Page 70 of Marked By Moonlight
Yikes. Either this wasn’t the harmless mission Gordon had described, or old habits died hard. They even checked the trolley for wiretaps and explosives.
Then they settled down again, and Bene thrust a second file at me. “Here. Raisa somebody-or-other from Latvia.”
That left two files. Roux took one and gave the other to Henrik. Everyone piled their plates with food and spread out, and the room quickly settled into the relative silence of munching, the shuffle of papers, and the tap of fingers over keyboards.
I peeked around, impressed. For all their moaning and ribbing, the guys certainly took their work seriously.
Helping myself to a yogurt, I sat on the couch and focused on the two files I’d been assigned. Well, I tried to focus, but my eyes kept drifting to Marius, while my hand drifted to my neck. Without realizing it, I caressed my skin, and all kinds of steamy images drifted through my head.
Then I caught myself, blushed what had to be beet red, judging by the heat in my cheeks, and whipped my hand away. God, what was it with me these days?
Marius shifted uncomfortably in his seat, and when he looked over, his eyes blazed with heat.
Oops.Sorry,I murmured into his mind.
The look he shot me in reply vacillated betweenGet your mind out of the gutterandCome hither and let me have my evil way with you.
Sex-starved as I was, I was all for option two. But we had a job to do, so I turned to face the windows.
Gordon’s notes were thorough and terrifyingly detailed. Could he find out as much about me if he desired? And, yikes. Had he already done so?
I corroborated and supplemented his findings with some online snooping, then studied the file on the Swiss art foundation.
In the hour that passed, Bene must have changed positions a dozen times, from slouched in an armchair with his feet hooked over the side to belly-down on the floor, like he was reading on a beach — although I doubted he would devote beach time to reading. Playing volleyball and flirting was probably more like it.
Marius took a seat at the dining table, as did Henrik, while Roux paced by the windows. Not one for sitting still, that tiger. So I assumed it was him when someone came by and refilled my water glass.
“Thanks,” I murmured, barely looking up from my files.
“You’re welcome,” Henrik murmured.
ThenI looked up, because holy crap. Since when was Henrik considerate?
Either it was a peace gesture, or he was sneaking poison into my drink.
I discreetly poured it into a plant and got my own refill, just in case. The plant didn’t instantly wilt, which was a plus, but I decided to withhold judgment.
Time flew, and before I knew it, Roux was calling everyone to order.
“All right. Time to compare notes. Henrik, what do you have?”
Henrik shuffled through his research material and held up a picture of a heavily jowled man with a stern expression. “Sergei Levitsky, CEO of Siberitrans.”
I shook my head. “Anastasia said she doesn’t want the painting to go to Russia.”
Henrik pointed to a page in his file. “Well, he can keep it in his villa in Saint-Tropez. Plus, he was a friend of her husband’s.”
“Doesn’t mean he’s a friend of hers,” Marius pointed out.
“Well, this one is intriguing.” Henrik held up his second file. “A Scandinavian tech billionaire.”
“Let me guess,” Bene interjected. “Nils Øren Jensen.”
I blinked. “Who?”
Bene shook his head sadly. “We really have to get you out of that château from time to time.”
I sighed. He could say that again.
