“Of course. What’s an art heist without a billionaire?”
She nodded and read to herself, then gagged. “Oh, this arse is a real piece of work. He bilked hundreds of millions of US dollars from teacher retirement accounts.”
Spiker lifted his arms. “And this guy is our guy?”
Tersely, she nodded. “Doesn’t help us find Robin Hood.”
“Do we want to?” he countered.
Vanka scoffed. “Versus what? We could sit here and pretend to be on your holiday? I’ll whip up some margaritas and—”
“Yes!”
“Ha, no.”
He crossed his arms and knew it was going to be a long night. “This is why I have a problem with this.” Spiker waited for Vanka to agree, but she didn’t. He reframed his argument. “Look, you love art and stuff. Right?”
She eyed him. “Art and stuff? Yes.”
Her annoyance was proof that his argument had merit. “You love it. How things look and smell and fit together. That’s all you.”
“Make your point, Spiker. We have a lot to do.”
Well, he wasn’t entirely sure of his point. He just didn’t want to do this assignment. “These people don’t like art.”
“Says who?” she asked.
He shrugged. “Hell, I don’t know. You.”
“Sorry?”
“God, when you lean into that British accent and say sorry like, ‘Hey, you blimey, bloody fuckwit, are you a pissed-head idiot,’ it really gets under my skin. You know that, princess?”
She pressed her lips together for a dangerously long moment. “What are you talking about? Why wouldn’t a billionaire hedge fund sleaze like art?”
“People like art because they feel something. You feel something, right?” He gestured at the thing in the corner and the pictures on her wall. “Something made you want that in your house. It spoke to you.”
“And?”
“Assholes who skim from investment accounts like those—” Spiker vaguely gestured to the paperwork. “They don’t have souls. Why would they want art?”
Her lips softened and her eyes widened. Spiker had nailed his point, and damn, he worried she might cry. “Look, what I’m trying to say is—”
“I think you’re right.” She held up a hand to quell his building victory whoop. “But, simply because someone possesses an item doesn’t mean they understand or appreciate it.”
The air fell flat out of his sails. She was correct.
“Collecting to curate is one thing. Collecting to possess is entirely different.”
The words applied to every facet of life, and the truth hit him in the chest. At least they explained why he’d wanted to renovate his house from the ground up and didn’t feel a single ray of excitement. Spiker was merely killing time and money to mask a weightier problem. “What do we do now?”
Vanka gestured to the table. “Same thing, but maybe we look at it another way.”
“What’s that?”
“Instead of searching for what we can find, let’s see what we can learn.”
She still wanted to work on this project. His disappointment grew. “Worth a shot.”
“Alright, I give up.” She leaned against the couch. “That obviously wasn’t the right answer. Why don’t we go back to twenty questions? Is this my house? Yes. Is that my food? Yes. Is this my table? Yes—”
“Are you married?” Spiker asked, just as surprised by what he’d said as she must’ve been.
Her laughter erupted like an earthquake. “Am I bloody married?” Her arms wrapped around her stomach, and she folded over in hysterics. “Have you lost your mind?”
Wasn’t that the question of the day. Spiker shrugged. “I wanted to know what other big surprises you’ve kept from me.”
“Like a husband?” she cackled. “Like I have the poor sod chained in the basement while we titter away over dinner?”
When she put it like that… He laughed. Sort of. “I don’t know what else you’re hiding. Cute house. Flower gardens. Maybe a secret job as a preschool teacher?”
She lifted her chin. “I’m not the one with secrets.”
“Me?” An internal alarm clanged. Years of learning to listen to its warning evaporated like smoke. He’d live to regret another word, but he couldn’t stop. “I’m an open book, princess.”
“You told HR about your sabbatical before you told me.”
Well hell. He’d had a bull’s-eye painted on his forehead for hours and still walked into that one. Fantastic. “I didn’t realize bureaucratic paperwork would get your knickers in a knot.”
“Don’t be cute,” she warned.
“I’m not.”
“Why now?” she demanded. “Because of the plane crash?”
The accusation stung like she’d taken a swipe at his manhood. “Excuse me?”
“Why else would you drop your entire life and run away?”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa, I don't run from shit.” He jumped from his chair and paced a tight circle around the glass table. If only he weren’t trapped in her un-Vanka-like house or had brought his own set of wheels, then he could actually hightail it out of this place.
“Literally.” She pointed his way. “You’re running in circles in my living room.”
The record player screeched in his head when he stopped. “Give me a break.”
Vanka arched her brows and waited for another answer.
He clamped a hand at the back of his neck. His heartbeat was as steady as a rollercoaster on the Jersey Shore. “You want to know why I need a break?” He strode toward the glass table and smashed his hand onto their paperwork. “Because we’re hunting down the good guy. Because our boss is—” Spiker bit his tongue. “Because I don’t want to spend my time working on a job focused on some la-dee-da artwork and the criminal sect who can’t secure their valuables. Stolen or not.”
As always, Vanka was cool as a cucumber on a frosty spring morning and ignored the discontentment she saw in GSI’s ranks.
“Yes, I’m chuffed to pieces to work on this. Can’t you tell?” She crossed her arms. “But it’s our job to at least learn what we can. Then we can figure out our next move. Alright?”
He said nothing.
“Alright?” She stood. “Never mind. We need a break.”
Yeah, they did. He had to remember she was a machine.
CHAPTER EIGHT
It was one of those afternoons that couldn’t decide if it was spring or summer. That helped on days Vanka wanted to kill Spiker and scream.
She stormed off the deck and melted into her backyard oasis. Minutes drifted by, and she could feel the stress evaporating. Her gardens were her sanctuary. She’d built the rectangular raised bed that lined the west side of her yard. On the other side were square beds laid out in a grid pattern. It was as close to owning an English garden as she had come in many years.
Every year, vibrant colors and shades of green cycled through, with the explosion of blossoms and blooms every few weeks giving her a burst of joy. She had planned these garden beds so that they would flourish during all four seasons. It had taken years for her to come up with the perfect combination of foliage and blooms. Each plant needed a certain heartiness to be able to survive when she disappeared for long periods of time. Nothing that would require too much tending or maintenance. Nothing with needs beyond those that could be met by her timed sprinkler system.