Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 95883 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 479(@200wpm)___ 384(@250wpm)___ 320(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 95883 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 479(@200wpm)___ 384(@250wpm)___ 320(@300wpm)
Lowering the man to his knees, Royce looked around at his face to see his eyes rolling up into his head. He was out cold.
Royce weighed his options as he glanced around the kitchen. He didn’t want to leave the man facedown in the kitchen for his employer to find. That would raise too many questions and possibly have him running straight to the library to check the painting. They needed as much time as possible before discovery. The bodyguard was far too heavy for him to heft around the room silently. But Royce could slide him…
With a grin, Royce pushed the unconscious man onto his ass and slid him over so that he was leaning back against a set of cabinets. He then grabbed the bottle of what looked to be whiskey and a glass. He splashed some whiskey in the glass and set it by the guy’s hand, while the bottle was put on the other side of his body. If he was found, Schmid would likely think the asshole passed out on the kitchen floor drunk. Might not be too far of a stretch since he’d left his employer’s home in the middle of the night.
Before leaving the kitchen, he scooped up the dart the bodyguard dropped and quietly headed back to the library, where he found Angelo returning the empty frame to the hidden cove. Marc hit the button on the globe again, sliding the fake Cézanne back into place.
“Ready?”
“Very,” Marc sighed. He snatched up a square, padded bag, sliding the strap across his chest.
They filed back out of the house and across the lawn toward their cars. It was only when the Raphael was secured in the Porsche that Royce felt that he could finally breathe. Sure, there had been six dogs and a roaming bodyguard, but it had gone off relatively easy.
“You guys are pretty good at this,” Angelo said, twirling his mask on one finger as he relaxed against the car. “You know if you ever get tired of the art gig and guarding bodies—”
“Don’t even finish the thought, Angelo,” Marc snapped. “Now that it’s over, all I want to do is go back to the bed and breakfast and throw up.” He pulled off his mask and flashed Royce a weak smile. “Sorry.”
“Nothing to apologize for,” Royce murmured. Marc had held it together brilliantly through all the stress, and he showed all the signs of coming down from the adrenaline rush. “I’ll be right there with a cold cloth.”
“Ugh. You two,” Angelo groaned. He pushed away from the Porsche and headed to the little black BMW he’d driven. “I’ll call when I’m back in London. We can go dancing.”
Royce shook his head at the man. Angelo was definitely different. He seemed to live life as if it was one long party. Royce liked to have a little fun from time to time, but it was the man standing on the other side of the car who promised nights cuddled on the couch as they argued over which movie to watch or where to order dinner from that held his undivided attention.
“Plane is waiting,” Marc said.
“Let’s go home.”
Marc’s smile grew, but Royce couldn’t bring himself to return it. Marc’s place wasn’t home, and his uncle was trying very hard to destroy what little he still had that made him think of home—his mother. He just prayed the risks they took in the middle of Tuscany paid off.
Chapter Eighteen
Marc blinked into the darkness of his bedroom and wondered if Royce had strapped him to his bed—and why he didn’t remember that fun time. Then he smiled, because the warmth of the heavy arm and leg over him, not to mention the whole body plastered to his back, reminded him that Royce had never moved to the chaise. Marc had wondered if he would go back, had dreaded it, but his hope that he wouldn’t had been so all-encompassing, it had made his lungs feel full of heavy, scratchy cotton.
They’d been too tired to do more than fall into bed when they arrived. Royce hadn’t even hesitated to pull Marc half-under him before he’d drifted off. And Marc’s hope had lightened, spread out, blossoming into a soft feeling of belonging Marc would do anything to keep.
He knew himself, knew he was completely attached to Royce.
Falling hard for the man.
With that kind of attachment, came deep fear. He couldn’t quite push it to the side either because it was too strong. Like a premonition, hovering to keep him on his toes.
He thought of the painting, explored his innermost feelings, and realized he felt no guilt for what they’d done. He was just happy he’d had a way to help Royce get his mother back. Plus, he couldn’t wait to hear about its return to the museum on the news.