Capturing the Queen (Damaged Heroes Book 2)

by Sarah Andre

  He straightened the coverlet until it was perfectly even. Grabbing the hotel pad and pen by the telephone, he jotted a note and left it on the floor. He flicked off the bedside lamp, and with the stealth of Cary Grant in To Catch a Thief, he let himself out.

  20

  Gretch startled awake to a crescent moon glowing in through the window of a strange room. The hotel…Sean… Oh God.

  She took in the coverlet tucked around her, the neatly turned-down bedsheets, but most of all, the absence of a geeky fairytale prince. She’d ruined everything. All because his amazing kisses had swept right under her guard. “Oh, Christ in poopy diapers.”

  What had possessed her to do him? They’d have to see each other in a few hours! And every day after. They’d have to talk. This wasn’t like the others, whom she never saw again unless it was on her terms. Where she specifically went to their place so she could leave afterward, on her time, instead of begging them to go like she had with Sean.

  Gretch glanced at the neon numbers on the clock. Four twenty-two. There was no way she’d be falling back asleep.

  She leaned forward. Her lats immediately cramped from the curved armchair. Groaning and gently stretching, she massaged the kink in her neck then wriggled her toes, which for once felt great. Sean’s fingers had been magical. Not only did she not remember him working on her left foot, but she never fell asleep with a man still in her presence. Especially after she finished them off. She couldn’t get them out of her sight fast enough. Why on earth had he stayed after witnessing her full-blown crazy?

  Gretch rubbed her temples, groaning once more. She was going to have to quit her job; there was no way around it.

  “So this is what you do.”

  He knew her secret. The disgusting part of herself she’d finally revealed to Eve last night. Not even an hour later, Sean had picked up on it like it was still floating out in the universe to snatch up, look at, judge. She bit her lip at the threatening sting of tears. She’d miss Moore and Morrow. Mourn not seeing Hannah each day. But no way could she face Sean ever again.

  Gretch stumbled toward the bathroom, spotting a white pad on the carpet. Please God, no. What could he possibly say after all this? She picked it up and turned on the overhead light, blinking and squinting at his neatly slanted words.

  Pick you up at 8am. We’ll buy you a pair of sneakers for commuting. My treat!

  A smiley face? After she’d disintegrated in front of him like that? Did he actually think life could go on as usual? “Like hell I’ll be here at eight,” she muttered, sweeping up her duffel. Her knockoff Jimmy Choos stood neatly in the open closet. Sneakers! My treat.

  She lived and died by one rule: control men. That meant maintaining a great body, and showing that body off. Squeezing into sexy outfits and suffering in stilettos were mandatory to her image. She may despise men in general, but she needed them to ogle her like she needed oxygen. Her self-esteem and self-respect had been sucked into the void of self-hatred long ago.

  Now Sean had toured the behemoth black hole. Did he run in terror? No. He skillfully massaged her feet and wanted to buy her sneakers. The guy was off his rocker.

  In the shower, Gretch scrubbed herself viciously, as if she could wash away last night’s massive mistake. She made quick work of dressing in Dwayne’s selection of a black spandex-poly-blend dress and a thick red patent-leather belt. She zipped through styling her hair and applying makeup as if she were late for a world premiere. After donning chunky, look-at-me costume jewelry, she stood back and examined her reflection. There. Back to the Gretch who took on the world. She slipped on Michael Kors black patent-leather heels shot through with red slashes. Fucking ouch.

  Scooping up her belongings, she found her phone in her purse. Brandon’s text from the night before popped up the second she pressed the home button. Why aren’t you home? I want back in your mouth, bitch.

  Home? What the fuck? He couldn’t possibly have tracked her—she’d given him a false last name. She scanned through her other texts, heart beating rapidly. Two from Dwayne. The first answered her text requesting he bring a change of clothes for her to the shelter.

  Bummer. HUGE surprise for you. How do I know he’s huge? I saw before. May not tell him you aren’t coming home, so he hangs around a bit longer.

  Forty-eight minutes later. Told him to leave. He has a serious personality disorder!

  “Ya think?” Chills chased down her spine. Brandon had her address now. Thank God she hadn’t gone home and walked in on him waiting. Although, to be honest, she’d replaced that disaster of an evening with one much worse in the long run. So, so much worse.

  Gretch squinted at the digital clock: five fifteen. She slipped out into the hall. Her past was riddled with walking away and starting over. It was actually refreshing. Freeing. She could reinvent herself, her career, make a whole new set of friends… Granted, she’d never started over again this quickly, but it couldn’t be helped. Sean had found out her secret. She was a frigid freak. There would be no looking back.

  The elevator dinged. New life beginning in three, two, one… She stepped in, hit the lobby button, and calmly prioritized the morning. Head straight to work, type up a resignation letter, drop it on Walter’s desk, clean out her desk, and text Hannah to meet for lunch so she could apologize in person. Without giving the real reason. Ever.

  Gretch strode out into the quiet lobby, shoulders back, head high. Showtime. She flashed her composed smile at the night clerk behind the desk, a heavyset man with a shock of white hair a la Einstein. As expected, he blinked wide-eyed before muttering, “Good morning, ma’am.”

  She greeted him sweetly and checked out of the hotel. No way would she need the room again tonight. In an hour she’d no longer be employed with Moore and Morrow, so that vague threat was gone. She’d call Brandon and have the stone-cold heart-to-heart she should have had before leaving his bed on Saturday night. So much for hoping he’d get the gentler message of her radio silence.

  “We hope you enjoyed your stay,” the clerk said, handing her the receipt. Thanking him and smiling widely, Gretch swept up her duffel and strutted for the door.

  Her heart seized. Her steps faltered. Across the lobby, Sean lounged on a pinstriped sofa, alert and expressionless. No, no, no!

  “Not sure you should be checking out of here without clearing it with Margo.” His voice was gruff, the shadows under his eyes more like indentations of exhaustion.

  “Not sure it’s any of your business.” Her answer was high-pitched and tentative. Her cheeks burned. Her new life fizzled.

  He stood stiffly and rolled his shoulders, waiting for her, but her feet wouldn’t move. After a pause, he jerked his head toward the street. “Ready to tackle the day?”

  “You’ve been here all night?” she asked, frowning. She would not feel bad. She’d told him she didn’t need him guarding her. Told him to get the hell out.

  “I went home. Showered, changed, ate.” He spread his arms and looked down at himself. “Thanks for noticing.”

  Well, yes, he didn’t have stubble, but he wore jeans and a blue button-down—how would she know that wasn’t yesterday’s? She held back a snarky response, because her confident-Gretch mask had cracked at the sight of him.

  He was here. They were talking.

  She waved her hand in a shooing motion. “I’m done with the babysitting routine. Go home.”

  “So you can skulk into work and resign before anyone arrives?”

  She blinked, slack-jawed. His accurate guess didn’t give her time to paste on outrage. “I…I don’t…”

  He strolled over and reached for her duffel, his expression carved into that typical introverted bad mood. Until she focused on his eyes. They blazed an ice-cold challenge. Her breath stilled.

  “I’m escorting you to work today as if it were any other day, Gretch. And when we get there, you’re going to resume being the Queen of Fucking Everything.” He jerked his head again. “Move it. There’s a Walmart on South Cic
ero that opens at six. We can get there just as the doors open and buy you a pair of sneakers.”

  How dare he order her around! “Fuck you, Sean.”

  His luscious mouth curved. “That’s my girl.”

  Sean glanced at the reception desk. Gretch sat motionless, head firmly planted in her arms. Perfect. He had a solid hour before work began. It would only take a few minutes to find out what was hidden underneath the ugly charity painting. His heart pounded in anticipation. He laid the canvas on the empty worktable in what had been Robbie the intern’s cubicle last fall, then swiftly unscrewed the offset clips and pulled out the industrial staples.

  “Damn.” Some idiot had pasted strips of double-sided adhesive tape around the edges of the two canvases. The oxidation factor of the tape alone made the need for restoration a probability. Sean slowed his work, separating in millimeter segments to make sure he didn’t damage the painting underneath. It was killing him not to tear the top canvas off like wrapping paper, but his methodical nature forced him not to peek until he’d extricated all four sides.

  Dane and Anna arrived, greeting a cranky Gretch. They knew better than to disturb him on their way to their workstations. A few minutes later, the smell of percolating coffee wafted in the air. Then Hannah’s cheerful voice as she arrived. The day had officially begun. Sean rolled his shoulders and picked up his pace. He had three weeks to miraculously restore the Quran; this was so not a pressing matter in comparison.

  The final edge peeled free. His pulse spiked. “Here we go,” he muttered, standing and carefully lifting the ugly canvas. The other painting emerged, magnificent and unharmed except for the strips of adhesive tape bordering the canvas.

  Chills pricked his limbs. Normal lab sounds condensed down to the thick whoosh-whoosh of his heart. He sat clumsily. “Holy. Shit.”

  Underneath his gloved fingertips lay Johannes Vermeer’s masterpiece The Concert, stolen from Boston’s Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum in 1990. The most expensive art heist ever. Oh my fucking God.

  Flop sweat drenched him, as if he’d gone through an entire combat karate competition with no break. “Oh my God,” he repeated, inhaling unevenly. His legs were too numb to stand. He scanned the fluidity of the scene inch by inch, jaw agape.

  Vermeer had slanted in warm sunlight, bathing the dark hues of the musical-themed composition. The shafts of light masterfully led the viewers’ eyes to the bright outfit on the girl playing the harpsicord center-left, then lit a path along the black and white floor tiles directly to the man playing the lute, his back to the viewer. An older woman, presumably the man’s wife, stood to his right, hands raised and mouth open in song. A viola on the shadowed floor was visible. So was the intricately detailed Acadian landscape painted on the open lid of the harpsichord.

  It was spectacular. Perfection. The work was three hundred years old and considered Vermeer’s best. Of the five hundred million dollars’ worth of artifacts stolen that night, the estimated value of this canvas was two hundred million. Minimum. It had been a while since Sean had read updates on the investigation, the various suspects, the dead ends, but without a doubt the FBI still actively hunted down clues to solve the enigmatic heist. And here was the most valuable piece of them all, hidden beneath one of the ugliest paintings he’d ever seen. A painting Harrison Wickham had banned from his house. One that should have been cleaned and donated to a senior center.

  Laughter and the sounds of running water and clinking tools snapped Sean back to the here and now. Dane and Anna were fully into their restoration day, and Gretch was on the phone.

  He hastily covered The Concert with the outer canvas, filled with unease, like he was part of the cover-up—literally. What should he do first? Telling Hannah would be smart. Telling Harrison Wickham would guarantee the painting would be snatched back, hung up in one of his private art galleries for years while the old man engaged in warfare litigation with the Garner Museum. He’d probably end up winning, too, what with possession being nine-tenths…

  Sean left the ugly canvas on the desk and returned to his cubicle. He should call Jace. But then presto-change-o, his brother would whisk the painting out of the lab and take all the credit. Did it matter? Sure, Sean could use whatever reward money was still being offered, but not the frenzied media attention. And if he told Jace, his brother’s fame—and promotions—would know no bounds. He’d owe it all to Sean. Maybe Jace would finally respect him, owe him for life, treat him like a brother he was proud of—all miracles Sean had ceased to hope for long ago. Besides, the text from Gretch’s stalker still burned in his mind. Jace would be able to trace the number in thirty seconds. A priceless painting in exchange for the bastard’s address.

  Sean dialed his brother’s cell and rubbed his gritty eyes. The adrenalin of the last hour was leaching out, replaced by a treading-water-in-lead-boots exhaustion.

  “Busy,” his brother answered.

  “Jesus, Jace. This could have been Hannah or Walter.”

  “They’d have called Margo.” His brother sounded winded, and rapid footsteps echoed hollowly, like in a stairwell. “I don’t have time, kid. I’m late for a crucial meeting.”

  Already the shiny dream of a beholden Jace withered. Sean rattled off the cell phone number anyway, peering over his cubicle in case anyone walked within hearing distance. “I need the address.”

  His brother sighed. “It’s against policy to use our database to help you score women.”

  “First, when have you ever followed policy, and second, it’s not a woman’s number.”

  “It’s against policy to help you score men, too.”

  “Come on, Jace.” Sean kept his tone light, but it consumed all his energy. His muscles were so tight from the art discovery, the disastrous night, the lack of sleep… If someone engaged him in a judo takedown right now, he’d snap in two. “This is the stalker who’s been sending hostile texts to Gretch. I caught the phone number last night.”

  “Last night?” A pause. “Something going on between you and Gretch I should know about?”

  “I walked her to her hotel. You do know that.” The scalding memory of his orgasm choked off any other reassurances.

  Jace stayed silent. Of all four brothers, he’d always had the greatest acuity for ferreting out Sean’s lies.

  “Just trace the number, Jace. Please. I have crucial information to trade.”

  Sean held his breath. There were two ways this would end. Jace would give him the address, and Sean would unleash hell on the shithead, or Jace would visit the guy, flash his credentials, and give him a little Quinn love. Naturally, his brother would report back to Gretch, accepting all credit. Either would produce the same end result: Brandon would stop harassing her, so technically it was all good. But just once, Sean would love to be the hero in her eyes.

  The clang of a heavy door sounded over the line, then background noises of a bustling office and ringing phones. “Okay,” Jace said in a low voice. “I’ll take it from here.”

  The banding up Sean’s neck eased. “Thank you. Oh, and Gretch mentioned that Adyton is Shiʿite. The funds from blood artifacts aren’t going to ISIS.”

  “He’s actually Alawite, the same religion and a distant relative of Bashar al-Assad.”

  Sean shook his head; the cobwebs inside made it hard to process. “You’re saying the funds from blood artifacts support the Syrian regime?”

  “The very same regime we’re backing rebel groups to overthrow, yes. Why don’t you and Gretch stick to dusting art and leave the investigation to us.”

  Sean gritted his teeth to halt the obscenity. He had a two-hundred-million-dollar painting mere feet away that was about to rock the media worldwide. You are so going to owe me for this. “Also, I uncov—”

  “Gotta go.”

  “Wait—”

  Jace hung up.

  Sean squeezed the phone. “Are you fucking kidding me?” Of all the buttons his brothers knew how to push, this was the big one. Not listening. Not taking him
seriously. Dismissing his puny existence to go on about their exciting lives.

  It took every ounce of composure not to slam the receiver back onto the console a few times, symbolically battering his brother’s head. “Oh well,” he muttered. “Sucks to be you, Jace.” Divine fucking intervention.

  The oil painting would remain Sean’s secret a little longer. Besides, maybe it worked out better this way. He’d spent three years consulting with the FBI; he knew the basics of an investigation. It wouldn’t hurt to speak to the Wickham son who’d gifted the ugly art to his father last October. Find out where he’d purchased it. Get some intel to impress the FBI when he did hand over the world’s most hunted painting.

  And having more facts would make him look and sound more like the consultant the FBI had hired before Jace switched careers and wrecked Sean’s reputation with his baby brother stories.

  21

  “It’ll take years to trace everything Adyton’s done,” Jace said to the men and women around the conference table, “but based on the Lincoln Bank SARs, he’s cleaning vast amounts of money.”

  “Preferred method?” Margo asked, furiously typing notes into her laptop.

  “Two. Layering, meaning multiple deposits to offshore banks, then using those funds to invest back into small businesses around Chicago—a bakery next door, local art galleries—all in family members’ names; and second, he uses smurfs: people who take his dirty cash, buy gambling chips or gift cards, and redeem for clean money. This bank’s due diligence manager has loosely tied in the Chicago mob as the operational go-between that handles the enormous cash flow generated by the artifact sale.”

  Margo’s fingers stilled. “The mob? Why would they help a lone wolf?

  “No doubt they’re receiving a massive commission, or maybe extorted Adyton to launder through them.”