Page 67 of Canvas of Lies
“A plan involving that monstrosity?” she asked, incredulous.
“Maybe.” I flashed her a grin. “I’ll need to see how everything plays out before making any final decisions, but I’ve got some ideas. No offense, but your father really is one underhanded son of a bitch.”
“You’re telling me,” she muttered.
Kat’s knowledge of my exact skill set when it came to computers was still murky, at best, but it was all going to come down to some serious hacking. As much as I hated to admit it, I was actually looking forward to the challenge of beating her father at his own game.
It wasn’t my fault he’d brought the playing field out of his comfort zone and into mine.
I reached over to cup her cheek, carefully avoiding the faded remnants of her bruise. “It’ll be over soon. Just think how peaceful our lives will be—no kidnapper vans, no cars trying to run us off the road. We’ll be able to escape to the cabin for pleasure instead of in fear for our lives.”
She nuzzled her face into my palm. “So you’re planning to keep me around, huh?”
“Are you kidding me? If you think I’m going to watch you hop on some dude’s motorcycle to ride off into the sunset again, you’re severely mistaken. I should’ve stopped you back then,but you know damn well that I would absolutely throw myself under the wheels to stop you now.”
“That particular relationship lasted three whole days, I’ll have you know,” she deadpanned.
I laughed. “Why am I not surprised? I have to say, that little pixie cut was pretty cute, but I prefer these wild curls.” I reached out to twist one around my finger. “They suit you perfectly.”
Kat batted my hand away. “You’re trying to distract me and it’s not working, so give it up. I want to know what you’re planning to do. You’ve obviously got some idea of how this is going to play out. Spill. Now.”
I grinned, both at her indignant expression and the bossy tone. “Okay, okay. Here’s what I’m thinking . . .”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Kat
LateThursdaynight,surroundedby caffeinated beverages and a variety of snack bags, we sat huddled together in front of Nico’s desk, staring at the computer monitor. He’d managed to hack into the auction undetected, a silent observer to dollar amounts that had my eyes rounding in shock. Even though there was no one to hear us in the quiet apartment, we spoke infrequently and in hushed tones.
It reminded me of that night beneath the desk, just the two of us against the world.
As the clock ticked steadily toward midnight, I wondered if Nico could hear my heart thudding against my ribs. The price was currently at fourteen million, with only two minutes to go. It felt like some kind of alternate reality, a freaky, twisted version of my everyday life. Though I made a living reselling myfinds through online auctions and was very familiar with the pulsating thrill of watching a bidder snipe an item at the last minute, those things sold at a tiny, tiny fraction of this price.
I felt like I was going to throw up just from the nerves. All the junk food probably wasn’t helping, either.
Beside me, Nico was busy typing at lightning speed on the laptop before him, glancing up at the larger monitor every few seconds. He’d given me a rough outline of how the evening would go, including who the major players were and where they were located, but in this final stretch, it took all of my willpower to keep from distracting him by asking for an update.
With thirty seconds left on the clock, he reached over and squeezed my knee before returning his hands to the keyboard.
“Breathe, Kitten,” he said quietly. “It’ll be over soon.”
“Easier said than done,” I muttered, struggling to draw a breath at all.
My lungs felt tight, frozen in anticipation. I trusted Nico implicitly, but if this went wrong, I was afraid he’d never be able to forgive himself—or possibly me, simply for being related to the man profiting astronomically from what he’d stolen from Nico’s family.
Then, suddenly, it was over. The screen flashed with the winning bid, a startling fourteen-point-three million, and briefly went black.
In the next second, Nico had shifted into the private messages between my father and the buyer, a man named Lucien Lavigne. Though I’d never heard of him, Nico recognized thename. When the auction first started, he told me Lavigne was a European dealer of rare and purportedly stolen gemstones, currently based in Portugal. The man had been investigated at least a dozen times but never actually charged with a crime.
A perfect match for my father, really.
“Here we go,” Nico whispered, continuing to type on the laptop while the details appeared in the private messages on the monitor. “Christ, this is even better than I hoped for.”
I said nothing, simply watched the conversation between my treacherous father and a known criminal mastermind. What would’ve happened, I wondered, if I’d been there when Pierre died? Could I have prevented all this heartache and intrigue simply by bearing witness to it?
An icy claw tightened around my heart when I realized that maybe the painting was why my father hadn’t told me about Pierre’s death, why I hadn’t been informed about the funeral. He knew I wouldn’t stand for something like this if I’d been there.
Since the day I found out about Pierre’s death, I’d been angry at my father for failing to tell me about it. Now, the depth of the betrayal threatened to overwhelm me.
