Page 22 of The Scarab's Game
He snapped his fingers and pointed at me. “Which needs a bottle of red to go with it.”
I held up the bottle he’d given me. “Or water?”
“Red wine, my dear.” He shook his head in mock sympathy and left again.
My dear?I rolled my eyes and huffed out an exaggerated breath, loud enough he’d hear it. Sarcasm was my last line of defense with him.
“Made you laugh,” he called from the hallway.
That man was going to be the death of me. I should have called Rav and moved in with him. Heat wouldn’t be flashing up and down my body every time he stopped by. My breaths would have been regular, as would my heart rate.
Focus on your work. I returned to my laptop and began studying for tomorrow. What equipment did the gallery have available? Which tests could I run? And how fast could I get everything done, so I could prove it was authentic and finish the cleaning?
The painting would go up for auction on Friday.
A memory came back to me, of the man with the scar across his cheek telling me I had to do good work, so Massimo would see a significant profit.
Should I have told Emmett about him? Probably. But if I did—if he thought suspicious people were lurking around the gallery—he would have dragged me back to Nice and thrown me on a plane himself. He wouldn’t have put me up in this suite, in a room next to his, and brought me food and wine.
I wanted to help the De Rosas. I wanted to make my aunt proud.
More than anything, I wanted to prove I had control oversomethingin my life. I didn’t need men telling me what to do and what to think. My father had done that most of my life, and then too many of the men I dated thought they knew better than me about everything.
Including about fidelity.
Stop thinking about Simon the Asshole.
But that was precisely what happened here, wasn’t it? Emmett told me to stay with him. And I went along with it.
I cracked open the water bottle, and it hissed.
He told me to drink water. Told me I’d be getting red wine.
Shit.
Ididn’thave control over anything. Not even my feelings for the man in the next room, who’d only ever pretended to want me once, fifteen years ago.
Tomorrow, things would change. I’d do my tests on the painting, prove I was capable…
And I’d damn well flirt back with Dante. That would show Emmett how much control I had.
Wait. Men are a hassle. You’re done with them.
But maybe Dante would be the distraction I needed. Better him than the ghost of a fifteen-year-old crush that refused to die.
Chapter 9
Emmett
At quarterto nine Wednesday morning, Jenn and I arrived at the De Rosa Gallery. The security guard let her in and initially resisted my accompanying her. Once I reminded him of my discussion with Jean-Philippe and Dante yesterday afternoon, he acquiesced—particularly since I was such good friends with the owner’s son.
Jenn had barely eaten last night, preferring to nibble on snacks while keeping her nose in her laptop. She’d always been smart. Her switch from project management to art restoration two years ago had shocked everyone, but it was clear she loved the change in her career.
This morning, her appetite had returned. We enjoyed room service on the balcony, avoiding all discussion of the break-in, the questionable painting, and any danger.
The denial phase was treating her well.
Maybe I shouldn’t have hidden the truth about the bugs planted in her room, but she would have freaked right the fuck out. That wouldn’t solve anything, either.