It wasn’t for me, though, so my opinion didn’t really matter.
“My girl needs some time to examine it for authenticity,” I said, nodding to the expert my father had sent with me. Claudette was her name. A twiggy brunette thing with nice tits. I’d considered fucking her on the flight to Tokyo—my father’s jet had a bed, and she’d definitely been putting out the fuck-me vibes—but I wasn’t entirely sure my father hadn’t already been there, done that, and the thought of sharing with Raymond had me shuddering.
Too bad. I had a thing for tits.
Or rather I had a thing for women who reminded me of the woman I always wished I was with. Four years since I’d last spoken to her, and Sabrina Lind was still my kink.
Yeah, I was definitely screwed in the head.
“Certainly,” the dealer said. He was American. He hadn’t said as much but I detected a hint of California in his dialect. He ordered his men to place the painting on the table. “Do you need gloves?”
Claudette was already pulling her pair out of her bag. “I have my own. I’ll need some time with the piece.”
“Take what you need.” He gestured, and his men stepped back a foot, giving Claudette room to work while also making sure we both knew she was being carefully watched.
“Thank you, gentlemen,” she said, moving to examine the painting, clearly unfazed by the military-looking guards and the guns openly displayed on their hips. Working with priceless art, she probably was used to the drill.
Or maybe she was just used to working with my father.
Still, I was glad I’d brought a bodyguard of my own. I liked having the numbers balanced. Two henchmen for the dealer, Claudette and a henchman for me. And my guy had the height and bulk of both his guys combined, though the tatted guy who’d called himself Cade—another American; East Coast, if I had to guess—had an intimidating handshake. It was clear he was a man who knew how to handle himself.
Despite all the armed men, the tenor of the meeting felt relaxed, which meant I didn’t have to keep a close eye while Claudette did her inspection.
Stepping away, I pulled my phone out of my pocket and opened up my email and scrolled past the first three, all from my father. I already knew the gist of them—follow-ups on jobs I was doing for him and the like. I’d graduated almost three years before and though I’d told him over and over I wasn’t coming to work for King-Kincaid, he’d managed to drag me in as a consultant on more projects than I liked to admit. It wasn’t that I couldn’t say no to him. It was more that it just felt easier to say yes. Part of the problem was that I needed more to occupy my time. I’d invested in a restaurant with my dead girlfriend’s stepfather—yeah, I generally stayed away from describing Dylan as such—but that had been about it, much to Raymond Kincaid’s chagrin. Gaston’s was a contentious spot between us all on its own, not that my father disapproved of investing. He just sensed that I looked at Dylan as sort of a father figure.
I didn’t. I liked Dylan too much to relate him to a father.
Point was, I either needed to bite the bullet and go all in with Dad, or I needed to start something on my own. Weston was graduating soon. He’d join me. Dylan would too, if I twisted his arm.
It was always in the back of my mind, but I didn’t want to think about any of that right now. Instead, I scrolled to the already opened report from my PI so I could read it for the umpteenth time since I’d received it the night before. I’d print it when I got home so I could hold it in my hands. I liked tangibility where Sabrina was concerned. It made her more real when so often it felt like she was just a memory I’d invented. It was important to remember she was a living person. A living person that could easily be destroyed, if I wasn’t careful.
This particular report included a recommendation from one of Sabrina’s professors for her graduate school application, filled with enough high praise to make me both proud and irritated. Even if she was performing at her best—which she always was—growth didn’t happen under soft educators. She needed to be challenged. Harvard had challenged her. I had challenged her.
No. I wasn’t doing that whole regret-what-I’d-done-to-her thing right now. It was in the past, and she was better off out of my life, despite the downgrade in her education.
Regrets aside, I was jealous. The professor’s comments felt intimate. With a curiosity and passion unmatched in her peers, Lind’s strengths would be well suited to marketing or advertising. Her ability to think outside the box and her tireless drive make her a candidate that highly reputable programs will fight over.
Did she fuck him? God, if she fucked him…
I shoved my phone in my jacket pocket and rolled my neck in an attempt to release the tension. She could fuck who she wanted. I didn’t have a right to that any more than I had a right to any part of her life. Obviously, what I had a right to was never a deterrent, but I had vowed to myself to only intervene when I could give her something better. When I could lead her somewhere better. I would never be the definition of “better” so she could fuck who she wanted.
Besides, Sabrina wouldn’t fool around with a professor. What had happened with me and her was on me. Take me out of the equation, and she was a good girl.
Or she thought she was anyway.
Her refusal to let herself be who she truly was frustrated me. It also let me be smug. Whoever she slept with, she wasn’t going to get what she needed, not until she let that guard down. Hopefully, by the time she did, I’d figure out how to not let it destroy me.
“While you’re waiting,” the dealer said to me, “can I offer you a drink?”
Nathan Sinclair was the name he’d given me. Bold because, as far as I could tell in my research, that was his name legally, and I was pretty positive a lot of his dealings were not.
This one, for example. My father tended to give his orders with as few details as possible, but the discreet izakaya in Shibuya where Nathan had set our meet-up was shady as fuck. It was a complete dive bar with a nearly empty front room and lots of closed doors in the hallway back to the lounge.
Plus, the deal had been made in cash. As the son of a financial emperor, I’d learned that dealing in cash generally meant outside the law.
“I’m good.” Actually, I could have gone for a drink, but I was also cautious.
“Something else, then? I just got in a box of Habanos straight from Cuba.”
I hesitated. It was hard to turn down a good cigar.
“You’re a cigar man,” Nathan said, reading me better than I’d wanted to be read. “They’re Maduros. Real quality. You can take your pick from the box.”
What the hell. “Sure.”
Claudette perked up. “You’re going to smoke in here?”
“Of course not. We wouldn’t dream of damaging the art. We can light up in the next room,” Nathan offered, and when I seemed to balk he pointed to a mirror on the back wall. “There’s a window. You can watch.”
I’d suspected the mirror was a two-way.
“I’m good with that,” Claudette assured me.
I exchanged a glance with my bodyguard, who gave a discreet nod of agreement, then consented. “Okay, but just a reminder no one here has any money. I have to text my guy in the limo to bring in the case after the piece is authenticated.”