The Investigator: Norcross Series

by Hackett, Anna

  “Facts are facts, girlfriend. I, unfortunately, have had to deal with having three hot brothers all my life.” Gia’s gaze sharpened. “So, Rhys…”

  Haven sipped the coffee too fast and burned her tongue. “I’ve sworn off men. Besides, need I remind you that, one—” Haven held up a finger “—he’s your brother? My best friend’s brother. That has trouble written all over it. And two—” another finger went up “—he’s also my boss’ brother. That’s a big no-no. I already messed up getting involved with my boss’ family in Miami. Big mistake.”

  Gia grabbed her hand. “I know Leo the creep hurt you.”

  “He taught me a lesson.” Haven tossed her ponytail back. “I don’t need another man messing up my life. Especially not one who won’t stick around long. Men like Rhys, who can have their pick of any women, never do.”

  “Mmm.” Gia managed to say a lot with one hum.

  After a few hurried bites of her toast, Haven stood. “I’m going to work.”

  She was also going to do her own research on who might have taken the Monet. She might not be a former military badass, or a hotshot investigator, but the art world was her domain.

  Offloading a painting like the Water Lilies wouldn’t be easy. She had several people she wanted to call…

  Gia’s front door opened. Easton strode in, wearing another perfectly tailored suit, and a blue shirt that looked good on him.

  “That key is for emergencies,” Gia said archly. “You could knock.”

  “I don’t knock.” Easton looked at Haven. “You aren’t going in to work today.” He looked at his sister. “Can I have a coffee?”

  Gia rolled her eyes. “Yes.” She pointed. “The coffee machine is right there.”

  Easton tugged on Gia’s hair and then started making himself a coffee.

  Haven pulled in a breath. “I can go to work. I want to work.”

  “No,” Easton said.

  God, give her strength. “I don’t want to just sit around.”

  “I’m your boss. You rest. You were attacked last night.”

  She swallowed. “I know that. I want to help get the painting back.” Her voice broke.

  Easton turned slowly, then stalked around the island. Watching him come closer, she stiffened. He rested his hands on her shoulders, and she smelled the crisp, citrusy scent of his cologne. She stared at the buttons on his shirt.

  “Haven, look at me,” he ordered.

  She did.

  “You are not to blame here.”

  “I let them in.”

  “Anyone would have made that decision. They were well-prepared. This is not your fault.”

  “Gus and David—”

  “Not. Your. Fault. Now, let Vander and Rhys do the job they’re very good at. I want you to go home and take it easy.”

  “Fine.” Trying to reason with any of the Norcross family was an exercise in futility. She’d have better luck beating her head against the wall.

  Easton tugged her ponytail, just like he’d done to Gia. “Good girl.”

  As Gia and Easton went back to their coffees, Haven tuned out their conversation. She didn’t care what Easton said, she wasn’t going to relax.

  Her painting had been stolen, her guards hurt, her museum invaded. She wasn’t going to sit and do nothing. She was going to find the damn Water Lilies.

  Chapter Three

  Rhys swiped through security footage from the museum again. All five assailants wore balaclavas. And, as they’d guessed, the delivery van had been a rental. It had been rented using a fake name and a stolen credit card.

  “Who are you assholes?” Rhys tapped his fist against the desk.

  He was in his office at the converted warehouse that housed the Norcross Security. He was good at running his prey to ground. He never let up, he checked every lead—large or small—and he left them no place to hide. He’d already put out feelers to his contacts to keep an eye out for anyone trying to shift the painting.

  On the screen, he saw the leader hit Haven, saw her go down, and then the motherfucker kicked her.

  Rhys growled. “I will find you.” The man had signed up for a world of hurt. Rhys couldn’t wait to deliver it.

  He’d already called Hunt this morning, but the detective didn’t have any solid leads. Rhys moved to the next image. Unlike Hunt, Rhys didn’t have to follow so many rules. He would find these guys, one way or another.

  Then he spotted something, and froze the image. The skinny guy near the painting. He had ink on his neck. Some sort of star.

  Rhys had his own ink. His mother got a long-suffering look on her face whenever she saw any of her boys’ tattoos. This tattoo could just be something generic, one drunk tourists got and then regretted the next day.

  But it could also be something specific that could be tracked down.

  His phone rang and when he glanced at the display, he grinned. He thumbed the screen. “Hi, Ma.”

  “You know, your father and I don’t live very far away and we’re getting old. You could come to visit.”

  He’d visited a week ago and had dinner with them. His mom made the best lasagna in all of California. “You and Dad aren’t old.”

  Clara Norcross snorted. “It doesn’t matter what my age is, you’ll always be my bambino, Rhys Matteo.”

  She said that to all of them. “Where’s Dad?”

  “In his workshop. Tinkering.”

  Rhys bit his tongue. Many years ago, Clara Bianchi had disappointed many good Italian boys by falling head over heels in love with Ethan Norcross, the very non-Italian boy next door. Their dad had been a firefighter, working his way up to a Division Chief in the San Francisco Fire Department before he’d retired.

  Rhys’ mom had started buying him power tools as gifts and encouraged him to build a workshop. To this day, Rhys’ father puttered around his workshop and didn’t do much. He’d confessed he had no desire to work wood or build shit.

  “Now, I heard from Gia that Haven’s had some trouble,” his mom said.

  Rhys’ smile dissolved. “Yeah, Ma.”

  “I want you to take care of her, Rhys.”

  “I’m working on it.”

  “That girl has shadows in her eyes. So much hurt.”

  “I won’t let anyone hurt her.”

  “Good.” His mother paused. “Maybe you can bring her for dinner some time.”

  Just what Rhys needed, his mother matchmaking. She had the subtlety of a sledgehammer and a very strong hankering for grandbabies.

  “Ma, I have to go.”

  “Okay, dinner soon, Rhys.”

  “Love you, Ma.”

  He ended the call and stared at his laptop screen. Before he took Haven anywhere, he had to get her safe.

  “You got anything?” a deep voice asked, interrupting his thoughts.

  He looked up as another Norcross employee appeared in the doorway of Rhys’ office.

  Saxon Buchanan was Vander’s best friend, and second in charge at Norcross. Saxon and Vander had met in high school, and become instant friends. After they’d graduated, they’d both enlisted—much to the horror of Saxon’s wealthy family—determined to watch each other’s backs.

  “Not much,” Rhys said.

  Saxon cocked his head. His brown-blond hair was always well cut, and his suit was custom. Despite being Ghost Ops for several years, and doing some messy, dirty jobs, Saxon came from money, and made no bones about liking the finer things in life. He liked his clothes designer, his whiskey expensive, and he had a vast collection of expensive watches. They all liked to give him hell for it.

  “Haven okay?” Saxon asked.

  “Her face is a mess.” Rhys breathed deeply. “She’ll heal. She stayed with Gia last night, and she’s resting today.”

  “Haven’s always struck me as tough. A spine of quiet steel under that gorgeous body of hers.”

  Rhys narrowed his eyes. “No need for you to notice her body.”

  Saxon grinned. “I’m male, with 20/20 visi
on. Hard to miss those legs and that ass.”

  Rhys growled.

  Saxon’s grin widened, making Rhys want to punch his friend in his perfect teeth.

  “Side benefit is that I also get to yank your chain. You’ve had your eyes on her for months. It doesn’t usually take you so long to track down a target.”

  True. And Rhys had been fucking celibate from the moment he’d looked into Haven’s pretty blue eyes. He’d spent far too many nights stroking his own cock, imagining her hands on him, her husky cries in his ears.

  Shit, he was getting hard. Rhys shifted in his chair. If Saxon noticed, he’d give Rhys hell.

  Then his friend’s smile dissolved. “I am sorry she got hurt.”

  “Well, the assholes who did it will pay. I’m following a few leads.”

  “Need any help?”

  “Thought you had a security-system job today?” While Rhys was Norcross’ top investigator, Saxon was their troubleshooter. He did a bit of everything, but was often the one sent into the crappy, messy jobs to find the best solution.

  “Already done. Fancy house in Nob Hill, just around the corner from my parents.” The corner of his mouth lifted. “Not that my parents would spend any time with the Dillons. They’d consider them far beneath them. New money. I scoped out the house and avoided the very obvious offers from the client’s very young trophy wife to tour her bedroom, and then sent him the quote.”

  “I emailed some art dealers, and called a few of our other…contacts.” Some of Norcross’ contacts operated on the other side of the law. “I asked them to get in touch if they hear about anyone asking about the painting, or the Hutton Museum. Anyone trying to offload a Monet. Can you call a few more dealers for me?”

  “I’m on it.” Saxon flicked him a salute and strode across the warehouse.

  Rhys made a few more calls, feeling edgy and frustrated. He headed for the well-stocked kitchenette, and made a coffee. The large windows offered a view of the water and a glimpse of the Bay Bridge.

  Vander had purchased the old warehouse, then completely decked it out. The bottom level was parking for the company’s fleet of cars, and also housed a well-equipped gym. There were also several holding rooms for when they had “guests.”

  The central level held the offices—it was all mostly open plan in the center, with wooden beams and metal duct work overhead. Glass-walled offices lined each side of the space. There was another level upstairs, with a roof terrace, that was Vander’s living quarters.

  Rhys had a place close by in Rincon Hill—it was sleek and modern, with a killer view. Easton had invested all the money Rhys had socked away while he’d been in the military, and Rhys now had a great apartment, a killer car and boat, and a nice little nest egg. He wasn’t as rich as Easton, and Vander did well from Norcross Security, but Rhys was happy and more than comfortable. He didn’t want the headache of running his own business, wheeling and dealing, or putting up with asshole clients.

  He also had parking for his car and bike, and he rented a space near the Norcross office for his boat.

  So many times, on missions, he’d been hot and tired, and had sand in places that chafed. He’d dreamed of being on the water, or just on a comfy couch watching a football game in peace.

  A few times, he’d been injured, and thought he wouldn’t make it back. He’d done important work, shitty work, but work that had to be done to ensure freedom for so many.

  Now, he made no apologies that he worked hard, and played hard, as well.

  He wanted Haven McKinney to play. He wanted to peel her out of those tight, ass-hugging skirts that gave him hot-librarian fantasies.

  Some jacked up part of him wanted to erase the shadows in her eyes, as well.

  Rhys snorted. He was no one’s hero, but he had the skills to keep her safe, and ensure the prick who’d hurt her paid.

  “Ah, Rhys?”

  He glanced up at Saxon, who stood with his hands in his pockets. His friend had an unreadable look on his face.

  “Yeah?” Rhys sipped his coffee.

  “I don’t think Haven is resting.”

  “Come again?” He lowered the coffee mug.

  “Just got off the phone with a dealer. She’d been to see him.”

  Rhys stiffened.

  “And another dealer said she was due to visit him at eleven.”

  He glanced at his watch. It was already after eleven.

  He cursed. Rhys poured his coffee in the sink and set the mug down, then strode for the stairs.

  “Good luck.” Saxon sounded far too amused.

  * * *

  Haven stepped into the elegant gallery in SoMa. South of Market was home to many of San Francisco’s museums and galleries.

  She loved her friend Harry’s gallery. It reminded her of the gallery she’d worked at in Miami. The lighting was warm, complementing pale walls, and right up front was a modern painting—garish, with bold, neon colors.

  But with all art, beauty was in the eye of the beholder. It wasn’t her particular style, but she could still appreciate it and know that someone else might love it.

  “Haven!”

  She turned.

  Harry Temple, her dealer friend and the gallery owner, strode toward her. He was a handsome, trim, well-dressed man with a dash of silver at his temples. Haven had shared several great dinners with Harry and his husband, Trent. They were both fun and entertaining.

  When Harry saw her face, he jerked to a halt. His horrified gaze moved over her cheek and eye. “Darling girl, what happened?”

  “You haven’t heard?”

  He touched her arms. “No. Tell me who he is and I’ll send Trent to teach him a lesson.”

  Trent was a personal trainer and owner of a local gym.

  “Harry, we had a theft at the Hutton. They did this—” Haven waved at her face “—and stole the Water Lilies.”

  Harry gasped. “Okay, totally cannot process the multi-million-dollar painting theft, but they hit you?”

  “I’m fine,” she assured him.

  Harry hugged her and she let herself lean on him for a second.

  “Tell me Easton is tearing through San Francisco looking for this scum?”

  “Well, he has his brother’s security firm looking into it.”

  Harry shivered. “I’d let Vander Norcross look into me any day, if he didn’t scare the spit out of me.” He patted her shoulder. “Darling girl, Easton may own most of San Francisco, but Vander runs it. He’ll find them.”

  “The painting’s gone, Harry. I can’t help but feel like it’s my fault. I need to find it.”

  Her friend frowned. “I haven’t heard a peep. Something that big would make a lot of noise.”

  She sighed. “Will you keep your ear to the ground?”

  “You know I will.”

  “Any whisper, any rumor, you call me.”

  “Absolutely. Now—” Harry slipped an arm through hers. “Come and sit. I’ll have Tory make us some frothy lattes, and I’ll show you the latest piece I got in from a local artist I think is going to be huge.”

  Haven let Harry fuss over her for a while.

  When she stepped out of his gallery, she felt a little better, but the missing painting felt like a weight pressing down on her.

  God, it was so damn unfair that she’d just gotten her life back on an even keel, was loving her work, had a good boss in Easton and a great friend in Gia, and then this happened.

  Haven headed down the street. Feeling sorry for herself wouldn’t help. She knew that from experience. The weather was lovely and good for a walk. It was a beautiful fall day, not hot, not cold. Whatever it took, she was getting that painting back, and getting her damn life calm and stable again.

  She almost ran into a bulky man in a suit in the middle of the sidewalk. “Sorry.”

  She darted around him, her heels clicking on the pavement. She wasn’t sure what she could do next to find the painting. But she set her shoulders back. She wasn’t giving up. The Hutton w
as only a few blocks away. She’d sneak into her office and make a few more calls.

  Leo had screwed up her life, and for a while, she’d let him. Not anymore. Haven was in charge, and she wasn’t letting anyone, especially some thieves, get her down.

  But, millions of dollars, the voice in her head pointed out. Her stomach turned.

  She paused, and practiced some breathing exercises from the yoga classes Gia sometimes dragged her to. No, she still felt stressed, and her face throbbed. Her painkillers were wearing off.

  Then she felt a tickle of something on the back of her neck. That feeling any woman walking alone sometimes felt. Was someone watching her?

  She heard heavy footsteps behind her and glanced back. There weren’t many people around, just a stocky man in the suit heading in her direction. She frowned.

  Wait, wasn’t he the guy she’d bumped into before? He’d been going in the other direction.

  He lifted his head—he had a buzzcut, no neck, and a really ill-fitting suit.

  His gaze locked with hers.

  Sucking in a breath, Haven turned and took off down the street as fast as she could without running. She fumbled for her phone. There was probably nothing wrong—

  Strong arms wrapped around her from behind, yanking her backward.

  “Hey!” she cried.

  The man didn’t say a word, and panic shot through Haven. He dragged her down the sidewalk.

  Dammit, she wasn’t getting snatched off the street in broad daylight. Could she have any shittier luck? Surely, she’d had her fair share already?

  “Let me go!”

  She was not going to let this no-neck jerk abduct her. She kicked him in the shin.

  She felt her heel hit bone and he grunted, then he followed it up with a curse. He shook her.

  Haven’s shoe fell off, and her phone slipped from her fingers to the sidewalk. She heard locks bleep on a car nearby and fear shot through her. He was dragging her to a car. If he got her inside…

  No. No.

  Haven twisted and struggled. She screamed, but he stuck a beefy hand over her mouth. Why was no one around?

  She let her body weight drop, but Mr. No-Neck just dragged her.