He swept the vault with his gaze. He was standing in the middle of more than a fortune, more than two or three fortunes. Esme had said the Meinhard was worth two million, and it was no bigger than a piece of typing paper. The sheer volume, the sheer square footage of all the other paintings in the vault would probably put the value of the vault’s contents up into the hundreds of millions, maybe even into the billion-dollar range.
A strange, strange night all around, he thought, doubting if he would ever see its like again, and pretty much hoping he wouldn’t.
When Nachman was finished at the cabinet, he brought all the money to the table and withdrew a folded piece of paper out of the pocket on his robe.
“Eighty-two, not one hundred thousand,” he said, sliding the paper over to Esme. “Dear Burt still owed me twelve from a small loan we negotiated last April. With interest, the total is currently eighteen. He apparently found himself a bit short with another of his associates.”
That was one way to put it, Johnny thought. And from twelve thousand to eighteen thousand in five months? Hell. Nachman wasn’t a bathrobed wimp. He was a freaking loan shark, a great white.
“Yes, sir,” Esme said, taking the paper. She opened it up, and Johnny saw her father’s signature on the note-Burt Alden in big letters next to the hen scratches of Nachman’s spidery hand. Then she started packing the money into the case. When it was full, she closed it up and put it back in the messenger bag still bandoliered across her chest.
He watched her stuff the remaining stacks of hundred-dollar bills on either side of the case in the bag, and when she had all the cash secured, he watched the subtle but profound relief that passed over her, the brief closing of her eyes, the slight softening of her shoulders-and without a thought, he reached out and stroked her cheek, letting her know that come hell, high water, or a hundred more goddamn tunnels, he was seeing this night through with her, all the way through. She wasn’t alone.
Yeah, she’d had a tough night so far, but he could take care of that, too, whatever she wanted, and he was hoping with everything he had that it was more of what she’d wanted sitting in Solange.
Her lashes lifted, her gaze rising to meet his, and a slow wall of heat rolled straight through him. Unbidden, a smile curved his mouth. Yeah, they were on the same page here, and it was time to take her home.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
What’s love got to do with it? That’s the question Dax had asked himself more times than he could count. What in the hell did love have to do with it?
Not much, had been the answer more times than he was willing to admit.
But this.
Standing just inside the entrance of Toussi Gallery, Dax knew this was crazy.
He tilted his head slightly to one side, looking through the crowd at the woman bent over a table writing something out on a small piece of paper.
What was that wrapped around her ass? Green shantung silk?
Yeah. That’s what it was. Dax knew shantung when he saw it-jade green shantung.
There wasn’t much of it, but he was going to go ahead and call it a skirt, for lack of a better term. And he was going to call her ass incredible, and her legs heartbreaking, and the Chinese red stilettos she was wearing-he was going to call those dangerous.
She straightened up from the table, and Dax quickly retooled the whole deadly combination in his head. The ivory satin halter top she was wearing was the danger zone. The pale ivory breasts almost spilling out of the top were the hot zone-a verifiable hot zone with a very elegant string of pearls looping across it like a police line: Do Not Cross.
Yeah. He grinned.
Dax loved a challenge, and he was thinking going up against a string of pearls was a win-win situation, especially with a woman wrapped up inside them. Women and pearls was one of his favorite combinations, like tequila and a beach, like sunrise and sex.
And yes, he was a great one for a wake-up call.
From the curvaceous mounds of her breasts it was a short trip up the satiny skin of her throat and the delicate angle of her jaw to a cherry lipsticked mouth he didn’t trust himself to stare at, and the rest-smooth, pale cheeks, an elegant nose, and thickly lashed and artfully made-up eyes, almond shaped, sultry.
She was gee-fucking-gorgeous.
He felt it in his heart.
She reached back onto the table and retrieved a small jacket, jade green shantung, and slipped it on over the halter top. The jacket fit her like a glove, and after it was on, she did one of those quintessentially female things that no guy could resist- she slid one perfectly manicured hand up around the back of her neck and with the utmost unconscious grace, lifted her hair out of the back of the jacket. The next move was also filled with so much fluid, female grace, the slight toss of her head to get her hair to settle back into a fall of silken auburn, he wondered for a second if someone was filming her. Who the hell else moved like that? Some movie star? Some model?
He didn’t look around to see if there was anyone with a camera trained on her, though. He didn’t want to miss anything, not a move.
Which proved to be his undoing.
Her next move, and so help him God, he never saw it coming, was to turn and look toward the door, and when she saw him, she smiled. It was a professional smile, not a personal smile, and yes, he knew the difference, intellectually. Emotionally, though, it was still a knockout. Then things got worse.
One long-legged, spike-heeled stride after another, she walked toward him, her smile in place, and he didn’t know if she was going to sell him real estate or proposition him.
He was ready for either, and unbelievably, he found himself steeling his heart against the sound of her voice. If her voice in any way matched the sultry welcome of her whiskey-colored eyes, he was doomed.
“Hi,” she said.
It did. He felt the slam-dunk with just one word.
“I’m Suzi Toussi.” She held out her hand, and like an idiot, he took it, shook it, and didn’t let go- so she did it for him, retrieving her hand and giving him a very small, very aware smile that said she got hit on every day of the week and twice on Sundays. “Thanks for coming to the showing. Are you familiar with Nikki’s work?”
“No.” He looked around the gallery and changed his mind. “Maybe.” Some of the stuff looked familiar. The paintings were all angels like on the postcard, but the full divine being, instead of just the partial view used on the invitation. Even a quick look around showed that the artist had a couple of models she used a lot, one guy with long blond hair, and a guy with short dark hair, and from the looks of some of the paintings, sometimes she put them through hell.
“She did the Brad Pitt cover of Esquire magazine a few years ago. You might have seen it.”
Probably not. He didn’t keep up with the Pittster.
“Suzi,” he said, bringing his attention back to her face, especially her eyes, and there was a correction on the color. Whiskey didn’t quite cover it. They were darker than Scotch, richer, with a warm undertone of amber, and like everything else about her, they had an elegance that defied comparison.
He hadn’t seen anyone like her, not anywhere, and he’d seen a lot of women. They were kind of a hobby with him, which he knew didn’t throw him in a very good light, but it did give him a certain expertise, and one thing he knew beyond doubt was that God made women like her for only one reason-to hurt men, to break their hearts and hurt them where they lived, which for Dax, currently, was just a little south of his belt buckle.
“So the gallery is yours?” Her name was on it- Toussi.
“Used to be.” The luscious Suzi Toussi smiled. “Now I’m just the hired help.”