Page 108 of Stalked
I force myself to breathe normally. “Mr. Chambers sets the prices himself. I can arrange a meeting if you're serious about acquisition.”
“How accommodating.” He steps closer to another painting. “You must enjoy working for him. Much better than working for someone like the Blackwoods, I imagine.”
The name drops between us like a stone in still water.
“I wouldn't know,” I say carefully. “I don't work for them.”
His smile tightens. “But you know them quite well, yes? Particularly Vane Blackwood.”
Ice slides down my spine. This isn't random. Nothing about this conversation is random.
“Ravenwood is a small town,” I deflect. “Everyone knows everyone.”
“Some more intimately than others.” His eyes harden. “Tell me, Ms. Morgan, do the Blackwoods discuss their business with their... companions? Or do they prefer to keep their women ignorant of certain activities?”
Orlov. The name clicks into place with horrifying clarity.
The man in the warehouse. The one Vane tortured. The one who screamed as fingers were severed. His name was Orlov, too.
“I'm afraid I don't follow,” I say, my mouth suddenly dry. “If you're interested in the Blackwood family, perhaps you should speak with them directly.”
“Oh, we've spoken.” His voice drops. “My nephew and I had quite an... intense conversation with them recently. Unfortunately, Mikhail is indisposed now. Family obligation compels me to check on his affairs.”
He touches the edge of the painting, tracing the violent red swirl at its center. “Beautiful things are so fragile, aren't they? So easily damaged.”
My heartbeat thunders in my ears, but I keep my expression neutral. He's threatening me. He's threatening me while standing in my gallery in broad daylight.
“I think you should leave.” I cross to the gallery phone mounted on the wall near the desk, keeping my movements deliberate. “Now.”
“Of course.” He straightens his jacket with unhurried precision. “I've seen what I came to see.”
The door chimes again as he exits, and I lock it the second it closes behind him, hands trembling as I flip the deadbolt.
Shit. Shit.
I lean against the door, pressing my forehead to the cool glass. My breath fogs the window as panic claws up my throat. He knows about Vane and me. He knows where I work. He tracked me down specifically to—what? Threaten me? Use me against Vane?
My phone buzzes in my pocket. Vane's name lights up the screen, but I can't answer. Can't hear his voice right now without completely falling apart or screaming at him for dragging me into this nightmare.
I shove the phone back in my pocket and grab my purse with shaking hands. The invoices can wait. The Volkovs can hang here until kingdom come. I need to get back to the inn, lock myself in that room, and figure out what the hell to do.
The street outside is busy enough—lunch hour is bringing the usual foot traffic. I spot my car two blocks down, where I parked this morning, and start walking, heels clicking against pavement.
A reflection in a shop window catches my attention.
Gray suit. Same measured pace I'm keeping.
Orlov.
My pulse spikes. I turn the corner toward the parking garage instead of continuing to my car, hoping the change in direction is just paranoia. But when I glance back, he's still there, maintaining that careful distance.
Not paranoia.
I speed up. My heels weren't designed for running, but a brisk walk that's almost a jog is doable. The parking garage looms ahead—concrete and shadows and too many places to corner someone.
No. Bad idea.
I veer toward Main Street instead, where cafes and boutiques line both sides. More people. More witnesses.
