Instead of smiling, Rhys frowned. Shit, did everyone think he was only a good-time guy?
“I’ll text you the addresses and dates,” Jerome said. “See you soon. Be good to catch up.”
Rhys ended the call, but he had a bad taste in his mouth. He decided it was time to go and question their “guest.”
When he headed into the holding room, he saw the man sitting at the desk, handcuffed to one table leg. He was rumpled, his nose swollen. He lifted his head, and when he saw Rhys, his eyes glittered.
“Just tell us who you are and who you work for,” Rhys said. “Then you can go.”
Silence.
“You tried to snatch an innocent woman off the street. Cops don’t like that. You keep your trap shut, that’s your next stop.”
More silence.
“You know, my day has turned pretty shitty, and I’m looking for a distraction.” Rhys let his fingers curl into a fist.
Mr. No-Neck didn’t miss it. “I talk, I die.”
“Was the woman random, or were you after her specifically?”
There was a brief struggle on the man’s face. “Her. Haven McKinney.”
Fuck. It didn’t matter that she’d pissed him off, Rhys still wanted her safe. “Why?”
The man shook his head.
There was a knock on the door, and Rhys opened it. Ace was in the doorway.
Rhys slipped outside. Ace Oliveira’s long, dark hair was pulled back in a stubby ponytail. He was the same height as Rhys, a shade leaner, but kept in shape. He’d spent several years working at the NSA, and hadn’t met a system he couldn’t hack, bug, or take down, depending on his mood.
“His name is Joseph Cowell.” Ace’s voice held a faint touch of Brazil. He’d grown up in the US, but both his parents were Brazilian. “I ran some searches and he popped.” Ace handed over a piece of paper.
Rhys scanned it. “Thug for hire.”
“Yep. Got links to Petrov.”
Rhys stiffened. Damn, Russian mafia. Boris Petrov ran a steady business of money laundering in San Francisco. He usually steered well clear of Norcross, and kept out of their business. Rhys frowned. The mafia couldn’t be linked to Haven.
He turned and peered through the glass, then back at Ace. “Thanks.”
“Vander also asked me to give you this.” Ace held out a slim file.
As Ace disappeared, Rhys frowned at the file and flipped it open. His stomach clenched. They were pictures of Haven.
They were from a while ago. She looked thinner, stressed, her face pinched. From the background, he could tell she was in Miami.
In one, she had bruises on her face.
Motherfucker. He could make out finger marks. Fury was like acid in his veins. Some of them showed her arguing with the slick, good-looking blond man. Leo Becker, the ex.
She’d run from this man. She’d left Miami because this asshole had hurt her.
Rhys closed the file. She might have had a rough time, but that didn’t mean she got to take that out on him. He looked at Cowell through the glass. He’d give the guy a bit longer to stew. Turning, Rhys headed back upstairs to his office.
He saw he had some new emails, and one was from the tattoo artist he’d contacted. The guy had done some of Rhys’ ink in the past. He’d sent the man an image of the tattoo that had been on the neck of the thief from the museum.
Rhys scanned the information and stiffened.
The guy had tracked the star tattoo down. It was a mafia tattoo, common in the Bratva.
The guy in the museum had a Russian mafia tattoo. The kidnapper downstairs had links to the local Russian mafia.
Rhys felt that little tingle when an investigation started coming together.
And this time, he didn’t like it one bit. The Russian mafia was involved, and somehow, Haven was right in the middle of it.
Haven lay on her bed, staring at the ceiling, trying not to think of anything.
She closed her eyes. For a few months, life had been good again. Peaceful.
Now…
Images flashed in her brain like someone taking photographs—the painting, the theft, the man hitting her, Rhys, Rhys kissing her, his face at the end when they’d argued.
Her stomach cramped.
He was done with her. She saw that. He’d shut down and turned off like she disgusted him.
Her stomach tightened even more. Don’t think about him.
She rolled, pressing her face into her pillow. God, she’d been a bitch to him. Who was she to judge how he lived his life?
Ugh. Enough. Rhys Norcross was not for her. She needed to stop wallowing.
She pushed herself up and then tied her tangled hair up in a messy bun. When she’d gotten home, she’d changed into yoga pants and an oversized T-shirt with a large neck that slipped off one shoulder.
Now, night was falling. She wondered if they’d gotten her kidnapper to talk.
Shaking her head, she headed into her living room, glancing out the windows. Where was the Water Lilies right now?
The lights of San Francisco winked back at her, but didn’t have the answer.
She just hoped they were treating it right. The smallest wrong move could damage the masterpiece. She released a breath. Art meant a lot to her. She still remembered her mom taking her to a museum for the first time when she was six. It had been their special day. Haven had learned that art was a way to express human skill, imagination, and emotion. You could capture a moment, a feeling, and make someone feel that again. There were some paintings that just a glance made her remember her mom—shared giggles, warm hugs, their love.
Haven couldn’t afford the kind of art she truly loved, but she had a few pretty prints, and one small sculpture on her coffee table—a gift from an artist. It was two people entwined in an embrace, the man holding the woman close to his larger body.
She averted her gaze from the statue. All that did right now was make her feel worse.
In her compact kitchen, she opened her fridge. She had no desire to cook, and her fridge was looking a little bare. Haven didn’t love cooking, but she had a few meals that were her go-tos, and usually came out pretty well.
There was a knock at her door and she froze. She wasn’t expecting anyone, and no one had buzzed up.
Frozen with indecision, she stood there, staring at the door.
“Open up, Haven,” Gia called. “I’ve got food and wine.”
Relief punched through Haven.
She opened the door and her best friend bustled in, paper bag in one hand, and a bottle of red wine in the other. Her large, Fendi handbag was slung over her shoulder, and she was still in her work clothes—her sleek, white dress with sexy Louboutin heels.
Gia looked at Haven’s face and her mouth hardened.
“I’m okay,” Haven said. “The bruising is just getting worse.”
Gia dumped her things on the kitchen island. Then she hugged Haven. Haven wrapped her arms around her friend and held on tight.
“Hey.” Gia patted her back. “What’s going on?”
“I went to see Harry today.”
“You were supposed to rest.”
“I have to try and find the painting, Gia. Anyway, some no-neck guy tried to drag me off the street.”
“What?” Gia stiffened. “I’m calling Vander—”
Haven grabbed her arm. “Rhys arrived and stopped the guy. He’s in a holding room at Norcross.”