Page 41 of To Claim A King
“You ungrateful bitch,” the man at the other end of the phone spat out through gritted teeth. “I’ll have you...”
I tuned out his tirade and stared out the window again, using the light of day and the bitterness bubbling in my chest to strengthen my resolve. The mountains gleamed in the afternoon sunlight, the crisp reflection off the snow-capped peaks so beautiful in the glow of inevitable spring. Yet here I was, in my office, speaking to a man who had treated me so poorly I had developed a desperation to take care of him, even at a distance, to subtly seek the approval I’d never received.
My unresolved Daddy issues had finally risen to the surface of my skin. The embarrassing burn crept across my cheeks and singed the baby hairs as I allowed myself a single moment to steep in my shame, before scrubbing it off my soul altogether.
“I’m done,” I announced, cutting off his tirade. “All access to my money, done. I’ll be speaking with your handlers, and you’ll be moving locations because, as of today, I’m putting the house on the market. The cushy life you’ve grown accustomed to? Done. This relationship? Done.”
I stood from the desk and grabbed a file from my corner cabinet, the one holding all of his information—copies of the evidence that put him away, the contacts on his file. Everything I needed to wipe the slate clean forever.
The line was suddenly deathly quiet, though I heard the barest muffle of a feminine tone. My father wouldn’t grovel—I don’t think he even knew how. Instead of ending the call, I waited, curiosity winning out at his next response. It didn’t disappoint.
“I don’t need you anymore. A Lane always has a Plan B.” It was a triumphant proclamation, not the haughty threats I expected. “Good luck with your life, Hillary. But with the way things are, I’d say you’re nice and fucked.”
The line clicked abruptly in my ear, but the grating sound was far more welcome on my pounding head than the noise of the indignance of a privileged man. I released a body-cleansing breath through gritted teeth as I considered his final parting words. I was certain I’d never speak to him again without my lawyer present.
Plan B. Knowing my father, hewouldhave a Plan B. A Plan B that involved selling off my assets for…
The jackhammer of pain against my skull continued, but it didn’t stop the connections forming between synapses inside my brain. A knot of thread was untethering, and I needed to get back to the warehouse to confirm its origin.
The security detail was following me everywhere I went, but Joey was still my driver. I sent her a quick message and quickly packed up my things.
It was time for answers.
I found the man in question seated at the kitchen table, playing a game with Aaron, using Froot Loops as the play pieces.
“As much as I want to know what this is”—I waved at the table between them—“I need to ask you a question, Lucky.”
“Shoot, Blondie.” The Irishman peered up at me with sultry sea-glass eyes and a languid grin, his lean and muscular form sprawled out in the metal chair with a casual grace only Lucky possessed. The stress and pressure may have added a few more wrinkles around his eyes, but his body language was as relaxed as the day I met him.
Aaron looked much better himself—not quite the man who’d stood menacing and tall before being stabbed eleven times, but close. He was seated far more upright, legs crossed at the ankles in front of him as he leaned back in the chair. He offered me a warm smile—the smiles he reserved only for me—and I smiled back, so grateful the man I loved so deeply was here on this side of the earth, playing a game, no less. Lucky was bringing out little moments of joy in him, and their pairing—as unexpected as it could be—brought joy to my heart too.
I turned back to Lucky, determined to get answers before I distracted myself with the two gorgeous men in front of me.
“I assume when someone hires The Six, they pay a deposit to secure the contract, right? How much do you think the deposit was on me?”
He whistled through his teeth, the high-pitched tone ringing through the cavernous space. “For something as valuable as your painting? A hundred K, minimum. Then installments on top of that.” He leaned forward, eyes alight with interest. “What’s going on in that beautiful brain, love?”
One hundred thousand dollars. The paintings missing from my father’s—myhouse—could easily fetch $25,000 per, if not more, with the right buyer. “I’ve been wracking my brain for weeks about who would have hired you—for apainting. It’s so specific. I have so manyassets, and hundreds of millions in stock options, but that painting, sold on the black market, would be untraceable. And, the most profitable. Few people even knew I had it in my possession, and unless the person was a true art connoisseur, they’d go for something far easier to steal.”
“So, you think you know this person,Mi Reina?” Aaron cocked his head quizzically, and I could see his own mind mulling the possibilities through the landscape of his amber eyes.
“Oh, I know them all right. My father. I would bet my entire fortune that Camden Lane hired The Six to fuck me over. I just have to prove it.”
Lauchlan’s eyebrows kissed his hairline, the green irises pinpricks within the whites of his eyes. “Er, that explains a bit, actually.” He cleared his throat awkwardly and stood, leaning his frame against the island counter.
“Spoke to Ma the other day, and she was pressing me for the painting again. Remember that dud of a deal she offered me, to split the profits on a black-market sale by swindling The Six?” He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. “She had a right hard-on to get the money and run with her boyfriend. Called him ‘Cammie.’ What are the chances your Da got with my Ma, Blondie?”
My eyelids blinked so rapidly they peeled a layer of film off my eyeballs. “Marcie? Marcie Davidson is yourmother?”
“Wait.” Lucky’s brows furrowed into a confused frown. “You knew she was dating your Da?”
“I didn’t know she was yourmother?!” The words came out on a low shriek. How in the world had I missedthatdetail, of everything else Blackbird had dug up on Lauchlan O’Donnell? All this time, these two scheming, lying, opportunistic bastards had been plotting against me and using Lucky as their bait. It was a brutally simplistic plan, and I had missed it entirely.
“Might I make a suggestion,Mi Reina?” Aaron’s soothing tenor wrapped around me like a blanket amid myminor meltdown. “Rojohas requested the use of my forger contact to replicate the painting to satisfy his contract with The Six. Are you willing to ship this to her and pay the fee? I will take responsibility for its safety—but I can assure you—not even the most scrutinizing critic will find fault in its authenticity.”
Forge the painting, give it back to The Six, who would give it back to my sperm donor—and then we’d report the painting stolen and lead them back to the source. It required time and patience, but it would land Camden back in a jail cell where he belonged.
“I want them to serve time for this.” My words were directed to Lucky. Just because I wanted Camden to rot in prison didn’t mean he wanted the same for his mother.
