by Sophie Oak
“Maybe he wanted to see his son,” Jen offered.
“I doubt it. I found it awkward and unsettling to have to go to my father’s place. I did not consider it home. It’s strange. I was born in Dallas, raised there for years, but even at the age of eight, I knew Bliss was my home. I fought him when he decided to move back to Dallas, and he left me there with two nannies and a staff of ten. He summoned me home twice a year, but ignored me when I was there. He had meetings, you see. What he truly wanted to do was lecture me. When I was seventeen he asked whether I had a girlfriend. I told him no and was immediately presented with several applicants for the position. I doubt it had much to do with my happiness. He simply wanted me to marry the right sort of girl.”
Jen’s eyebrow arched. “Callie must have come as a surprise.”
“Callie’s the right sort of girl. Callie’s the perfect girl.” Nate was unwavering in support of his oft-naked wife.
Stef smiled, happy Callie had finally found the right man. Well, the right man and Zane. He loved Callie Sheppard, though not in the way his father thought. She was the sister he’d never had. Callie was a brilliant combination of quirky and strong. She was like the town where she’d been born. And she was completely the wrong sort of woman for a man concerned with high society to marry. She spent far too much time at naturist camps to be comfy with jet-setters.
Yet his father had taken to Callie right away. He’d been utterly charmed by her. Every time Stef had brought her to Dallas, his father had taken them out, and not once had he tried to change her or talked to Stef about her beyond how sweet she was. Every time his father called, he asked about Callie.
“Okay, I get why you used her as your fake girlfriend when you were younger, but you’re thirty-two now and she’s taken,” Nate said, sounding more reasonable. “Don’t you think it’s time you came clean?”
“How many phone calls from your father have you ducked lately, Wright?” He knew where to shove the knife in. Nate was completely estranged from his father, but the man kept calling. He seemed to think Nate should loan him money.
Nate sighed and sat back. “Family. What are you going to do?”
He knew exactly what he was going to do. “I’m going to let it ride. My dad wants me to be happy with Callie? Fine. I’ll tell him I’m going to ask her to marry me soon, and we’ll leave it at that. He’s been sick. This is a phase. Trust me, the first emergency at Talbot Industries, and his CEO hat will be right back on. He’ll go back to Dallas, and I’ll get a Christmas card from his secretary.”
“Are you forgetting that I’m Callie’s husband? Well, I’m one of her husbands. We’re not looking for a fourth, Stef.”
It was time to bring out his big guns. “And who facilitated your marriage? Who introduced you in the first place? Who gave you a job and a place to stash the big guy when he was post-traumatically stressed out?”
Nate’s jaw became a hard line.
Jen nodded at Nate. “See, King Stefan. Like I said. The king giveth and then expects payback when you least expect it. First, it’s a simple ‘hey, come get Jen out of jail with me,’ and now you have to give him access to your wife.”
Her teasing made him want to spank her. He didn’t need that mental image now. “I’m not demanding to sleep with Callie. I’m merely borrowing her in an attempt to misrepresent my love life to my father.”
Nate sat back, but suddenly a smile spread across his face. It made Stef unaccountably nervous. “You’re right. I owe you. You know what? Callie is meeting us at the airport. I’m sure she’ll be thrilled to see your father again. Don’t worry about a thing. I’ll step back and let you have your little ruse.”
“Thank you.” It solved one of his problems.
Jen was gaping at Nate. “You are so mean, Sheriff.”
“I am entirely reasonable.” Nate smirked, and Stef wondered if he was missing something.
Before he could process the problem, the plane began a turn.
The flight attendant walked in and announced it was time to buckle up. Sebastian came out and began talking about his plans for his stay in Bliss.
Stef wanted the whole thing to be over.
* * * *
Alexei Markov stared down at the man currently being worked over by his partner, Ivan. Jean Claude Renard had started out like they all did, with threats and promises of retribution because he was such an important person. And like almost all the rest, he was a sniveling mass of begging, pleading flesh after a couple of minutes with Ivan. Despite his deep loathing of the man, Alexei had to admit that Ivan was a master at what he did.
“It was here, I tell you. I hid the damn thing like I promised.” He managed to get the words out of his swollen lips. “Somehow she must have figured it out.”
Ivan hit him again. Alexei could have told Renard that it didn’t matter what he said. Ivan would use him like a punching bag because he was a sadistic son of a bitch. Of course, a certain streak of sadism was always required when one became a mob enforcer.
Sadism, or a well-defined and patient sense of revenge.
He couldn’t help Renard even if he wanted to, and he didn’t. If he did, he put everything he’d worked years for at risk. He was so close to getting in the same room with Pushkin that he could taste it. Then he would be free.
He’d worked too long and hard, and his cousin Nikolai had placed himself in too much danger, to waste it all on a bastard like Renard.
Ivan stared down at his victim. “My boss would like his package. He paid for it, and he would like it now. I have to be on plane to Moscow in four hours. We can use that time to bundle up the package, or I can simply beat on you until we board. It is up to you. It make no difference to me.”
Ivan’s English was decent, though he sounded like it pained him to speak anything but Russian. Alexei was well aware his could use a bit of work. His cousin made fun of him, but then he wasn’t trained in espionage the way Nick and his sweet sister Katja had been. They’d been raised in different parts of the country, but when they were young, he’d been close to his cousins. It had only been after his brother died that Alexei had lost touch with them. After he’d heard the news of Katja’s death, he’d reached out to Nick. They’d both lost all their immediate family and they’d become allies in their quests for revenge. Nick had been the one to suggest that he watch American television and become accustomed to their ways so that Pushkin would send him to the country. If he survived his meeting with Pushkin, he would find a way to build a new life in this country. He would be free here.
Well, he would be an illegal immigrant on the run from both the Russian police and the mob, but at least he wouldn’t have to listen to Ivan anymore. Ivan was a brute. Having to share a room with him for the last year had been trying to say the least. The man did not understand that the world had made great strides in personal hygiene products. He seemed to think smelling like a bear made him more intimidating.
Alexei tapped a foot on the floor. He was tired of being a lackey. He needed to be back in Russia, doing whatever it took to get close to the man who had killed his brother. “Or he could give back money to Pushkin. With twenty-percent increase for all our trouble.”
Ivan snorted. Alexei knew that no amount of money would satisfy Pushkin, but it would buy this idiot an hour or two to come to his senses. He wasn’t sure why Renard had decided to renege on his deal with the head of one of Russia’s most notorious crime syndicates, but he seemed a reasonable man. Most people wanted to live. Alexei did some quick calculations. If he got Renard to come to his senses and give up the package by five, he could be home in roughly twenty-four hours. He could deliver the package himself. Pushkin was being strangely paranoid about this one painting. He wanted to meet with Ivan and Alexei himself to take the package into custody. But first he had to convince Renard to give up the painting.
A wet cough came out of Renard’s chest. “Sure. I can do that. But I’m going to need some time to get the money.”
Alexei felt
his eyebrows rise. “I was told Pushkin sent you two million four days ago.”
Another cough and a shudder. “I spent it. I owed some people, some people from Colombia. Please. You can’t tell Pushkin I lost the painting. He’ll kill me. He might kill you, too. God, how did this go so wrong? I need a little time. I can find it. She must have taken it with her last night.”
“He’s a very international idiot,” Ivan said in Russian. “He’s paying off the Colombians? How many dangerous groups can one man get involved with?”
Alexei shook his head. Renard was going downhill fast. It was obvious the man had spent Pushkin’s money on cocaine. “Please, show some respect, Ivan. We are in his country. We should kill him in his own language.”
Renard let out a pitiful cry.
Ivan backhanded the art dealer. “Fine. I will speak in the English. But Alexei, you are too soft on these people.”
As Ivan continued to pound on the gallery owner who’d been foolish enough to make a deal with the Russian mob and then renege on it, Alexei looked around the small room. The gallery outside had been stark and modern, but this was a work space. It was much more intimate, with small details that let a person know something about the occupants. Before he’d been too preoccupied with wailing from pain, Renard had explained that this was his restoration room. Apparently he was not an artist himself, but he cleaned up works that had been damaged. It was in this manner that he had acquired the painting Pushkin desired.
Alexei bent over and picked up the canvas that had been destroyed by Ivan when they first entered the room. Renard had tried to play a game with them. He’d told them to pack up the painting and leave as though they were mere messenger boys without a brain in their heads. Alexei knew better. Pushkin had sent them a copy of the photo of the painting they were supposed to bring back. He’d pulled up the photo on his cell phone, unwilling to take the man’s word for it. Between the man’s sweaty, nervous demeanor and Alexei’s excellent eye, he’d quickly discerned that the man was attempting to fool them. The painting looked similar, but it wasn’t close to the same to his eyes. There was something about the colors. He’d seen it right away.
Renard had explained, through his cries of pain, that he had hidden the Picasso for safekeeping and easy transport. Now he could not find it.
It had been a foolish play on Renard’s part.
Ivan had torn apart this work to prove what Alexei suspected. Ivan had cursed because the paint was still wet. Apparently, Renard had hidden the Picasso behind another painting and switched them, hoping no one would notice until he was long gone. Alexei stared at the canvas Ivan had pried off the frame.
It was odd. Mostly it was a collection of colors, and yet he could feel the emotion from the canvas. It was all blues and greens and the slightest hint of purple. There was the faintest impression of a male figure. Despite the fact that he’d grown up poor, his father had taken him to galleries, had taught him and his brother to appreciate art.
“Who is artist?” He would bet it was a female. Something about the softness of the work spoke of femininity.
Ivan let the gallery owner drop to the floor. “What do you care? This is not the painting that the boss desires. Are you sure it is painting at all? It looks like someone tosses paint can at a canvas.”
Philistine. Ivan wasn’t smart enough to know his art. Alexei shrugged. “I am curious.”
Ivan kicked at Renard, his booted foot connecting viciously with the man’s gut. “Tell my friend, who is artist. He wants to know.”
Renard turned his bloodshot eyes up and looked at Alexei. “She’s an employee.”
So it was a woman. “She is sad. This is sad painting. I like it. It say things to me.”
“It speak to you, Alexei. That is the right phrase. Don’t lecture me until you get your English right. You are correct about one thing. We have to be able to speak to the people we are killing or they will not know why they are dead.”
At those words, Renard began to scream. His high-pitched wails ate at Alexei’s nerves. He looked at Ivan and spoke in Russian.
“That was not helpful.”
Ivan shrugged. Renard tried to crawl away, but Ivan’s boot came down on his back. “Better he knows what is coming for him. He does not have the painting. He would have given it up by now.”
Most people would have given it up by now. Ivan was an expert at pain delivery. So Renard didn’t have the painting, and apparently the money had gone straight up his nose. If he didn’t have the painting, Alexei needed to figure out who did. It would do him no good to return to Russia with nothing to show for his efforts. He needed that painting.
“Would police have painting?” he asked, hoping that the answer was no. He knew why Renard had brought in the police. The idiot wanted to keep his business, and the best way to do it was to pin the crime on someone else. But he prayed the man had been smart enough not to allow the prize to become evidence.
“No, it was a different painting, I tell you,” Renard managed. “I hid it behind a different painting. I don’t know. All of her stuff looks alike to me. I prefer realism. Her stuff is mostly swirly colors meant to express emotion. I’ve been staring at her work for months, and I don’t get it. Sold a couple for her. Always the same buyer. He pays top dollar.”
Ivan frowned as he looked down. “Perhaps I hit him too hard.”
“You think?” Alexei shook his head. Ivan always hit them too hard. It made it difficult to interrogate a victim when his teeth were stuck halfway down his throat. He started to point at Ivan and noticed that his fingers had a fine coating of blue paint on them. “This artist, she works in here? What if she took the painting you need and begins new one?”
Renard’s eyes flared. “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. She has to have the painting. I tried to get into her place, but the police were there, and then some other people were there early this morning. I haven’t been able to get in.”
If it was true, Alexei might still salvage this mission. “This artist, she live close to here?”
Renard sagged, apparently pleased to have a few more moments of life left. His eyes were sparked with wild hope. “Yes, Jennifer lives on Good Latimer. I’ll take you there. That has to be where the painting is. I know it. She took it. She didn’t know what she had. We might have to wait until the place is empty.”
Ivan smiled. “I will take care of anyone in our way.”
But forty minutes later, Ivan neatly and efficiently took care of the only person in their way. Ivan slit Renard’s throat. It was quiet, and they weren’t worried about clean. The shag carpet beneath their feet was old but quickly soaked up the blood.
There wasn’t a single painting in the apartment Renard had led them to. Alexei looked around. It was obvious to him that an artist lived here. There were easels and unframed, unpainted canvases. There were half-used tools and oil paints all over the kitchen table. There were brushes in a can in the bathroom. The whole bathroom smelled of chemicals.
“The boss is not going to like this.” Now that the mark was dead, Ivan shifted back to Russian.
Alexei followed suit. “He will be angry.”
Ivan started looking through the artist’s kitchen. “I need to find a good butcher knife. Pushkin will want us to at least bring back the head. I hate these international jobs, Alexei. It’s gotten hard to get a decapitated head through an American airport. How much cash do you have? We will need to bribe someone.”
He felt his deep groan rumble from his chest. This was a nightmare. “Pushkin will be even angrier we spent his cash on bribes, which is why we should attempt to offer him an alternative.”
“And what is that?”
He glanced around the room. It was obvious the woman had left in a hurry. This woman either knew where the painting was or knew who took it. He needed to find this woman, this Jennifer. There was an old-school answering machine blinking by the phone. Curious, he pushed the button. A cheery female voice came on.
“
This is Jen. I’m not here, or I’m off in la-la land, so leave me a message.” There was a long beep and then another soft, feminine voice.
“Jen, it’s Callie. I can’t tell you how happy I am Stef tracked you down, though I’m sorry about the whole jail thing. Nate is coming to get you. You might not even get this message, but if you do, know that Zane and I will be waiting at the airport in Alamosa. I can’t wait to see you. Bliss isn’t the same without you.”
“What is this Bliss?” Ivan asked.
Alexei looked around. “It is a place, I think. This Alamosa is where the artist has gone, and I think she took her canvases with her. Perhaps it is as Renard said and she doesn’t know.”
“Or maybe she does and I have more work to do.” Ivan sounded like a man anticipating a treat.
Alexei stared down at the only framed picture in the whole house. It was of two young women and an older female. There was a tall brunette with lovely, slender features. He would bet she was the artist. There was a shorter but equally pretty woman with dark hair. The older woman was a blonde. She wore a shirt with dangling fringe, and a red cowboy hat sat atop her puffy hair.
He read the marking on the shirt the slender brunette wore.
Stella’s Café – Bliss, Colorado
If he was the smart man who managed to track down the painting Pushkin wanted, the boss would have to thank him personally. That would be the moment that Alexei avenged his brother.
“Call Pushkin. Tell him we are going to Colorado.”
Chapter Five
Jen shivered as the door to the jet was opened and the arctic February air hit her. She pulled Stefan’s coat around her. She turned to look at him. He was wearing a dress shirt and slacks. He must have been freezing, but the minute she began to shrug out of his coat he sent her a look colder than the wind outside. Jen stuck her tongue out at him and buttoned up the coat.
