Page 3 of Maximus

“Well, it’s true, but remember, while your brain is special,youare more important than anything your brain can do. You’re the person we love, and you’re the person who’s essential to our family.” As Demos stood up, he followed suit. He was taller than his father and had more muscle, but he didn’t doubt for a second Demos could put him on his ass if he weren’t careful. They worked out and sparred together, and Demos was a force to be reckoned with. His dad grabbed him and gave him a rib-crushing hug. “Mom wants you to come to dinner tonight. We’re celebrating Brent winning his game. A no-hitter.”

“I’ll be there. I probably need to call Archangel and fill him in on what I’ve found and what I plan to do.”

“Yep. That was the request.” His dad clasped him on the shoulder. He leveled a stare in his direction. “Do not under any circumstance put yourself in a position that would get me in trouble with your mom. If you go over to Russia and get yourself killed, you know what’ll happen to me.”

“Yeah, you’d be in the afterlife with me in two seconds.”

“That is the honest-to-God truth. I’m not afraid of many people, but your mom is one person we never cross.”

“Don’t I know it? I’ll be over for dinner.” Since he lived three houses down the block, getting there in time wouldn’t be a hardship.

“If you don’t show up, I’ll send Martha over.”

“Dad, for God’s sake, don’t even threaten that. Get out of here. I’ll be over.” He laughed and picked up his phone. His little sister was a pest of the largest order and thought he needed a girlfriend. The epic failures of Martha trying to fix him up were now well-told stories at family get-togethers. Mom had banned her from trying again.

CHAPTER 2

Elena Ivanova filled her lungs with fresh air as she walked along the seaside promenade in Sochi, Russia. At sunset, the Caucasus Mountains were a stunning backdrop. The gold, orange, and red hues peeked around the mountain tops, saturating the vistas with colors artists had tried to capture since time began. She tucked her hands into her jacket’s pockets. Although spring was well underway, the air was cool, especially after spending the day in a climate-controlled vault.

Stopping at her favorite café, she took her normal table. The waitress would bring her a pot of tea, and she’d work on her emails while waiting for dinner. She could afford to eat out, and her employer ensured it. The day had been long but rewarding. That morning, she’d sent her boss a video of the newly acquired art, assuming he was out of town. But he wasn’t, and he showed up at the vault an hour later. She showed him every painting, and they went over each one. While she logged the work, Abrasha would quiz her about the origins, the artists, the value, and whether or not each piece was show-worthy. Her vast knowledge of the art she bought for him and her learned knowledge of his preferences had resulted in a collection thatwas second to very few—except for the handful of paintings she stored deep inside the vault. Those paintings were problematic, but Abrasha didn’t want to hear her concerns.

She took off her coat and thanked Marissa, the café owner, for her tea. While she let the leaves steep, she stared out the window at the promenade. Even as dusk grew into darkness, people walked down the palm tree-lined venue. She smiled at the thought of palm trees in Russia. Sochi was subtropical, and the average temperature along that area of the Black Sea was temperate enough to support the beautiful aesthetic.

She noticed a man sitting at a table just past her as she poured her tea. He was larger than the average male and wore round, wire-rimmed glasses. He ordered tea and his meal. Elena lifted an eyebrow at the American accent. Curious, but not completely unheard of. Some of the more affluent Americans had discovered the beauty of the Russian Rivera, as Sochi was called. Her eyes were drawn to the man. His dark brown hair was combed neatly, and the cloth of his suit jacket stretched over the breadth of his shoulders. The fabric was expensive, and the crisp linen of his shirt collar and cuffs was brilliant white. The aesthetic contrasted against his red tie was eye-catching, to say the least. He turned a bit, and she noticed the angle of a strong jaw. However, he didn’t look around. Instead, he was intensely focused on whatever he was reading.

Elena opened her small laptop to start going through her emails. They’d stacked up as she’d worked on creating the interpretive language for the descriptions of the paintings they’d received. Her employer wanted the descriptions within seventy-two hours of receipt of the art. Of course, she could use the work of others, but that wasn’t what she was being paid for. Abrasha wanted her words and her product. She wasn’t fool enough to take any shortcuts. Her employer had specific requirements, which she provided, and in return, she was paid very well. Thatwas something she kept in the forefront of her mind. Dealing with Abrasha was always a chess game.

The man put down the document he was reading, and Elena’s curiosity was piqued as she glanced at the papers, which she recognized immediately. It was a Sotheby’s brochure for what looked like a private sale. She’d seen the documents many times and had sold and purchased privately through the company. The painting depicted on the open page was fabulous and highly sought after by her employer. She hadn’t been able to coordinate even the opening stages of negotiation for theSalvator Mundi. Although the pedigree of the painting was highly contested, and the debate still continued to this day, she didn’t care if da Vinci painted it or one of his students had; the painting was on the top of Abrasha’s list.

She picked up her teacup and walked to his table. Being a retiring wallflower was never her strong suit, and when an opportunity presented itself, she wouldn’t walk past it. “I see you are an art lover.” She spoke in English, which she’d learned from her mother and perfected while living and attending school in England before enrolling in St. Petersburg State University. Having a mother who was a British citizen and a father who was a Russian citizen gave her the best of both worlds.

When he frowned and looked confused, she nodded to the picture depicting theSalvator Mundi. His eyes cut to the folder and then back to her. My God, the thrill of excitement rushed over her like a wave crashing the shore, nearly knocking her to her knees. The man turned the document over. “Perhaps.”

Elena nodded to the chair next to him. “May I?” She really did need to sit down. The man was handsome from a distance. Up close, he was … magnetic—or perhaps incendiary was a better word.

He hesitated but nodded, and she sat down as gracefully as she could, hoping her tea wouldn’t slosh over the lip of hercup as she made the move. Drawing a reinforcing breath, she continued, “TheSalvator Mundiwas last sold for four-hundred-fifty million dollars.”

“I am aware.” The man poured his tea that had been steeping.

“Perhaps I should introduce myself. I’m Elena Ivanova. I’m a curator for a private collector here in Russia.” She extended her hand.

The man took her hand in his. “Max Stryker.” The warmth of his hand and the strength of his handshake were a strong indication of his almost over-the-top masculinity. The man was breathtaking up close, but she was focused on the painting.

“Are you a curator or a collector?” She took a sip of her tea, trying to calm her heartbeat. The painting was causing the excitement, not the man. At least, that was what she told herself.

Max cocked his head and stared at her for a moment. “Why would you need to know?”

She smiled. He was making her work for it. She loved a challenge, and that pulled her away from the insane initial attraction she felt to the man. Which was good. She couldn’t and wouldn’t fall for any romantic entanglement. She had goals for her life, and a man was not on that or any other agenda. As she leaned forward, her hair slipped over her shoulder, and she noticed Max’s eyes followed the fall of brown hair, which was unusual because she wasn’t what anyone would call a beauty. She was far too curvy to be considered beautiful in the day and age of stick-thin fashion. Her lips were too full, and having brown hair and hazel eyes was about as boring as possible. She tossed that thought away as she leaned forward to answer his question. “If you were a curator, I’d ask to be included in any consideration for the sale of that work of art. If you were a collector, I’d ask you to meet my employer, who would love to discuss the procurement of that painting.”

His eyes traveled to her cleavage, then up to meet her gaze. “I’m not a curator, but I work in acquisitions for a rather large conglomerate of collectors with Middle Eastern origins.”

Her insides crawled at that look. No, never again. That was why she had very strong boundaries. Her goal was the painting, not a night of hot sex. His answer explained why theSalvator Mundiwould be in the material the man was holding. It was rumored a Middle Eastern prince had purchased the painting. But she still needed an opening. She tried another tactic. “The provenance of the painting has always been contested.” She leaned back in her chair and took a sip of her tea.

A twitch of a smile flitted at the corner of his mouth. “A four-hundred-year gap between creation and market does raise eyebrows for some. Of course, the ownership is not contested now, and the value is not questioned,” Max said and lifted an eyebrow.

The gesture made the man even more handsome if that were possible. She smiled and then laughed. It was fun to talk to someone who spoke her language. “Which, in our terms, means the painting is expected to sell for more than it was purchased for.” She tipped her head to him and added, “I happen to know a certain entity who would be interested in purchasing that particular painting.”

Max chuckled. It seemed he also appreciated the conversation, but his next words dashed any hope she might have had. “I’m afraid you’ll have to join a very long line of people who want but cannot have.”

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