Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 84085 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 420(@200wpm)___ 336(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84085 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 420(@200wpm)___ 336(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
When his brother’s new boyfriend, Ehren Galanis, discovered that he’d inherited four “lost” Thiago Vergara paintings, Charlie’s mind had immediately spun out an exciting tale of drugs, corruption, and smuggling between crime families in Argentina and Turkey. Maybe they’d even find Thiago Vergara locked up in some crime boss’s basement, forced to churn out masterpiece after masterpiece to fund his operations.
And that Erhen’s honest uncle had somehow gotten his hands on the paintings to protect them from the dirty thieves.
At the very least, he thought he’d find something interesting. A clue. A dead body. Another painting.
So far, it was nothing.
Thiago Vergara disappeared in 1977 along with more than thirty thousand others in the late seventies and early eighties as part of Los Desaparecidos—a giant purge conducted by the right-wing military government that had seized control of the country.
Where the fuck had the paintings come from?
They’d had three separate experts confirm that all six paintings in Ehren’s possession were made by Thiago Vergara. What’s more, the four “lost” paintings had been done in the last twenty-five years—well after the man’s supposed death.
Charlie loved a good mystery. But he hated ones that refused to cough up even the smallest clues.
“No offense, Charlie, but I’m thinking we should have called in Soren,” Ed started anew. While Charlie was grateful they’d dropped the conversation about his “come fuck me” vibes, he wasn’t too keen on this new direction.
But it was hard to argue with the truth.
“Soren knows how to schmooze the artsy types. They love talking to him,” Kairo chimed in.
Of course, that had been Soren’s job while they’d all worked for the CIA. Soren had been the agent in the field, and the man knew how to be charming. He could get anyone to talk to him with minimal trouble, and the amount of knowledge he had in his head with regard to art and historical artifacts was terrifying.
“It seems you’re forgetting that he’s on vacation with his new, hot, and scary boyfriend. Would you want to leave that bed to come play with us?” Charlie answered while staring at Edison.
“I don’t know why you call Alexei scary. I thought he was sweet,” Kairo teased.
Charlie decided to let that one go. Sure, Alexei appeared to be sweet and too pretty for his own good, but he needed to only look in the kid’s eyes to know he was a ruthless killer. It also didn’t hurt to know that his pedigree was impeccable. Two uncles who were accomplished assassins. No, Alexei was scary, and he was going to be more than a handful for Soren.
“But yeah, you’re probably right,” Kairo continued with a laugh. “Why find trouble with us when he’s got a hot boyfriend?”
“Besides, Charlie can handle this,” Edison added with a wide grin.
“Can we move this along? I’m bored,” West moaned, and that was enough to get Charlie’s mind into the game again. They didn’t want Westin to get bored. He’d start searching for things to shoot at with the idea that no one would notice him peppering said things with bullets. West was a crack shot and could easily do it, but it was also asking for trouble.
“I’ve spotted my target,” Charlie murmured. He turned and picked up a flute of champagne from a passing server in black pants and shirt. The young man carrying the tray paused long enough to let his dark eyes sweep along Charlie from his head to his feet and back. He offered a smile that included a bite of his bottom lip prior to moving on. Certainly not the most blatant invitation he’d received since entering the gallery, but it was the most enticing.
As the server continued to cut a lazy path through the crowd, Charlie moved in the opposite direction. The Blue Wind was the third gallery he’d ventured into in as many days, and like the other two, it was filled with pieces of art that he didn’t quite get. Some of it was pretty and some of it was interesting, but none of it was like the works of Thiago Vergara.
The Argentine artist had been in his early twenties when he’d broken out as a shining star. Both the works that Erhan Galanis possessed as well as what he’d been able to find online had a vibrant realism that managed to strike straight to the core of the viewer. If Thiago Vergara was dead, it was a damn shame. The world needed more of his work.
But the reason they were at The Blue Wind wasn’t because the gallery showed works similar to Vergara. No, it was because the gallery owner had sold several pieces decades ago before Vergara’s disappearance. Right now, the closest they could get to the owner was his daughter.
Isabella Romero was a tall, elegant woman in her early fifties with exotic dark almond-shaped eyes and a large, lush mouth. Her black hair was liberally threaded with gray and was artfully twisted up on her head, revealing the long slope of her neck. There was a frostiness to her demeanor as if she were the queen of her domain and everyone else were merely supplicants hoping for a moment of her precious time.