Page 37 of Dangerous Passion

“Ten,” Rutskoi said firmly. “And expenses. I’m going to need equipment and bribing money. I want you to give me a black credit card and some ID to go with the name. And I want ten million in my bank account in Switzerland. Upfront. I promise you Drake will be gone, dead by my hand. Iknow him, know how he thinks. I’ve known him since he was twenty. I’m probably the only man alive who can do this.”

“Ruso,” Cordero said slowly. “How can I trust you? I give you ten million dollars and you disappear. How crazy do you think I am?”

“Drake isn’t sure about you, but heknowsI was involved in the attempt. My life is worth shit while he’s alive, after this. He’ll come after me, no question. So, I need to get rid of him in self-defense. I could maybe disappear, stay off his radar for a while, but you can’t. Your business is here. He’ll come after you, don’t ever doubt that, and he knows exactly where to find you. You can’t handle him. We saw that. Five of your men couldn’t take him down. But I can. I know him, I know him well. We’ve worked together, we’ve even fought together. I know his ways and I have this inside informer. Give me enough money to do the job and I’ll get rid of him for you. You stay put here for the next month, don’t move, don’t leave the compound, and I’ll give you Drake’s head on a plate. Not for you, but for me. And then I’ll disappear forever.”

Rutskoi could watch the greed dawning on Cordero’s face. It was a win-win. Cordero could justify doing fuck all for a month. He could spend it stoned getting blow jobs every hour on the hour, while Rutskoi took care of taking Drake out. What was ten million to him? For access to Drake’s kingdom or at least with Drake out of the way? Nothing.

“Okay,” Cordero said, finally. He stuck his hand out. Rutskoi took it. “Deal.”

Cordero’s hand was soft, limp, humid, like touching a slug. Rutskoi barely managed to keep from wiping his hand on his trousers to get rid of the feel of it.

“Deal,” he replied.

Grace feltthe breath leave her lungs in a whoosh, leaving her light-headed, dizzy, completely disoriented.

It took her a second to understand. At first, she was overwhelmed by the magnificence of the room, like a small Versailles. The rest of the apartment was lush, hyper-comfortable in a very expensive sort of way, colorful and unique. This—this was lavish beyond anything she’d ever seen, the way royalty must live. Her eyes greedily drank in the jewel tones of the plush carpets, the enormous, brightly-colored enameled vases with huge, thriving plants, a massive, highly-polished desk that looked like where God would do his paperwork, if He had any.

And of course, all across one wall, as in every room of this unusual home, the magnificent night-time skyline of Manhattan stretched along the room like an immense diamond necklace.

Then, a second later, what was on the remaining three walls popped out at her and she jolted, unable to believe her eyes.

Dozens and dozens of paintings, drawings, watercolors, exquisitely framed and beautifully lit. The artwork fit into the room perfectly, the colors and shapes echoing the furniture, sculptures, vases. Seeing the artwork here, recognizing it, had been so outlandish it had literally taken a second to penetrate her mind, though every work of art was as familiar to her as her own heartbeat.

Hers.

Every single painting, every single drawing, gouache, watercolor—all hers. This magnificent room was like a little Grace Larsen museum. She pivoted to the dark-eyed man watching her so carefully. She felt herself wobble and he steadied her.

“You,” she whispered.

He bowed his head gravely. “Me,” he confirmed.

Put it into words, pin it down. “You’re the one who’s been collecting my work for the past year.”

“Yes.”

Her head swam. “I think—I think I need to sit down.”

“Absolutely.” Drake’s hand was once more on her elbow and it felt as if he were carrying her, more than guiding her, to the nearest couch. She sat down gratefully, not certain whether her legs would have held her one second longer. Drake sat next to her. He didn’t look heavy—indeed, he looked very lean—but the soft down cushions of the couch settled deeply under him, rolling her a little into him.

Here, too, a big fire was burning, framed by an intricately carved hearth of sandstone. She was grateful for the warmth.

Grace looked at the nearest wall, where two of her best oils flanked the fireplace. She remembered clearly all the emotions running through her as she painted them. The two big oils were meant to be shown as a pair. A Flemish-style still life of overblown roses in an earthenware vase, an open manuscript and a plate with grapes and apples on a wooden table. The other painting was a still life of a small topiary in a red terracotta designer vase, an open laptop and a box of Godiva chocolates on a transparent Philippe Starck table. The Flemish-style still life was a riot of colors and rotond, convoluted shapes. The modern still life was in cool tones of gray and beige, with hard edges and machined shapes.

She’d painted them over a year ago, hoping that whoever bought them would buy them together and hang them together, the old and the new, but she hadn’t been holding her breath. Artists never got any kind of a say about who bought their work and how they displayed it.

These two had been bought together and they were displayed magnificently.

The far reaches of the room were in shadow, but she could see enough. A hand gleaming out of the darkness in one painting, the foam of the ocean in another. The walls were filled with her work.

“I—I don’t know what to say, what to think. A whole year, I’ve been wondering who was buying up my work.” Mind spinning, she turned her head to him. “Harold was disappointed that you hadn’t organized a show. Most people who collect a lot of one person’s work are planning a show to drive prices up. You were never going to, were you?”

He shook his head.

“I didn’t really care, but Harold did. He felt he could have started pushing the prices even higher if you’d shown my work. Even though they were already going very high.” She’d made a fortune off him.

Drake’s jaws worked. “Mr. Feinstein could have quadrupled the prices and I would have paid. I would have paid ten times what he asked. I love your work. Your paintings have given me enormous pleasure over this past year. There’s no price for that.” His dark eyes held hers. “I’m sorry if I held your career back by not showing your art. I didn’t want to—couldn’t share it with others. I see now I made you suffer. I am deeply sorry.”

Grace reached out with her hand to touch him, then stopped suddenly, her hand an inch above his. She looked down at their hands. At his, so sinewy and strong, with the tough yellow calluses on the sides. Not an artist’s hand, not at all. It was an expression of sheer male power. Banked power.He didn’t move in any way, just watched her carefully. She was holding her hand above his for so long it was almost an insult and yet he didn’t act insulted at all. He merely waited for what she would do.

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