Page 33 of Sticky Fingers
Chapter Ten
Sonia
Malcolm Asshole Push.
I’m sure that must be his real name. I mean, what kind of bastard would ask me out just to have his goons break into my apartment? I’ll answer that for you—he’s the kind of bastard who doesn’t believe rules apply to him.
In that, we’re alike.
Still, he’s lucky I didn’t kick him in the balls after the stunt he pulled yesterday. Any other man would see what I’m all about in the blink of an eye, but with Malcolm…there’s something about him that just makes me lose it.
He’s the testosterone version of a Happy Hour Martini.
All those thoughts cruise through my head as I head straight to the front entrance of Clarendon Tower, my shopping bag slung over one shoulder. There’s no better therapy than spending a few grand on a pair of Louboutin shoes, that much I can tell you. And if there’s anyone in need of that kind of therapy right now, it’s me.
As soon as I’m inside the lobby, another woman stumbles out of the nearby elevator. It’s Daphne.
“Sonia!” she exclaims happily. “How are you?”
“Can’t complain,” I reply. “You?”
“Oh, I’m wonderful. I just heard the good news.”
She looks at me expectantly, like I’m supposed to know what she’s referring to. I’m at a loss, though, as to what could be the good news. Maybe Malcolm decided to move out?
“You haven’t heard, have you?” she asks me, her eyes widening with surprise.
“I’m afraid not,” is all I can say.
“The stolen Picasso painting has been found! Malcolm—you know, Dominic’s friend—found the painting. Isn’t that great?”
What?! No freaking way. That’s impossible!
“Daphne!” I hear a familiar booming voice say behind me.
I whip around so fast I’m sure I gave myself whiplash.
Malcolm is striding into the building with a confident walk and a smile of triumph on his face. The cocky bastard.
He’s holding a canvas in his hand, but I can’t see what the painting is, or if it’s, in fact, the damn Picasso.
But it can’t be the Picasso. There’s no way he figured out where I stored it, is there?
Malcolm stops in front of Daphne and me, that shit-eating grin on his face.
“As promised,” he says with a flourish, “the stolen Picasso—found and returned to its rightful place in the Clarendon Tower Art Gallery.”
He flips the painting around so we get a full view of it.
Son of a bitch…I don’t know how, but that’s the damn painting!
I glance over at the wall where the watercolor I donated the other night to take the place of the Picasso rests.
How the hell did Malcolm get his hands on the Picasso?
Applause rises in the lobby, the few tenants there all looking at Malcolm with fascination. How wonderful—everyone has heard and witnessed the return of the painting. Some of these assholes are even calling him a hero.
Are they freaking kidding me with this bullshit?
