Dark Deception (Vampire Royals of New York #1) - Sarah Piper Page 0,42
a priority for you anymore, maybe we need to have a different sort of conversation.”
Charley tried not to squirm as shame and anger waged war in her chest.
Fuck you and your fucked-up priorities.
“It’s my only priority, I swear.” Charley’s vision blurred with unshed tears, but she refused to cry in front of him. Crying wouldn’t get the job done, and it certainly wouldn’t win her any favors with Rudy. “It’s just a run of bad luck. I’ll break it—I know I will. Whatever you need from me, I’m here.”
“Good.” He finally released her hand, adjusting the hideous gold watch on his wrist. “I needed to hear that.”
They finished their meal in silence, Charley picking at her food while Rudy shoveled it in by the forkful, pausing occasionally to leer at women passing on the sidewalk. After his third martini, Rudy finally wiped his mouth, and then tossed the blue cloth napkin over his empty plate. “I want you to head over to the JHS. Nose around, see if you can uncover anything about Redthorne’s situation.”
“Right now?”
“Unless you have something better to do?” Rudy narrowed his eyes, a slow smile spreading across his face. “Hey, how’s Sasha? It’s been so long since we’ve all had dinner together. Maybe I’ll pay her a visit. I bet she’d like that.”
Charley trembled inside. That’s all it took. The barest hint of a threat, a subtle reminder that Rudy knew exactly what mattered most to Charley—and exactly how to leverage it.
“JHS. Thirty-Fourth Street, right? Already on my way.” Charley rose from her chair and leaned in to kiss his cheek. “Thanks for lunch, Uncle Rudy. I’ll call with an update later.”
“Do that.” He waited until she’d reached the corner before speaking again, calling out so loudly that everyone else on the sidewalk turned to look. “Charlotte?”
She spun to face him, forcing a smile despite the bile rising in her throat.
“You forgot Sasha’s baklava.” Rudy held up a to-go container, his smirk making her skin crawl. “Should I deliver it myself?”
Chapter Seventeen
A hard-on was the last thing Dorian expected to get from his meeting at the JHS, but when he saw the woman standing at the information desk, all bets were off.
Impossible.
He’d been obsessing about her all day, and suddenly there she was, leaning against the desk with her beautiful ass calling to him like a beacon. She was dressed casually today—a V-neck blouse that showed off her neck and throat and dark jeans that hugged every delicious curve—but it was definitely Charlotte. The auburn hair, the delicate features, that confident, take-no-prisoners stance.
The scent.
He’d recognize his woman anywhere.
But what the bloody hell is she doing here?
Dorian never found out why she’d been snooping around the Salvatore penthouse last night, and now she was here, snooping around the museum moments after his meeting with the curator about the Whitfield.
It couldn’t have been a coincidence.
Without making his presence known, Dorian crept up behind her, eavesdropping on her conversation with the desk attendant.
“Let me check,” the attendant said, tabbing through files on his computer. “Desolate Rains. Okay, here it is. Acquisition is still pending, but yes, it’s slated to be displayed in our permanent collection later this winter.”
“Is there any other information you can give me?” Charlotte asked.
“It says here that the painting was one of a series looted during the Second World War,” he said. “From—”
“Poland’s National Art Institute,” Charlotte said. “Yes, I’m familiar with the painting’s history.”
So was Dorian. The Whitfield was long thought destroyed. Since he’d heard a rumor of its reappearance in the States several years ago, Dorian had been working closely with the museum to locate it, the promise of his donation years in the making. He doubted the family he’d bought it from had any clue about its history, but the museum’s curator certainly did.
To Dorian, he was the one who mattered.
“I’m afraid that’s all the information I have right now,” the attendant said. “But you’re welcome to check back again next month. The curator should have more details about the exhibit by then.”
“What about the donor? Did he say why he purchased the painting for you?”
“I’m sorry, ma’am. That’s confidential. The donor has asked to remain anonymous.”
“I might be able to answer your questions,” Dorian said, finally revealing himself. “The donor and I have quite a history.”
The smile on Charlotte’s face as she turned toward him was worthy of its own painting, a work of art he tried desperately to memorize. She hid it quickly, masking her surprise, but the damage was