Page 27 of Maximus

He nodded. “Either the frame or under the painting of the canvas.”

“An overpaint?” She dropped to her knees with him. “Why didn’t I think of that?”

“Because until this morning, you assumed your boss wasn’t a murderous bastard,” Max said as he ran his fingertips around the outside of the frame.

“Well, there is that.” She sighed. “What are you looking for?”

“Irregularities, dips, dents, color change.”

She pointed to the right-hand corner. “There.”

He zeroed in on the divot she’d pointed out. He ran his finger over the small indention. The texture was different from the rest of the frame. Sitting back on his heels, he stared at the composition of the frame. “This would need to open.”

She nodded, sat on her butt, and crossed her legs. She took the frame from him and lifted it to the light. “There, a seam. You can see the color change in the wood finish.” She handed the frame back to him. He lifted it in the same fashion she had and could detect the smallest change in color that ran in a straight line at the joint. He spun the frame to the opposite side and searched for the same tell-tale sign. “There,” he said, and she pressed her face against his arm as he held the frame, squinting to see what he indicated.

“I see it, but what do we do now? If we open it, Abrasha will know.”

“Not necessarily.” He pulled out his phone and started taking pictures. He could get a replica of the frame in a day, maybe two. The weight, he’d have to take a wild-ass guess on unless … “Do you have a scale?”

“Scale? Yes, in the delivery area. When I have workers construct shipping boxes, I have to know how much they weigh to notify the company shipping the art its dimensions.”

“Is it portable?” He reached into his pocket and pulled out his switchblade knife.

She backed away from the knife, her eyes wide. “I can roll it in here. What if he comes back?”

“I’ll have a replacement built. He won’t be able to tell the difference unless he looks for the lines and the divot.” Max turned the frame over and then looked at the rest of the frames, leaning on easels. They were all different sizes and thicknesses, and some were an awkward fit for the canvas, overpowering the small paintings with height and girth.

He put the frame down. “Do you want help getting the scale?”

She glanced back in the direction of the vault door. “Would you mind? I can manage the scale, but …”

“Not at all.” He stood up and offered her his hand. She was holding up pretty damn well, considering what she’d beenthrough the night before. He left the frame and his computer in the vaulted area as he held her hand as they strolled back through the priceless treasures.

She drew a deep breath and let it out. “All of these were bought with blood money.”

“Not necessarily. Abrasha’s father was made rich by seizing an aluminum company in the early voucher campaign sponsored by the Russian government. From there, the man worked damn hard, and when he died, Abrasha took over. From what we determined, his father was a businessman and mostly worked within the confines of legalities. Abrasha took the businesses into the digital age and has gone for the easy money, backed the wrong people, and become a monster. Absolute power, in Molchalin’s case, has corrupted absolutely.”

She squeezed his hand. “Thank you.”

He smiled, looking forward. She knew he was trying to make her feel better. He squeezed her hand and looked over at her. Not many people would have understood what he was trying to do. “For what?”

She chuckled. “You were trying to make me feel better about working for a murdering pig by telling me some of these paintings could have been purchased by his father. Yet you know I know the provenance of all these paintings. Only a handful have been owned that long.”

They stopped at the vault door. He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed the back of it. Before lowering it, he asked, “Has anyone told you how beautiful your mind is?”

She laughed. “Never.”

“Then they were fools who never looked past the beautiful wrapping.” He saw a blush race to her cheeks.

She stared at him. “You do realize if you keep talking to me like that, I’ll start believing you care for me.”

“I do care for you. I’ve told you that. I want to take you back to the States when I leave. I want to find out where this connection goes, and I’ll repeat that statement as many times as you need to hear it to believe me.”

She stared at him for a long moment before opening the vault door. Then she put her hand on his arm as he opened the heavy door. “I do, too, Max. I care.”

He took her hand after she locked the vault and walked to the delivery area. A warm sense of well-being boiled through him. He pulled her into him before she could turn on the lights in the delivery area. His lips found hers, and she gasped, stealing his air. She could take every molecule of oxygen from his body, and he wouldn’t care. The taste of her was beyond any five-star experience he’d ever had. She formed into his body in a perfect meld of softness and curves. It was illogical and the result of a physical response to dopamine, but logic and chemicals aside, he’d never had a connection like this with any other woman. She was his. He deepened the kiss at that possessive and archaic thought. Fuck it, he didn’t care. And that was yet another point that led him to believe the nexus between them couldn’t be anything but serious. He never said fuck it. He never declined to investigate. When a logical reason existed, he delved deeper and verified the facts behind each decision. Yet, with this woman in his arms, hedid not care. She was an anomaly, and for once in his life, he didn’t care to dig, know why, or require an explanation. The answer to the equation did not matter, the parts were more important than the sum. Whatever it was, whatever the reason for his bliss was, he just hoped it would never fade.

He felt her push against his steel-hard cock and groaned under the contact. He pulled away from the kiss. “If you don’t stop that, I may go insane.”

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