Rutskoi could watch the greed dawning on Cordero’s face. It was a win-win. Cordero could justify doing fuck-all for a month. He could spend it stoned, getting blow jobs every hour on the hour, while Rutskoi took care of taking Drake out. What was ten million to him? For access to Drake’s kingdom or at least with Drake out of the way? Nothing.

“Okay,” Cordero said, finally. He stuck his hand out. Rutskoi took it. “Deal.”

Cordero’s hand was soft, limp, humid; it was like touching a slug. Rutskoi barely managed to keep from wiping his hand on his trousers to get rid of the feel of it.

“Deal,” he replied.

Grace felt the breath leave her lungs in a whoosh, making her light-headed, dizzy, completely disoriented.

It took her a second to understand. At first, she was overwhelmed by the magnificence of the room, which was like a small Versailles. The rest of the apartment was lush, hyper-comfortable in a very expensive sort of way, colorful and unique. This—this was lavish beyond anything she’d ever seen, the way royalty must live. Her eyes greedily drank in the jewel tones of the plush carpets, the enormous, brightly colored enameled vases with huge, thriving plants, a massive, highly polished desk that looked like the place where God would do his paperwork, if He had any.

And of course, as in every room in this unusual home, the magnificent nighttime skyline of Manhattan stretched like an immense diamond necklace outside, along one glass wall.

Then, a second later, what was on the remaining three walls popped out at her and she stared, unable to believe her eyes.

Dozens and dozens of paintings, drawings, watercolors, exquisitely framed and beautifully lit. The artwork fit into the room perfectly, the colors and shapes echoing the furniture, sculptures, vases. Seeing the artwork here, recognizing it, was so outlandish, it had literally taken a second to penetrate her mind, though every work of art was as familiar to her as her own heartbeat.

Hers.

Every single painting, every single drawing, gouache, watercolor—all hers. This magnificent room was like a Grace Larsen museum. She pivoted to the dark-eyed man watching her so carefully. She felt herself wobble and he steadied her.

“You,” she whispered.

He bowed his head gravely. “Me,” he confirmed.

Put it into words, pin it down. “You’re the one who’s been collecting my work for the past year.”

“Yes.”

Her head swam. “I think—I think I need to sit down.”

“Absolutely.” Drake’s hand was once more on her elbow and it felt as if he were carrying her more than guiding her to the nearest couch. She sat down gratefully, not certain whether her legs would have held her one second longer. Drake sat next to her. The soft down cushions of the couch settled deeply under him, rolling her a little into him.

Here, too, a big fire was burning, framed by an intricately carved hearth of sandstone. She was grateful for the warmth.

Grace looked at the nearest wall, where two of her best oils flanked the fireplace. She remembered clearly all the emotions running through her as she painted them. The two big oils were meant to be shown as a pair. A Flemish-style still life of overblown roses in an earthenware vase, an open manuscript and a plate with grapes and apples on a wooden table. The other painting was a still life of a small topiary in a red terra-cotta designer vase, an open laptop and a box of Godiva chocolates on a transparent Philippe Starck table. The Flemish-style still life was a riot of colors and rotund, convoluted shapes. The modern still life was in cool tones of gray and beige, with hard edges and machined shapes.

She’d painted them more than a year ago, hoping that whoever bought them would buy them together and hang them together, the old and the new, but she hadn’t been holding her breath. Artists never got any kind of a say about who bought their work and how they displayed it.

These two had been bought together and they were displayed magnificently.

The far reaches of the room were in shadow, but she could see enough. A hand gleaming out of the darkness in one painting, the foam of the ocean in another. The walls were filled with her work.

“I–I don’t know what to say, what to think. A whole year, I’ve been wondering who was buying up my work.” Mind spinning, she turned her head to him. “Harold was disappointed that you hadn’t organized a show. Most people who collect a lot of one person’s work are planning a show to drive prices up. You were never going to, were you?”

He shook his head.

“I didn’t really care, but Harold did. He felt he could have started pushing the prices even higher if you’d shown my work. Even though they were already going very high.” She’d made a fortune off him.

Drake’s jaws worked. “Mr. Feinstein could have quadrupled the prices and I would have paid. I would have paid ten times what he asked. I love your work. Your paintings have given me enormous pleasure over this past year. There’s no price for that.” His dark eyes held hers. “I’m sorry if I held your career back by not showing your art. I didn’t want to—couldn’t share it with others. I see now I made you suffer. I am deeply sorry.”

Grace reached out with her hand to touch him, then stopped suddenly, her hand an inch above his. She looked down at their hands. At his, so sinewy and strong, with the tough yellow calluses on the sides. Not an artist’s hand, not at all. It was an expression of sheer male power. Banked power.

He didn’t move in any way, just watched her carefully. She was holding her hand above his for so long it was almost an insult, and yet he didn’t act insulted at all. He merely waited for what she would do.

Her instincts told her he would accept whatever she did. Whether she slapped him or caressed him, he would accept it.

Her hand lowered over his and again she was shocked at the warmth emanating from his skin.

“It’s okay,” she said, hand curling over his. “Poor Harold got really exasperated with me because I wasn’t as ambitious as he was. I mean, I am ambitious, but my real goal is simply to live from my art, not to be famous. I don’t really do well in society, anyway. But he had this dream that I would be as famous as—I don’t know—Andy Warhol, or even Picasso. Someone known even outside art circles. Like some kind of celebrity.”

Grace couldn’t suppress a shudder at the thought. She’d once been part of a collective show of ten artists, one of whom was a rich heiress, famous for a sex tape with a well-known movie star that had taken more than 10 million hits on the internet. The paparazzi outside the gallery had been like a swarm of angry bees, flashbulbs flashing aggressively in their faces. Grace could still feel the press of sweaty bodies, the anxiety and then panic she’d felt as she tried to push her way through. When she finally made it into her apartment, she’d been shaking and sweating, with a massive headache from the flashbulbs.

No, celebrity was not her thing.

“That’s not for you,” he said quietly. It wasn’t a question.

“No. Definitely not. So I was more than happy to have someone buying all my stuff, even though it made Harold unhappy to have it hidden away. But I remember thinking…thinking that I’d like to talk to the person who was buying my work. Find out what he or she thought. What pieces they liked best. What worked, what didn’t. Except the lawyer sort of hinted that his client lived abroad.”

“That’s exactly what my lawyer was told to say. And to tell you the truth, he doesn’t know where I live. We communicate by e-mail and I send money from London.”

He’d gone to such enormous trouble to remain anonymous. “So…you weren’t ever going to stop by to have a chat, were you?”

His hand flexed under hers. “No.”

“I–I see.”

“No, I don’t think you do. I’m in a dangerous business and I have dangerous enemies. Anything I care about would be considered a point of attack. If anyone knew I loved your work, they’d use that knowledge against me. So I bought them anonymously. I shouldn’t have. But I did. Your work means a great deal to me and I simply couldn’t renounce having it. I simply couldn’t. Every painting, every drawing speaks to me. And I was selfish enough to want them for myself. And now, because of my weakness, I have placed you in jeopardy.”