“Well, it looks like you went a few rounds with a bulldozer, and lost.”
Haven wrinkled her nose, which tugged on her bruises. “Thanks for the pep talk. Now I feel beautiful.”
“You aren’t going to work,” Gia said.
Haven stiffened. “Yes, I am. I’m bruised, not bedridden.”
Her friend’s brown eyes narrowed. She slammed a piece of toast down in front of Haven.
Haven’s stomach churned. She really wasn’t that hungry. She was worried about the security guards, and stressing about the painting being gone.
“I want to stop by the hospital and check on David and Gus.”
“Of course, you do.” Gia pushed a mug of coffee across the island. “As always, worrying about everyone else but yourself.”
Haven grabbed her hand. “Thanks for looking after me.”
Her friend was silent for a moment. “I hate that you say that with a faintly surprised tone to your voice.”
Haven hunched her shoulders. Her mom had died when Haven was eleven. Her dad was off saving sick kids in Africa. She saw him whenever he was in the States, but it wasn’t often, and when he was here, he was usually busy fundraising. She’d been looking out for herself for a long time.
“I will always be here for you, Haven,” Gia continued softly. “My brothers will deal with the situation.”
Surely Easton was pissed the Monet was missing. He had to be angry that Haven had let the damned thieves in. Guilt felt like a thousand needles stabbing at her skin.
“I spoke with Vander this morning,” Gia said. “Your guards are both conscious, and doing well.”
Haven pressed a hand to her chest. Thank God. Gus loved reading thrillers, so she’d take him a few. And David had a weakness for chocolate-covered almonds he thought he was hiding. She’d grab them some gifts and visit them first thing.
Grabbing a knife and the jar of honey, she spread some on her toast.
“And,” Gia continued, “Vander said that Rhys is hot on the case. My baby brother is pissed, and determined to find who hurt you.”
Haven’s heart went pitty-pat. No. Don’t go there. She sipped her coffee, trying to keep her face blank.
Gia leaned a hip against the island, her laser-like gaze on Haven. “Nothing to say?”
“No.” She took a bite of toast.
“Nothing to say about the dreamy-eyed hunk cradling your face, vowing vengeance for you?”
“You can’t call your brother a hunk, there’s a rule against that.”
“Facts are facts, girlfriend. I, unfortunately, have had to deal with having three hot brothers all my life.” Gia’s gaze sharpened. “So, Rhys…”
Haven sipped the coffee too fast and burned her tongue. “I’ve sworn off men. Besides, need I remind you that, one—” Haven held up a finger “—he’s your brother? My best friend’s brother. That has trouble written all over it. And two—” another finger went up “—he’s also my boss’ brother. That’s a big no-no. I already messed up getting involved with my boss’ family in Miami. Big mistake.”
Gia grabbed her hand. “I know Leo the creep hurt you.”
“He taught me a lesson.” Haven tossed her ponytail back. “I don’t need another man messing up my life. Especially not one who won’t stick around long. Men like Rhys, who can have their pick of any women, never do.”
“Mmm.” Gia managed to say a lot with one hum.
After a few hurried bites of her toast, Haven stood. “I’m going to work.”
She was also going to do her own research on who might have taken the Monet. She might not be a former military badass, or a hotshot investigator, but the art world was her domain.
Offloading a painting like the Water Lilies wouldn’t be easy. She had several people she wanted to call…
Gia’s front door opened. Easton strode in, wearing another perfectly tailored suit, and a blue shirt that looked good on him.
“That key is for emergencies,” Gia said archly. “You could knock.”
“I don’t knock.” Easton looked at Haven. “You aren’t going in to work today.” He looked at his sister. “Can I have a coffee?”
Gia rolled her eyes. “Yes.” She pointed. “The coffee machine is right there.”
Easton tugged on Gia’s hair and then started making himself a coffee.
Haven pulled in a breath. “I can go to work. I want to work.”
“No,” Easton said.
God, give her strength. “I don’t want to just sit around.”
“I’m your boss. You rest. You were attacked last night.”
She swallowed. “I know that. I want to help get the painting back.” Her voice broke.
Easton turned slowly, then stalked around the island. Watching him come closer, she stiffened. He rested his hands on her shoulders, and she smelled the crisp, citrusy scent of his cologne. She stared at the buttons on his shirt.
“Haven, look at me,” he ordered.
She did.
“You are not to blame here.”
“I let them in.”
“Anyone would have made that decision. They were well-prepared. This is not your fault.”
“Gus and David—”
“Not. Your. Fault. Now, let Vander and Rhys do the job they’re very good at. I want you to go home and take it easy.”
“Fine.” Trying to reason with any of the Norcross family was an exercise in futility. She’d have better luck beating her head against the wall.
Easton tugged her ponytail, just like he’d done to Gia. “Good girl.”
As Gia and Easton went back to their coffees, Haven tuned out their conversation. She didn’t care what Easton said, she wasn’t going to relax.
Her painting had been stolen, her guards hurt, her museum invaded. She wasn’t going to sit and do nothing. She was going to find the damn Water Lilies.
Chapter Three
Rhys swiped through security footage from the museum again. All five assailants wore balaclavas. And, as they’d guessed, the delivery van had been a rental. It had been rented using a fake name and a stolen credit card.
“Who are you assholes?” Rhys tapped his fist against the desk.
He was in his office at the converted warehouse that housed the Norcross Security. He was good at running his prey to ground. He never let up, he checked every lead—large or small—and he left them no place to hide. He’d already put out feelers to his contacts to keep an eye out for anyone trying to shift the painting.
On the screen, he saw the leader hit Haven, saw her go down, and then the motherfucker kicked her.
Rhys growled. “I will find you.” The man had signed up for a world of hurt. Rhys couldn’t wait to deliver it.
He’d already called Hunt this morning, but the detective didn’t have any solid leads. Rhys moved to the next image. Unlike Hunt, Rhys didn’t have to follow so many rules. He would find these guys, one way or another.
Then he spotted something, and froze the image. The skinny guy near the painting. He had ink on his neck. Some sort of star.
Rhys had his own ink. His mother got a long-suffering look on her face whenever she saw any of her boys’ tattoos. This tattoo could just be something generic, one drunk tourists got and then regretted the next day.