by Lila Dubois
But Mr. Storm represented a group, a consortium, who had assets that needed management. It had taken several years—years that, looking back, he realized were a test—before Mr. Cobb handled all of the consortium’s assets. They had a few pieces of real estate, some investments, but most of their assets were art. Art they didn’t want catalogued or made public. Art which Mr. Cobb had painstakingly had insured. It had taken quite a bit of work on his side, and travel to locations he later couldn’t pinpoint, to get all the art photographed and catalogued, then insured by a firm that valued discretion the same way his clients did.
It was during that time that he realized the people he worked for were evil.
Mr. Cobb was a good man. Or he had been.
By the time he realized what he was doing, why these people wanted these secrets kept, it had been too late for him to back out. They were by then his only client. He was married, and at the time had two small children. He’d returned from a cataloguing trip—a trip during which he’d flown into Portland, gotten into a car with no windows in the back, and been driven five hours away. The car had pulled into a storage facility; Mr. Cobb had gotten out and done his work. Then he’d gotten back in the car and was returned to the airport. He never spoke to anyone. Never knew where he’d gone.
But he’d recognized one of the paintings he’d photographed that day. His wife, bless her, was one of those people who loved learning. When she was out, Mr. Cobb and the kids would binge on bad TV while eating popcorn. When she was home, they watched educational programing. And just a month before that fateful trip, they’d watched a program about the art the Nazis stole, and all the famous paintings that were still missing. One was a Van Gogh. Mr. Cobb may not have been a huge patron of the arts, but he knew that name, and truly appreciated how beautiful Van Gogh’s paintings were.
And there, in a climate-controlled storage unit, he’d seen a painting of a man in a blue suit and a straw hat walking with his easel and canvases, the sky turquoise and the fields golden. He’d even remembered the name of the painting, because it was simple and straightforward—The Painter on His Way to Work.
Since that fateful trip, Mr. Cobb had known this day would come. Known that he’d made a deal with the devil and that if he chose to stay, knowing what he knew, he’d pay the price. Mr. Cobb had chosen the easy way and lived a good life because of it.
Many times throughout the years, as he’d executed his employer’s orders, he’d wondered if this would be the thing that brought the house of cards down on him. He’d had that same feeling a few days ago when he’d contacted a charity in Denver about the loan of some of his client’s art.
The original arrangements for his client to have some of their collection shown at a charity gala had been made nearly a year ago. Mr. Cobb had taken care of the transport and insurance. He’d worked with the event management company and arranged for all contingencies.
Then, the day before the event, he’d gotten an alert from Mr. Black. Another name Mr. Cobb doubted was real. But Mr. Black was like Mr. Cobb. He was employed by the consortium, and all he did was computer work. Digital security and consulting was what Mr. Cobb called the payments to Mr. Black.
Mr. Black called to say that someone dangerous had RSVP’d to the event. An art historian, who, for some reason, was on a special roster of names Mr. Black kept. Mr. Cobb could only assume they were enemies of the consortium.
Mr. Cobb had gotten the message too late to stop everything from being taken out of storage, but he’d had the “sensitive” pieces held back. Then he ordered the most elaborate and impressive security detail he could get from the consortium’s preferred security firm.
His precautions had been necessary—there’d been an attempted theft of the art. Mr. Cobb had received an initial report from the security company, alerting him to what had happened and that they were in pursuit.
That was several days ago. He hadn’t gotten the final report from the company. He also didn’t know which pieces had been taken.
In order to keep from drawing too much attention, Mr. Cobb had been forced to leave the bulk of the collection on display with the charity. It was only yesterday that all the art had been boxed up and returned to the storage facility. Mr. Cobb was waiting for the security report—and hopefully the return of all the stolen pieces—before going up to do an inventory check himself.
The art was insured, so even if any pieces were truly lost, his client wouldn’t suffer any undue financial hardship. But it wasn’t really about the money. It was about privacy and control. Mr. Cobb dreaded telling his clients what had happened. He’d waited several days, before his conscience, ethics, and the occasional sensational news story, bade him send a certified letter notifying Mr. Storm of the theft, and the steps being taken to return the missing pieces—whatever they were.
Since writing the letter, Mr. Cobb had been plagued by a bad feeling, like the devil was breathing down his neck.
And now the devil had come to collect. Or more precisely, he’d sent a very dangerous-looking man to collect.
Mr. Cobb stacked his papers, put his pen in the drawer.
“I heard you, young man. No need to be rude.”
“Good.”
“I’ve worked for you people for over forty years.” It wasn’t pleading, Mr. Cobb wouldn’t stoop to that, but he wanted to make sure they took note of his loyalty.
“Not for me. But your loyalty is why I’m here.” He stepped out of the shadows. “Your family was already taken care of.”
Mr. Cobb surged to his feet, panic beating at his chest. “No. No. They don’t know anything.”
The man didn’t reply, and his eyes were cold.
Mr. Cobb ran at him. A stupid move. He was an old man. The stranger avoided his desperate fingers, stepping to the side. He grabbed Mr. Cobb by the shoulder, plunging the syringe into his upper arm. Mr. Cobb’s eyes started to close as he was lowered to the floor.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Cobb.”
The stranger looked around the office, assessing. Ten minutes later, he left the building via the back stairs with Mr. Cobb draped over his shoulder.
The first window exploded as he closed the trunk with Mr. Cobb inside. A second window exploded a moment later as the heat of the fire shattered the glass.
***
“After all we’ve been through, you doubt me?” Irina was angry and sad all at the same time. She folded her arms protectively over her breasts. She felt unkempt and unprepared for this confrontation. Jasper’s anger buffeted her, while Eli’s cold silence made her shiver. Irina tried to gather her thoughts and emotions and get them under control. She wanted to laugh at Jasper’s weird overreaction, wanted to stroke the worry lines from Eli’s face.
But she was raw, exposed. As if her skin and bone had been peeled away. It had been a long time since she’d let herself get that way—allowed herself to let go to the point that she was so very vulnerable. And so she didn’t say anything.
Jasper must have taken her silence as some sort of admission of guilt. “Stop pretending, you’re—”
“Shut up, Jasper. Look at her.”
There were footsteps, and Irina flinched. She took a half step back but there was nowhere to go. Her butt hit the wall and she froze.
“Irina.” Eli’s fingers were warm on her chilled skin as he took her hands. “Irina, it’s okay. It’s me. It’s Eli. Shhh.” He rubbed her fingers in long, smooth strokes. “Tell us about the paintings.”
“They’re just junk. I swear that’s all they are. Sometimes I…sometimes I just need to paint. I’m not hiding anything from you. Not hiding anything important I mean.” She winced at how stupid that sounded. Her stomach was knotted with embarrassment. Of all the people in the world to see her sad, stupid paintings, these two—the men she loved and who were so brilliant and knowledgeable about art—were the last ones on earth she’d want to see them. What must they think of her?
“How long have you been painting?” Eli’s voice was kind. It was
like he was asking a child about their scribbles.
Tears of embarrassment stung her eyes. She tried a dismissive laugh, but it came out as a choked sound that was closer to sob than debonair laugh. “I don’t want to talk about it. Please, just let me throw them away. I meant to do it before you got up.”
“Throw them away? Throw them away?”
“Jasper!” Eli barked. “Stop yelling. You’re scaring her.”
“Irina.” Jasper ran up to them, crowding against Eli and Irina. He touched her face. “Irina, baby, will you look at me?”
Eli’s presence beside her was intensely comforting and Irina started to feel more like herself—calm and confident. A spark of concern overrode her embarrassment. Jasper sounded slightly…crazed.
She raised her eyes, looking at her husbands. Eli’s brows were drawn together in concern, but his expression was soft with worry. He stroked her wrists with his thumbs. Jasper’s hair was standing on end as if he’d pulled on it with his fists.
The mess of emotions and anxieties that had driven her out of bed to create the sad little paintings was fading, to be replaced by rueful amusement.
Irina’s lips twitched and Eli’s face relaxed. “Jasper, you look like a mad scientist.” She slid out of Eli’s grasp, but not before she stretched up to plant a kiss on the underside of his chin. “Give me a minute to get rid of this stuff and clean up.”
Slipping away from them, she hustled over to the paintings, grabbing the self-portrait, which was still wet. Her thumb slid across the canvas as she picked it up. There was a large trash can in the dining room, so she’d take them there.
“Stop!” Jasper yelled.
Irina jumped in shock, dropping the painting.
Eli and Jasper both rushed forward, right past her, kneeling on either side of the painting.
“It’s okay, it’s okay,” Jasper chanted. “It landed face up.”
Irina, with a mental apology to the hotel owners, grabbed a towel and wiped her thumb. She was so covered in paint, a little more hardly mattered, but she had to try to start getting clean. She really should have bought some mineral spirits.
“The paint here is smeared,” Eli moaned.
“That’s fine, that’s fine,” Jasper soothed. “We’ll have a write up that explains the smear, posted beside it in the gallery. ‘Artist attempts to destroy own work, painting saved by gallant and dashing heroes.’”
Irina crouched down, joining their little huddle. “Uh, guys, it’s just some crappy thing I did. You don’t have to pretend to care. Also, Jasper, have you been drinking?” She smiled at them. “I’m joking about the drinking. And thank you for taking that so seriously.” She jabbed a finger at the painting and they both yelped in alarm. Irina shook her head. “It’s sweet, but not necessary. I’ll toss these and then get cleaned up.”
Eli and Jasper looked at each other. As one, they rose. Jasper grabbed her hand and hauled her toward the seating area. He forced her to sit on the padded ottoman. Eli kneeled and, much to her shock, snatched up one of the restraints attached to the legs of the ottoman and quickly bound her wrist.
“Oh, I see.” She tugged, the chain connecting the leather buckle cuff to the table clanking merrily. Her body started to heat, her nipples beading at the implied promise of pleasure. She leaned toward Eli, ready to kiss him, but he stood.
Jasper finished buckling her other wrist. He too stood.
Irina’s blood cooled as she looked between them. “Jasper? Eli?” She swallowed. “Are you going to give me any hints about what we’re playing?”
Jasper was half-turned, looking at the paintings, but as she spoke, his attention shifted to her. He touched Eli’s arm, motioning toward two large pillows.
As one, they sat.
“Irina, why didn’t you tell us you were an artist?” Eli asked.
“I’m not. I just paint sometimes.”
“How long have you been painting?” Jasper asked.
She shrugged, uncomfortable with the questions but realizing that they were hardly unfair, given what they’d woken up to. “Since I was in high school. I told you my parents were divorced, right? The custody exchange was near the art department. Once, sometimes twice a week, I would end up waiting there. I got to know the art students, the teachers. After a while, they would bring me paper and charcoal or pencils. When the weather was nice the whole class would be outside, so I got to watch the lessons.”
“Did the professor encourage you to study art?”
Irina was surprised by Jasper’s weirdly on-point question. “Yes, he did. He felt bad for me once I told him why I was there.”
“How often do you paint?” Eli asked.
“About once a week. I sometimes just need an outlet. If exercise isn’t enough, I paint.”
Jasper blew out a long breath. “I’m almost afraid to ask this, but what do you do with the paintings when you’re done?”
“Throw them away.”
Jasper made a strangled noise. Eli reached over and forced his head between his knees. “Breathe, Jasper.”
Irina jerked, the chains clanking. “What’s going on? Why are you two being so…weird?”
“Irina, you’re an incredibly talented artist.”
“Eli, you don’t need to—”
Jasper sat up. His expression was so fierce that Irina stopped talking.
“You’re so good,” he said, “that for a minute, I actually thought you were a double agent, that you were one of the purists. That we’d been set up. For someone otherwise so self-aware, it’s a bit baffling that you don’t recognize how good you are.”
Irina stared at him. She’d been so upset earlier, she hadn’t really processed his words. All she’d recognized was his anger. She looked down at the restraints.
“You know I’m not one of the purists, right?”
“Yes,” Eli said firmly, though he looked a little guilty.
“You thought I was one too?”
Eli looked sheepish.
“Eli!”
“It was honestly easier to believe that you were one of the bad guys than believe you have no idea what you are,” Jasper declared.
Irina raised a brow. “And what am I?”
“An artist of unparalleled talent.”
“Jasper, be serious—”
“He is being serious. So am I.” Eli leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “I may not be an expert when it comes to what’s going on in the art world in this century, but I know when I see a piece of art that means something, that could change the world. I see that in your art.”
Irina’s whole body stilled, as if time had stopped. Everything around her fell away, leaving her quiet and still in this moment.
“My mother is one of the most notable American artists currently living.” Jasper spoke quietly. “Trust me when I say that you are an artist. That is what you were meant to be. A talent like yours needs to be seen, to be shared.”
Tears gathered on her lower lids, then slid down her face. Irina went to wipe them away, only to be pulled up short by the restraints.
“Undo these stupid things,” she sniffled.
Eli reached for her, but Jasper stopped him. “Don’t. I don’t trust her.”
Irina reared back as if slapped. “Jasper, I’m not a purist. I swear I’m not. I wasn’t even hiding that,” she gestured to the paintings, “from you. Well, I was, but it was because it wasn’t important. Because I was embarrassed.”
“Did you, or did you not, destroy art?”
Eli grunted. “Good point.”
“I didn’t destroy anything!”
“What were you going to do with those?”
“Uh…”
“Irina.”
“I was going to throw them away in the dining room.”
Jasper’s gaze narrowed. “When was the last time you painted something, before this?”
“When we were in Boston. When you both stormed off to have a hissy fit. I went for a run and stopped at a little artist stu
dio I know.”
“And what did you do with that painting?”
“It was terrible, it was just a—”
“What. Did. You. Do. With. It?”
“I left it there and told them to throw it away. Happy?” Irina was both irritated at the questioning and amused at their reactions.
They were wrong—she wasn’t anything special—but her heart swelled with love for them. Clearly yesterday’s marathon sex session had rattled their brains.
Jasper’s mouth opened and closed like a fish’s. Eli looked pained.
Irina couldn’t help it. She laughed.
They both leaned back, looking scandalized.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. It’s just…I love you. Both of you. I don’t think I’ve said that yet. I’ve thought it, but I haven’t said it. I love you, even if you have terrible taste in art.” Irina smiled at them, and her eyes filled with tears once more, but these were happy tears.
Eli slid onto his knees and kissed her. Resting his forehead against hers, he said, “I love you too. I can’t imagine my life without you.”
Irina’s heart swelled.
Eli looked at Jasper.
He crossed his arms. “Of course I love both of you, but I want to strangle her right now.”
Irina laughed at Jasper’s scowl, and Eli sighed.
“Jasper,” she said, “it’s really sweet of you to say you like my paintings, but you don’t have to. I promise not to hide it from you, but just because I paint doesn’t mean I’m some great artist. I’m okay with that.” She looked down, watching her toes curl and uncurl. There was paint splattered on the tops of her bare feet. “When I woke up I was just feeling a bit…inadequate.”
“Why?” Eli asked.
“I just…my job isn’t exactly my great passion. It’s a job. I’m good at it, I know that, but I’m not passionate about it. Not the way the two of you are about art. I was lying in bed and I realized that our trinity is really about the two of you—your skills, your knowledge. That’s why the Grand Master put us together. I’m just the hired muscle, and now that we’re almost done with our task, I guess I was just feeling insecure. My parents were disappointed when I graduated and took this job. Security work is not exactly what people imagine when you say you went to Harvard.”
