“How many phone calls from your father have you ducked lately, Wright?” Stef knew where to shove the knife in. Nate was completely estranged from his father, but the man kept calling. He seemed to think Nate should loan him money.

Nate sighed and sat back. “Family. What are you going to do?” Stef knew exactly what he was going to do. “I’m going to let it ride. My dad wants me to be happy with Callie? Fine. I’ll tell him I’m going to ask her to marry me soon, and we’ll leave it at that. He’s been sick. This is a phase. Trust me, the first emergency at Talbot Industries, and his CEO hat will be right back on. He’ll go back to Dallas, and I’ll get a Christmas card from his secretary.”

“Are you forgetting that I’m Callie’s husband? Well, I’m one of her husbands. We’re not looking for a fourth, Stef.” Now was the time to bring out his big guns. “And who facilitated your marriage? Who introduced you in the first place? Who gave you a job and a place to stash the big guy when he was all post-traumatically stressed out?”

Nate’s jaw became a hard line.

Jen just nodded at Nate. “See, King Stefan. Just like I said. The king giveth and then expects payback when you least expect it. First it’s a simple ‘hey, come get Jen out of jail with me,’ and now you have to give him access to your wife.” Her teasing made him want to spank her. He really didn’t need that mental image now. “I am not demanding to sleep with Callie. I am simply borrowing her in an attempt to misrepresent my love life to my father.”

Nate sat back, but suddenly a smile spread across his face. It made Stef unaccountably nervous. “You’re right. I owe you. You know what? Callie is meeting us at the airport. I’m sure she’ll be thrilled to see your father again. I’ll just step back and let you have your little ruse.”

“Thank you.” It solved one of his problems.

Jen was gaping at Nate. “You are so mean, Sheriff.”

“I am entirely reasonable.” Nate smirked, and Stef wondered if he was missing something.

Before he could really process the problem, the plane began a turn.

The flight attendant walked in and announced it was time to buckle up. Sebastian came out and began talking about his plans for his stay in Bliss.

Stef just wanted the whole thing to be over.

* * *

Alexei Markov stared down at the man currently being worked over by his partner, Ivan. Jean Claude Renard had started out like they all did, with threats and promises of retribution because he was such an important person. And like almost all the rest, he was just a sniveling mass of begging, pleading flesh after a couple of minutes with Ivan. Despite his deep loathing of the man, Alexei had to admit that Ivan was the master at what he did.

“It was here, I tell you. I hid the damn thing just like I promised.” He managed to get the words out of his swollen lips. “Somehow she must have figured it out.”

Ivan hit him again. Alexei could have told Renard that it didn’t matter what he said. Ivan would use him like a punching bag because he was a sadistic son of a bitch. Of course, a certain streak of sadism was always required when one became a mob enforcer.

Sadism, or a well-defined and patient sense of revenge.

He couldn’t help Renard even if he wanted to, and he didn’t. If he did, he put everything he’d worked years for at risk. He was so close to getting in the same room with Pushkin that he could taste it. Then he would be free.

Ivan stared down at his victim. “My boss would like his package.

He paid for it, and he would like it now. I have to be on plane to Moscow in four hours. We can use that time to bundle up the package, or I can simply beat on you until we board. It is up to you. It make no difference to me.”

Ivan’s English was decent, though he sounded like it pained him to speak anything but Russian. Alexei was well aware his could use a bit of work, but he’d spent a lot of time watching American television and becoming accustomed to their ways. If he survived his meeting with Pushkin, he would find a way to build a new life in this country.

He would be free here.

Well, he would be an illegal immigrant on the run from both the Russian police and the mob, but at least he wouldn’t have to listen to Ivan anymore. Ivan was a brute. Having to share a room with him for the last year had been trying to say the least. The man did not understand that the world had made great strides in personal hygiene products. He seemed to think smelling like a bear made him more intimidating.

Alexei tapped a foot on the floor. He was so tired of being a lackey. He needed to be back in Russia, doing whatever it took to get close to the man. “Or he could give back money to Pushkin. With twenty-percent increase for all our trouble.” Ivan snorted. Alexei knew that it wouldn’t satisfy Pushkin, but it would buy this idiot an hour or two to come to his senses. He wasn’t sure why Renard had decided to renege on his deal with the head of one of Russia’s most notorious crime syndicates, but he seemed a reasonable man. Most people wanted to live. Alexei did some quick calculations. If he got Renard to come to his senses and give up the package by five, he could be home in roughly twenty-four hours. He could deliver the package himself. Pushkin was being strangely paranoid about this one painting. He wanted to meet with Ivan and Alexei himself to take the package into custody. But first he had to convince Renard to give up the painting.

A wet cough came out of Renard’s chest. “Sure. I can do that. I just need a little time to get the money.” Alexei felt his eyebrows rise. “I was told Pushkin sent you two million four days ago.”

Another cough and a shudder. “I spent it. I owed some people, some people from Columbia. Please. You can’t tell Pushkin I lost the painting. He’ll kill me. He might kill you, too. God, how did this go so wrong? I just need a little time. I can find it. She must have taken it with her last night.”

“He’s a very international idiot,” Ivan said in Russian. “How many dangerous groups can one man get involved with?” Alexei shook his head. Renard was going downhill fast. It was obvious the man had spent Pushkin’s money on cocaine. “Please, show some respect, Ivan. We are in his country. We should kill him in his own language.”

Renard let out a pitiful cry.

Ivan backhanded him. “Fine. But you are too soft on these people.”

As Ivan continued to pound on the gallery owner who’d been foolish enough to make a deal with the Russian mob and then renege on it, Alexei looked around the small room. The gallery outside had been stark and modern, but this was a work space. It was much more intimate, with small details that let a person know something about the occupants. Before he’d been too preoccupied with wailing from pain, Renard had explained that this was his restoration room.

Apparently he was not an artist himself, but he cleaned up works that had damage. It was in this manner that he had acquired the painting Pushkin desired. Alexei bent over and picked up the canvas that had been destroyed by Ivan when they first entered the room. Renard had tried to play a little game with them. He’d told them to pack up the painting and leave as though they were mere messenger boys without a brain in their head. Alexei knew better. Pushkin had sent them a copy of the photo of the painting they were supposed to bring back.

He’d pulled up the photo on his cell phone, unwilling to take the man’s word for it. Between the man’s sweaty, nervous demeanor, and Alexei’s excellent eye, he’d quickly discerned that the man was attempting to fool them. The painting looked very similar, but it wasn’t close to the same in Alexei’s eyes. There was something about the colors. Alexei had seen it right away.

Renard had explained, through his cries of pain, that he had hidden the Picasso for safekeeping and easy transport. Now he could not find it.

It was a very foolish play on Renard’s part.

Ivan had torn apart this work to prove what Alexei suspected. Ivan had cursed because the paint was still wet. Apparently Renard had hidden the Picasso behind another painting and switched them, hoping no one would notice until he was long gone. Alexei stared at the canvas Ivan had pried off the frame.

It was odd. Mostly it was a collection of colors, and yet he could feel the emotion from the canvas. It was all blues and greens and the slightest hint of purple. There was the faintest impression of a male figure. Alexei liked art.

“Who is artist?” He would bet it was a female. The softness spoke of femininity.

Ivan let the gallery owner drop to the floor. “What do you care?

This is not the painting that the boss desires. Are you sure it is painting at all? It looks like someone tosses paint can at a canvas.” Philistine. Ivan wasn’t smart enough to know his art. Alexei shrugged. “I am curious.”

Ivan kicked at Renard, his booted foot connecting viciously with the man’s gut. “Tell my friend, who is artist. He wants to know.” Renard turned his bloodshot eyes up and looked at Alexei. “She’s an employee.”

So it was a woman. “She is sad. This is very sad painting. I like it.

It say things to me.”

“It speak to you, Alexei. That is the right phrase. Don’t lecture me until you get your English right. You are correct about one thing. We have to be able to speak to the people we are killing or they will not know why they are dead.”

At those words, Renard began to scream. His high-pitched wails ate at Alexei’s nerves. He looked at Ivan and spoke in Russian.

“That was not helpful.”

Ivan shrugged. Renard tried to crawl away, but Ivan’s boot came down on his back. “Better he knows what is coming for him. He does not have the painting. He would have given it up by now.” Most people would have given it up by now. Ivan was an expert at pain delivery. So Renard didn’t have the painting, and apparently the money had gone straight up his nose. If he didn’t have the painting, Alexei needed to figure out who did. It would do him no good to return to Russia with nothing to show for his efforts. He needed that painting.