk tie at least a layover or two ago. “Vegas. I’m brokering Sloan’s paintings for him.”
“You don’t like doing that work?”
“Actually, I love it. I’m good at it. But the places I have to go. The man I become. I don’t know if I can live with it.”
His father picked up his own ceramic mug and cradled it in his hands. “What possessed you to start this line of work?”
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