Rapture's Edge

6

“I don’t think so.” She stepped forward from the shadows, and for the first time Gregor noticed she carried a long cardboard cylinder under one arm. “He’s dangerous, I’m sure of it.”

Gregor rose, crossed to her, and took both her hands in his own. Beneath her gloves, they were chilled. He didn’t bother asking her how she’d gained access to his highly secured building. Just another of her mysteries, never to be decoded.

“Don’t worry about him,” he murmured, gazing down at her. “It’s good to see you again, princess. How are you?”

She grimaced and dropped her gaze to their joined hands. “You know I hate it when you call me that, Gregor. I’m about as much a princess as you are.” After a moment, she gently removed her hands from his. “And how I am is worried about you. They’re getting too close. One of these days—”

“One of these days nothing,” he interrupted firmly, brushing her concerns aside. “They don’t know anything, and they never will. Have I ever failed you before?”

She looked up at him, and something hot flared in her eyes, which was immediately veiled when she lowered her lashes, deftly avoiding his scrutiny.

He was tempted to put a finger beneath her chin and force her to meet his eyes, but he knew that would be a mistake. Aloof and proud—though never haughty—she didn’t do emotions well. As a matter of fact, he’d never met anyone more restrained. Only rare glimpses of sadness and quickly snuffed anger ever escaped her chilly reserve, and it made him wonder what she was hiding. In his experience, only people with something to hide or something they were trying to forget kept themselves locked down like she did.

In Eliana’s case, he suspected it might be both.

“No. Of course not, Gregor. I only meant that maybe we should stop for a while. I don’t want to put you in any danger—”

His guffaw cut her off. “Danger is my middle name! Get it right! I’ll not be havin’ any more of that nonsense. Now, girl, show me what you’ve got there under your pretty little arm.”Her lips curved to a faint, wry smile. Her lashes lifted, and she regarded him with those eyes, dark as a swan’s. Then without another word, she moved to his desk, removed a plastic cap from the cardboard cylinder, and withdrew a canvas from within. She laid the cylinder aside and carefully unrolled the canvas until it lay flat.

He came up behind her and stood looking down over her shoulder. Had the cylinder contained the Holy Ghost itself, he would not have been more stunned. “The Card Players,” he whispered.

“I know you’re partial to Picasso, but this Cézanne spoke to me,” she murmured. One finger of her gloved hand reverently traced the frayed edge of the old canvas. “Intense, isn’t it?”

“This was sold to a private collector in Qatar last year,” he said, still stunned. “How did you get it?”

Her head turned a fraction, and he saw the glint of mischief in her eyes as she gazed up at him. He smiled, feeling his insides soften under the warmth of her look.

“The Cat has her ways, eh, princess?”

“She does indeed, Mr. MacGregor.” Moving away to take a seat on the other side of the desk, Eliana settled herself in the chair, folded her hands in her lap, and said, “Can you sell it?”

“Can I sell it?” He raised his brows in mock indignation. “Is the pope Polish?”

She blinked, bemused. “No. But I’ll take that as a yes.”

Gregor sat in his comfortable chair and beamed at her. “You bet your biscuits I can sell it, princess! Same terms?”

She smiled. “Ten percent. Agreed.” Her smile faltered, and for a moment that old sorrow welled to the surface again. “However…I’d like to take the ten in trade this time.”

Gregor was intrigued. “Trade for what?”

She tucked her hand into the pocket of her coat and from it pulled a piece of paper, carefully folded. She leaned across the desk and handed it to him without a word.

Curious, he unfolded the note. When he read its contents, he was even more shocked than moments before. “Eliana. What the hell are you going to do with this many guns?”

Utterly composed, that terrible sadness still lurking behind her little smile, she quietly said, “What people always do with guns, Gregor.”

They gazed at each other. Outside in the cold, winter Paris night, it began softly to rain.

“And the rest of it?” He peered at the list. “Rocket-propelled grenades? Smoke bombs?” He looked up at her again, incredulous. “Land mines?”

She exhaled a long, slow breath and looked away. She removed her gloves, finger by finger, and ran a hand through her thick, twilight-hued hair. He noticed for perhaps the millionth time that she never wore makeup, but he’d never seen anyone who needed it less. Like a firefly, the woman actually glowed.

“Wars can’t be fought with sticks and stones.”

Gregor jerked forward in his chair, really alarmed now. “Wars? Who you going to war with, princess?”

She remained silent, gazing at him now with rebuke. There were questions they didn’t ask each other, information that was never exchanged, and they both knew he’d just violated that inviolable rule. But dammit, this was different! If she was in trouble—the kind of trouble that required this much heavy artillery—he wanted to help. He needed to.

“Let me help you. Whatever this is about, I can help.”