Page 114 of Twisted Enemy
I don’t have fancy easels. This room isn’t equipped with spotlights. I didn’t want to lean the frames against the wall like some cut-rate, hundred-dollar-a-painting sale.
Alix is close enough to touch the Kahlo, but she doesn’t even glance at the brightly colored canvas. “I’m familiar with them,” she says coolly.
“You’re familiar with thecopies,” I counter.
She suddenly decides to study the Mexican self-portrait, as if she’s trying to discern the order each individual brushstroke was applied. Once she’s completed her review, she moves on to the Rothko. She finishes with the Cezanne.
When she finally turns to me, she almost looks shaken. “What are you doing here, Cole?”
“Trying to make amends.”
“These are the real paintings.”
“They are.”
“You owned them the entire time.”
“I did.”
“But you had copies made so you could defraud the freeport?—”
“No!” My voice is sharper than I intended, but she doesn’t flinch. “No,” I say more calmly. “I meant to defraud the bratva. To take Pyotr Tarasov and his crew for every penny I could manage. You were caught in the crossfire. That wasn’t right. It wasn’t fair. It was one of the biggest mistakes I’ve made in my life. My only explanation, my only possible excuse, is that I needed to protect Kate. I needed to keep her safe, and that put me in blinders. I’m sorry,” I finally say. “More sorry than you can ever understand.”
Alix absorbs my apology without saying a word. It’s only when I get to the end that she glances at Kate. There’s somethingknowing in her gaze, something almost…indulgent. But when she turns back to me, that softness is tempered by steel. “A church is a better place to make a confession.”
“I’m not giving my paintings to any church.”
“Giving—” This time, I’ve definitely shocked her. “Cole, you can’t…” She pulls her gaze from the Cezanne, from the apples and pears teetering precariously on the edge of their painted table. “There’s no going back,” she says to me. “The instant your goods moved outside the freeport, you owed tax on them. Even if I… If we… If you open a new gallery, you still have to pay your penalty to the feds.”
“I understand,” I say. “I’m not trying to make things right with the feds. I’m trying to make things right with you. You can keep the paintings. Sell them. Give them away. Whatever you want. These three are yours.”
She studies me calmly, as if she’s trying to read something written on the stone that passes for my heart. Only after she’s completed her inventory does she return her attention to the paintings. She lets one fingertip linger on the Kahlo’s wooden frame.
“I’m sorry,” I say again.
She meets my eyes with her solemn whiskey-colored gaze. “I forgive you.”
I’m not prepared for the rush of relief that swamps me. My knees feel weak. My throat is suddenly as dry as Antarctica. I have to wet my lips twice before I can say, “Thank you.”
The door blows open before I can say anything more. Trap Prince stands there, his shoulders blocking out the hallway beyond. As Alix whirls to greet him, thunderclouds break across his face. “Ten minutes are up,” he says to her.
“I’m fine,” she says, as if he just inquired about her health.
He glares at me. “This motherfucker has wasted enough of your morning.”
“Cole has apologized,” Alix says.
“Words are cheap,” Prince says. “And this cocksucker’s made a career out of conning people with his.”
“This isn’t a con,” Alix says. “He’s giving me the paintings.” Prince starts to bluster, but Alix interrupts. “The real ones,” she says. “No strings attached.”
“There are always strings attached.”
I have to defend myself. “Not this time.”
Prince grunts some sort of disagreement.
I glance at Kate, who has followed this entire exchange in silence. She told me this wouldn’t be easy. She said it might not work. She said I don’t understand a thing about how a woman protects herself, how she builds a fortress around the things that matter most.
