it to her office, Haven dumped her empty coffee cup into the trash. At her desk, she grabbed her laptop and some files.
“I want to come into work tomorrow,” she said. “I need to check in with my staff, and go over some restoration projects.”
“Okay.”
Just like that. He’d stay with her, keep her safe. She walked up to him and kissed him.
He raised a dark brow. “What’s that for?”
She took a deep breath. “I just wanted to let you know that I really like you.”
Something fired in his eyes. “I really like you too.”
“I’m starting to get that.”
“Finally.”
She swatted his arm. “Now, we just need to find the Water Lilies. What do we do next?”
“Well, my plan is to question the appraiser. Irvine.”
Haven gasped. “My God, with everything going on, I’d completely forgotten about him!” This was clearly why Rhys was the investigator and not her.
“I’ll ask Vander to stay with you—”
“No.” She gripped his arm. “I’m coming.”
Rhys scowled. “Haven.”
“He’s a seventy-year-old man, Rhys. I know him and he likes me.” She frowned. “I’m still shocked he does illegal appraisals, but there is no risk in me coming.”
“Shit, I hope you aren’t always going to talk me into stuff.”
She shot him a sweet smile.
In Rhys’ SUV, they headed to Mr. Irvine’s address, which Rhys already had.
The man lived in a small, tidy house in Glen Park. He met them at the door, dressed in slacks, shirt, and a vest. He looked like a smaller, sweeter version of Santa Claus.
“Mr. Irvine, I’m Rhys Norcross. We spoke on the phone.”
“Of course, of course.” The man noticed Haven. “Haven! What a nice surprise.”
“Hello, Mr. Irvine.”
“Come in. I just made some tea.”
Inside, the house screamed “decorated by a grandmother.” There were some nice prints on the wall, mostly of the English countryside. There were also lots of framed photos of Mr. Irvine, and a gray-haired, sweet-faced woman. There were also lots of children and grandchildren.
It was all so normal. Haven wanted that. Love. Family. She wanted frames all over the place filled with pictures of her life. The things she’d missed out on after her mom died.
They sat at the table in the kitchen and Mr. Irvine brought a pot of tea over.
“Not for me,” Rhys said.
No, Haven was sure that badasses did not drink tea.
Mr. Irvine poured two cups.
“Did you appraise the Water Lilies here?” Haven asked.
“Oh, you know.” The old man smiled. “It’s just business, Haven. I am sorry the painting was stolen from the Hutton.”
“My guards were shot. I was beaten.”
Regret crossed the man’s face. “I’m very sorry to hear that. I just appraise. No questions asked.”
“For a very large fee,” Rhys said.
“Yes. I need the money to keep the house, and help my family.” The man beamed. “My oldest grandson is off to Berkeley this year. My lovely Jean died last year.” Grief lined his face. “This house meant everything to her. It was her parents’ home, and she grew up here. I don’t commit any crimes, but I do carry out some off-book appraisals.”
Haven sighed. “My ex was the one who instigated the theft of the Water Lilies and set this in motion. We want the painting back where it belongs, not sold to a criminal and locked away in a private collection.”
Mr. Irvine sipped his tea and nodded.
“Do you have any information that might help?” she pleaded. “Do the right thing, Mr. Irvine. For Jean’s memory, for that grandson going to Berkeley, for your family.”
“They were all careful not to say too much around me. They took me to a warehouse in Potrero Hill. It looked like it had once been a factory.”
Haven glanced at Rhys. The painting had been in that warehouse at some stage.
“It really is a masterpiece. Anyway, I’m an old man. A few of the guards talked like I wasn’t even there.”
Rhys leaned forward. “What did you hear?”
“They’re planning to move the painting soon. For a private sale.”
Haven frowned. “No, there’s going to be an auction.”
Mr. Irvine shook his head. “A private buyer made a huge offer. I think it was some prince from the Middle East.” He frowned and scratched his head. “Or was it a tech billionaire from Silicon Valley?”
Haven gasped. “When? Did you hear when the sale was happening?”
“Let’s see, today is Sunday, so tomorrow morning. At six am, a black, unmarked truck will leave Mr. Volkov’s mansion.”
She looked at Rhys. This was it.
“Thank you, Mr. Irvine,” she said.
“Anything else?” Rhys asked. “Did you hear where the sale was happening?”
“That’s all