all be there.
“Don’t take any unnecessary risks.” Vander’s midnight-blue gaze bored into her.
His dark, commanding tone made her swallow and nod. There was no way she’d dare disagree with him.
“I want the painting back,” Easton said. “But I want you alive and safe more.”
She eyed the wall of muscle surrounding her. Each one of them was doing so much to look after her. Rhys’ hand touched the small of her back.
“Thank you all again—”
“Not necessary,” Vander cut her off. “One more thing. I managed to get someone inside. Rhys will update you on the way.”
She nodded. Outside Rhys’ building, he bundled her toward a black limo. He helped her into the back. She ran her hand nervously over the leather seat. She could do this. She could do this.
The limo slid smoothly into traffic.
“We’ll hear everything you say, and everything in close radius around you,” Rhys said from the driver’s seat.
“Right,” she replied.
“But you won’t hear us. We can’t risk an in-ear mic.”
“Got it.” She fiddled with her clutch.
“Vander, she coming through?” Rhys asked.
“Yes. Crystal clear.” Vander’s voice came from the console of the car.
“So, Vander pulled a few strings and he got a friend, actually a very good client of Norcross, into the party. He won’t approach you unless you need help.”
Haven swallowed. “All right.”
“His name is Zane Roth, he’s—”
She gasped. “A billionaire. The King of Wall Street. One of New York’s Billionaire Bachelors. Voted Sexiest Man of the Year last year.”
Rhys growled. “You done?”
Oops. Someone sounded put-out. “I mean, I’ve seen him and his friends online.” The media loved the three men, and Haven couldn’t blame them. Three hot men who’d met in college, gone on to be outrageously successful billionaires, and were all shockingly attractive. What wasn’t to like?
Maybe her man didn’t want to hear that.
“Pfft. Who wants billions, anyway? What a headache.”
In the rearview mirror, she saw Rhys’ lips twitch.
“I totally prefer hot badasses, with sexy tattoos and messy, thick, rock-star hair.”
Rhys shook his head, but he was smiling.
The suburbs changed as they headed toward Sea Cliff. It was a wealthy neighborhood, with mansions nestled on the cliffs, offering sweeping views of the Pacific Ocean and the Golden Gate Bridge.
Soon, she was taking in the large, fancy houses that she knew were all multi-million-dollar real estate. Ahead, a line of cars was pulling up in front of a stately, Tuscan-style mansion painted a gray-green with black accents. The front garden was immaculately landscaped. More mansions flanked it, but she noted it had a large side yard, probably because the back of the house was cliffside with water views, and a driveway on the other side was blocked by security guards.
Her nerves came back, dancing a jig in her belly.
Rhys pulled up out front and she took a deep breath. The house screamed “I have money.” It was a little too stuffy for her tastes.
Rhys swiveled in his seat. “Be careful, Haven. That sexy body is mine. I have lots of plans for it later.”
She felt a curl in her belly. “I’ll see you soon.”
“Count on it.”
He got out and circled the car, then opened her door and helped her out.
Security guards flanked the doors to the house. Other guests—also dressed to the nines—were heading up the stairs.
She sucked in a breath. She’d been to fancy fundraisers as part of her job. She knew how to turn it on and hobnob.
She felt the brush of Rhys’ hand, then he was gone. She couldn’t risk looking back. She walked up the steps, her shoulders back, making sure to show plenty of leg through the slit in her dress.
She smiled.
Showtime.
Haven walked through the crowded rooms of Volkov’s mansion. There were a lot of people there, all in designer dresses, suits, and tuxedos.
Ugh. Were all these people aware the painting was stolen? Were they all interested in buying it?
No, probably not. Harry had said this shindig was to gauge interest. Probably where Volkov could drop some bait, and see who bit.
She took a glass of champagne from a white-suited server with a tray. The house was decorated in “rich, single, older-man” style, which involved a lot of dark colors, lots of wood, and heavy furniture. As she’d guessed, the back of the house was all glass windows, offering a breathtaking view of the Golden Gate Bridge. She noted a lot of San Francisco’s elite were here. Some guests were out on the terrace, while others mingled inside. She wandered through the room, and her gaze caught on a painting on