“Haven’t I done enough for you already?”
Dani sagged back in her seat as Erin slanted her a glance, navigating the bright-blue VW bug through downtown Boston traffic with remarkable dexterity. “He asked for you specifically,” Erin said.
“Well, he’s not the pope. You could have told him you fired me.” Dani frowned out the passenger window, ignoring the phone buzzing in her messenger bag. Second call in five minutes. Only one person it could be, but little brother would have to wait. “I don’t see why one of the other actual, legitimate gallery employees can’t deliver the darn thing. Or, you know, a courier service.”
“Maybe you should have thought about that before you charged one of Boston’s golden boys ten thousand dollars for an unknown artist’s first work.”
“You weren’t unknown.” Dani shrugged. “I knew you. And Golden Boy probably spent ten grand on his dry cleaning last week. I don’t think he’ll miss it.”
“Which is why you’re the one delivering the painting,” Erin said. “I swear, if I went in there myself, I’d give the man his money back. He launched my career just by showing up that night.” She turned a corner, then pulled the car in behind a long line of traffic. “At least there’s an overhang in front of his building, since you insisted on not wearing a coat. You won’t get your dress drenched.”
“My dress has seen worse.” Winter rain was never fun in Boston, and February rain sucked particularly bad, since it usually turned into razor-sharp ice sheets falling from the sky. But Dani went through a lot of coats, and today was an off day. “Besides, that’s why God made cabs.”
“I can wait—”
“No, you cannot,” Dani said. “You’ve got two-hundred-plus pounds of ex–Army Ranger cooking you dinner tonight, and I have to work on the other side of town. Besides, we don’t know if this will be a five-second handoff or if Mr. Big up there is going to make me wait, just so he can have someone new to oppress today. If you hang around you’ll just piss me off.”
“Well, if you get out of there fast, promise me you’ll call. I can be back here in no time.”
“I promise,” Dani lied. She did have to work tonight, and that establishment wasn’t anything Erin needed to see. Her purse rattled again and she pressed her hand to it, willing her phone to shut up.
It only took a few more minutes for them to reach the overhang of the Winston Securities building. Then she was out into the bracing Boston wind, her bag slung over her shoulder, the wrapped painting tight in her hands. Once she stepped into the mercifully warm lobby of the enormous building, she slid out her phone and scanned it. Yup, she’d been right: Jimmy. It’d been less than a week this time since his last flurry of calls. Did he think she sprouted money from her eyeballs?
Shoving the phone back in her bag, she strode deeper into the elegant lobby of the Winston building, nodding as the sea of suits fleeing the establishment parted to let her pass. She felt like a salmon swimming upstream, but at least the double takes her outfit was getting were appreciative, not amused. Dressing for this crowd was always a crapshoot.
“Package for Mr. Winston IV?”
Dani kept her voice deliberately low and seductive, and the guard’s gaze shot from his screen to sweep up her body before he could catch himself. He had the grace to blush, however, and she held up her paper-wrapped painting with a wink.
“Of course, miss. And you are?”
“Delivery girl from the Palm D’Or Gallery,” she said. “His office is expecting me—or I could just leave this with you, if that works.”
“No, no,” the man said quickly. He glanced back to his screen and picked up his phone, cradling it between his ear and shoulder as he punched a few keys. The line rang and the guard announced Dani as a courier. Better than mule, she supposed. But the gallery could totally have sent this over via any standard service, she knew, and Master Winston wouldn’t have known the difference. The guy probably wasn’t even here at this hour, which had been her intention. He’d said to bring the painting by early afternoon, but she’d deliberately stalled, showing up at Palm D’Or late enough that both Erin and the gallery owner had been waiting anxiously at the door by the time she’d arrived.
“Right away.” The security guard smiled up at her, his gaze finally making it above Dani’s half-zipped neckline as he hung up the phone. “You can go right up, miss. The penthouse elevator is the last one on the right. His executive assistant, Ms. Pearson, will meet you.” He shifted uncomfortably, frowning at her with genuine worry. “She seems to think you’re late.”
“Good to know.” Once again, Dani fought back her irritation that she was even here, when there were several other, better places she could be right now. Places where she could make some new money, for example, instead of babysitting the money she’d already scored. Besides, Erin had been right. The cash from Winston’s impromptu art purchase had been a nice bonus, but it was the subsequent appearance of his name on the placard next to the small painting that had been the real coup of that evening. His interest had sent the notoriety of Erin’s work through the roof, netting her far greater long-term benefit than his initial outlay ever could.
Still, Winston was the whale here, and he’d asked for Dani to deliver the painting, personally. She could afford to be civil to him. And besides, it wouldn’t have been smart to let Erin deliver her own work. She probably would have talked Winston into taking back the money he’d paid for the painting, out of some misguided belief that she’d gotten the better end of the deal just from the publicity.
Dani shifted her package into her right hand and stabbed the up button, staring ahead as one of the main elevators opened to her left and a clutch of suits walked out. They saw her instantly, of course, standing there in front of the penthouse elevator. She read the assessment in their careful sidelong gazes, and the confusion that followed pleased her. Sex toy, dominatrix, actual legit businesswoman? They clearly couldn’t decide why she was meeting with the man in the penthouse office.
That was okay. She knew exactly why she was here.
The elevator door whooshed open, and she stepped inside, her black platform heels free of any of the salt and grit from the bitterly cold Boston streets, thanks to the walkway that was not only covered in front of Winston Securities, but carpeted. Carpeted. In the winter. Rand Sterling Winston IV might be an ass, but she appreciated his sense of style.
When the doors parted again, she appreciated it a little more.
Dani found herself staring into a large, graciously appointed reception area that screamed money, and a whole lot of it. The oil paintings on the walls glistened in muted silver frames, the chandelier looked like it had been dusted about fifteen minutes ago, and the gleaming dark-metal receptionist’s desk—looking ever-so-slightly like a coffin at a state funeral—blended perfectly with the charcoal-gray walls and champagne-colored carpet.
The woman sitting behind the desk appeared to have been purchased out of the same catalog as the rest of the room. She looked up at Dani without a trace of warmth, then smiled as if she were passing a kidney stone. “Miss…?”
“Michaels,” Dani said brightly, holding up the painting as she strode forward. “Are you Ms. Pearson? I was asked to deliver this to you from the Palm—”
The secretary cut her off with a raised hand, pressing a button on her desk console. “Mr. Winston will be with you shortly.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Dani said. “I can just give it to you.”
The woman flinched as if Dani had just offered to give her herpes. Instead of answering, she gestured to the large chairs scattered around the monochromatic space, a gentlemen’s club for the color-blind. “May I get you anything to drink?”
“I’m fine, thank you.” Dani’s phone chose that moment to buzz again. She set the painting on the secretary’s enormous desk, then reached into her purse while tracking Ms. Pearson’s scandalized expression. “This will just take a moment, I’m sure.”
Between them, one of the lights on Pearson’s desk console flickered green. Her face unfroze enough to betray relief. “Mr. Winston is ready to see you. I’ll take you right in.”
Dani shrugged. Sorry, Jimmy. Today he was well back in her line of crazy. He’d have to wait his turn.
Ms. Pearson knocked lightly on the door, then waited a nanosecond before swiping her keycard. Dani heard a lock unchink and lifted her brows in appreciation. Key-locked security during business hours? They really must be worried about the barbarians at the gate. She followed the woman inside, taking in the massive space as she was formally announced. It was chock-full of carefully spaced furniture, paintings, and a surprising number of objets d’art, some of them quite small. And quite expensive-looking. And quite definitely within easy reach.
Don’t even think about it, she warned herself. And yet…
“Thank you, Helen. Please get home safely.” The rich, cultured voice seemed to flip on every nerve ending in Dani’s body, and she shifted her attention back to her mark. She’d forgotten how much power the guy’s voice held.
Rand Sterling Winston IV stood at his desk, but his warning wasn’t lightly made. His entire office was encased in glass, and the storm had picked up outside, the rain now battering the glass as the night crowded down. “I’ve ordered the car brought round,” he said.
Ms. Pearson stiffened primly at Dani’s side, and Dani sensed her subtle not-glance. That’s right, Helen. We’re totally going to screw on your desk while you’re gone. “I’m not yet finished—”
“It can wait. I’ll be in early tomorrow.”
The secretary heard the same subtle command that Dani did. Funny, it didn’t seem to bother the woman so much. “Of course, Mr. Winston.” She turned to Dani. “Miss Michaels.”
Dani nodded, holding up her wrapped package like a peace offering. She’d tried to convince ol’ Helen to take the painting off her hands back in the Platinum Ballroom. It wasn’t Dani’s fault that she made the boss man go all weak in the knees.
Helen didn’t look impressed. She managed to close the door with a displeased yet still very polite snick, and Dani looked at Winston, who was now gazing solemnly back at her. He leaned against his desk and folded his arms.
Dani offered the painting to him. “Your spoils, Mr. Winston.”
He just smiled.
They stood there a moment more, assessing each other like circling wolves. Dani felt a bead of perspiration slip down her neck, and cycled through her options. If Winston had figured out that she’d scammed him, it didn’t change anything, she told herself. His check had cleared, and he’d had days to reverse it. That meant the con was done, and that she’d won. Even if he’d realized she’d conned him, she’d still won.
“Please, open it,” he said, surprising her. He gestured to a small table across the space. “I’d like to see again what my little impulse purchase has netted me.”
“Of course,” Dani said. He was playing her, she knew, his gaze heavy as she walked across the room and set the wrapped painting on the table, frowning at the thickly taped corners. Before she could look up, Winston appeared at her side, a slim letter opener in his hand. “Will this be strong enough?”
“I’m sure.” This close, she could smell his cologne. Of course he would be wearing cologne. And not too much of it either, just enough to tickle her senses and make her even more aware of him. Without his heavy winter coat, and wearing a sleek black suit, with a silky blue button-down shirt open at the neck, he seemed even more sensual, more vital, more dangerous on this cold, wet, miserable Boston night, with the rain sheeting down like the end of the world. Dani admired how steady her hands were as she slipped the letter opener under the package’s edge and knifed through the tape, her movements quick and efficient. She’d worked with her share of box cutters, switchblades, and shivs, after all.
Winston apparently noted her efficiency with a blade as well. “Hmm. It’s Miss Michaels, correct?”
“Correct.” Deftly, Dani sliced through the edge of the paper and unwrapped the painting. It had been reset into a lovely silver and gray frame, the gentility of the rich wood serving to make the stark sensuality of the figures within its boundaries even more unsettling. Rand leaned forward, peering at the painting, and his heat was like a physical presence between them. Once again, she was struck by how much larger he seemed up close than he did from a distance, as if his body held more power than it should, leashed so tightly under control that you didn’t notice it until it was almost too late. Now, standing next to him, she was nearly overwhelmed by the man’s intensity. His sharp gaze was focused on the artwork, true, and yet it seemed to encompass her as well, even though he wasn’t looking at her. He reached out and stroked the frame of the painting, and she imagined how that touch would feel: rich with promise—and threat. Watching those long, cool fingers, feeling them on her skin, in her hair…it was all Dani could do to hold her ground.
“My compliments on your framing. It presents the work well.”
“I’ll be sure to let Miss Garrison know,” she said, her words polite and final. “She asked me to extend her thanks as well. She would have been here, herself, but…”
“But I did insist.” Rand looked over now to Dani, his lips curving into a lazy smile that somehow did not lessen the hardness of his face or his eyes. If anything, the casualness of his expression made him seem even more treacherous. Dani’s nerves pricked to attention, and her pulse jacked up a notch. Something was shifting here, and she wasn’t sure she liked it.
Rand’s next words didn’t do anything to change her mind. “So, would you like to tell me something about yourself, Miss Michaels?” he murmured. “Or shall I simply start with what I already know?”