One to Keep

Chapter Four

Stef was jarred awake as the chair he sat in was forcefully kicked.

He sat up straight, forcing himself to come out of the dream he’d been having. It was a familiar dream, one he had every night. He’d made love to Jennifer again. He’d chased her down and taken her. He’d made her his. She’d been soft and utterly submissive by the time he’d gotten her underneath him. It had been perfect in his dream because this time he’d said the words he wanted to say. This time he’d made it right, and she hadn’t left him.

When his vision cleared he saw the reason he couldn’t say the words. His father was asleep in the chair across from him, his eyes closed and a blanket around his body. He was older, more fragile than Stef had ever seen him. His father was a rock. His father was a workaholic who never seemed to have an emotion, much less show one.

Except that one day. The day his mother had left them alone. He remembered very little besides shouting and his mother’s pronouncement that no amount of money made up for being tied to a husband and a kid. But he remembered his father’s knees hitting the floor. He remembered the way his father had clung to him as he cried.

The next day, Sebastian Talbot had been back to smooth, CEO

perfection as if nothing had happened. He’d divorced his young bride and never mentioned her name again. It had been years before Stef had heard anything about her, and then it had been a single e-mail explaining she’d remarried and requested contact. He’d been twenty.

He’d deleted it and blocked her from his e-mail.

Stef let his eyes slide to Jen’s sleeping form. She was even younger than his mother had been when she married his father.

“You want to explain to me why your father thinks you’re going to marry my wife?” Nate’s low growl brought Stef out of his revelry.

He’d whispered the question, but it jarred Sebastian.

“What?” His father sat straight up and glanced around. There seemed to be a moment’s panic as though he didn’t remember where he was, but then a smile lit his face. He stretched and moved aside the blanket the flight attendant had settled on him while he was sleeping.

“Sorry. I must have fallen asleep. I tire easily these days. I’m afraid I was dreaming. How far are we from Bliss?” Nate backed off. “Another twenty minutes, Mr. Talbot.” Sebastian shook his head. “No, no, Nathan. That won’t do. Please call me Sebastian. Half the time Stefan does. I can’t wait to see Bliss again.”

The panic was back. His father was coming home. “Dad, this is insane. You don’t vacation. The whole time I was growing up, you rarely left the office.”

He turned and looked out the window. He took in the gorgeous mountain views. “That’s not true, son. I spent two whole years in Bliss running the company from the estate. It worked well then. Given today’s technology it would be even easier now. Don’t worry. I won’t be a pest. I’ll stay in the guesthouse.”

“No!” Both he and Nate shouted the denial.

“The guesthouse is drafty,” Nate managed to sputter. “It’s really cold right now. You’ve been in Texas for a long time. Colorado winters are hard.”

Stef was glad Nate was such a quick thinker. He nodded. “Yes, the guesthouse needs some renovations.” The guesthouse was perfectly comfy. It was also filled with sex toys. Often it was where he kept his subs when they came for training.

Of course, for the last six months the place had been empty except when Max and Rye had brought their wife there to play. Stef hadn’t brought in a sub since that night with Jennifer. It had seemed wrong somehow.

Sebastian shrugged as he got out of his seat. Stef noticed his father had lost a lot of weight. He seemed small and frail. “Well, there are six bedrooms. I’m sure we’ll all manage. I promise you’ll barely know I’m there.”

He walked toward the back of the plane and disappeared into the bathroom.

Jen’s eyes came open. She looked sleepy and soft. A secret little smile curled those plump lips of hers up. “Liars. What’s up, Stef?

Don’t want your dad to find your stash of butt plugs?” Stef shuddered to think about it. There were far more exotic toys than anal plugs. “I’m more worried about what he would say about the St. Andrew’s Cross. He also might think the new violet wand I bought is a massager. Really, it’s best he doesn’t go into the guesthouse. For all our sakes.”

“He might know you better than you think. Our parents tend to know us better than we imagine,” Jen said, pulling a blanket around her. Stef pulled his blanket off his body and handed it to her. She didn’t argue, simply tucked it around her and settled back down.

“I don’t think he knows you at all,” Nate said. His face was flushed, his jaw perfectly square. “Especially since he thinks you’re sleeping with my wife.”

Jen grinned at the sheriff. “Didn’t you know, Nate? Callie’s been his beard for years. Ever since they were teens.”

“She is not my beard. For god’s sake, Jennifer.” She was making far more of this than was true. He and Callie had a very simple agreement. She pretended to be his girlfriend, and he did stuff for her.

They took care of each other. He turned to Nate. “On several occasions Callie accompanied me to Dallas. My father would summon me from time to time, and Callie went with me. He never made me stay for long. Maybe his conscience got to him, I don’t know.”

“Maybe he just wanted to see his son,” Jen offered.

“I doubt it. I found it awkward and unsettling to have to go to my father’s place. I did not consider it home. It’s strange. I was born in Dallas, raised there for years, but even at the age of eight, I knew Bliss was my home. I fought him when he decided to move back to Dallas, and he left me there with two nannies and a staff of ten. He summoned me home twice a year, but ignored me when I was there.

He had meetings, you see. What he really wanted to do was lecture me. When I was seventeen he asked whether I had a girlfriend. I told him no and was immediately presented with several applicants for the position. I doubt it had much to do with my happiness. He simply wanted me to marry the right sort of girl.” Jen’s eyebrow arched. “Callie must have come as a surprise.”

“Callie’s the right sort of girl. Callie’s the perfect girl.” Nate was unwavering in support of his oft-naked wife.

Stef felt himself smile. He loved Callie Sheppard, though not in the way his father thought. She was the sister he’d never had. Callie was a brilliant combination of quirky and strong. She was just like the town where she had been born. And she was completely the wrong sort of woman for a man concerned with high society to marry. She spent far too much time at naturist camps to be comfy with jet-setters.

And yet his father had taken to Callie right away. He’d been utterly charmed by her. Every time Stef had brought her to Dallas, his father had taken them out, and not once had he tried to change her or talked to Stef about her beyond how sweet she was. Every time his father called, he asked about Callie.

“Okay, I get why you used her as your fake girlfriend when you were younger, but you’re thirty-two now and she’s taken,” Nate said, sounding more reasonable. “Don’t you think it’s time you came clean?”

“How many phone calls from your father have you ducked lately, Wright?” Stef knew where to shove the knife in. Nate was completely estranged from his father, but the man kept calling. He seemed to think Nate should loan him money.

Nate sighed and sat back. “Family. What are you going to do?” Stef knew exactly what he was going to do. “I’m going to let it ride. My dad wants me to be happy with Callie? Fine. I’ll tell him I’m going to ask her to marry me soon, and we’ll leave it at that. He’s been sick. This is a phase. Trust me, the first emergency at Talbot Industries, and his CEO hat will be right back on. He’ll go back to Dallas, and I’ll get a Christmas card from his secretary.”

“Are you forgetting that I’m Callie’s husband? Well, I’m one of her husbands. We’re not looking for a fourth, Stef.” Now was the time to bring out his big guns. “And who facilitated your marriage? Who introduced you in the first place? Who gave you a job and a place to stash the big guy when he was all post-traumatically stressed out?”

Nate’s jaw became a hard line.

Jen just nodded at Nate. “See, King Stefan. Just like I said. The king giveth and then expects payback when you least expect it. First it’s a simple ‘hey, come get Jen out of jail with me,’ and now you have to give him access to your wife.” Her teasing made him want to spank her. He really didn’t need that mental image now. “I am not demanding to sleep with Callie. I am simply borrowing her in an attempt to misrepresent my love life to my father.”

Nate sat back, but suddenly a smile spread across his face. It made Stef unaccountably nervous. “You’re right. I owe you. You know what? Callie is meeting us at the airport. I’m sure she’ll be thrilled to see your father again. I’ll just step back and let you have your little ruse.”

“Thank you.” It solved one of his problems.

Jen was gaping at Nate. “You are so mean, Sheriff.”

“I am entirely reasonable.” Nate smirked, and Stef wondered if he was missing something.

Before he could really process the problem, the plane began a turn.

The flight attendant walked in and announced it was time to buckle up. Sebastian came out and began talking about his plans for his stay in Bliss.

Stef just wanted the whole thing to be over.

Alexei Markov stared down at the man currently being worked over by his partner, Ivan. Jean Claude Renard had started out like they all did, with threats and promises of retribution because he was such an important person. And like almost all the rest, he was just a sniveling mass of begging, pleading flesh after a couple of minutes with Ivan. Despite his deep loathing of the man, Alexei had to admit that Ivan was the master at what he did.

“It was here, I tell you. I hid the damn thing just like I promised.” He managed to get the words out of his swollen lips. “Somehow she must have figured it out.”

Ivan hit him again. Alexei could have told Renard that it didn’t matter what he said. Ivan would use him like a punching bag because he was a sadistic son of a bitch. Of course, a certain streak of sadism was always required when one became a mob enforcer.

Sadism, or a well-defined and patient sense of revenge.

He couldn’t help Renard even if he wanted to, and he didn’t. If he did, he put everything he’d worked years for at risk. He was so close to getting in the same room with Pushkin that he could taste it. Then he would be free.

Ivan stared down at his victim. “My boss would like his package.

He paid for it, and he would like it now. I have to be on plane to Moscow in four hours. We can use that time to bundle up the package, or I can simply beat on you until we board. It is up to you. It make no difference to me.”

Ivan’s English was decent, though he sounded like it pained him to speak anything but Russian. Alexei was well aware his could use a bit of work, but he’d spent a lot of time watching American television and becoming accustomed to their ways. If he survived his meeting with Pushkin, he would find a way to build a new life in this country.

He would be free here.

Well, he would be an illegal immigrant on the run from both the Russian police and the mob, but at least he wouldn’t have to listen to Ivan anymore. Ivan was a brute. Having to share a room with him for the last year had been trying to say the least. The man did not understand that the world had made great strides in personal hygiene products. He seemed to think smelling like a bear made him more intimidating.

Alexei tapped a foot on the floor. He was so tired of being a lackey. He needed to be back in Russia, doing whatever it took to get close to the man. “Or he could give back money to Pushkin. With twenty-percent increase for all our trouble.” Ivan snorted. Alexei knew that it wouldn’t satisfy Pushkin, but it would buy this idiot an hour or two to come to his senses. He wasn’t sure why Renard had decided to renege on his deal with the head of one of Russia’s most notorious crime syndicates, but he seemed a reasonable man. Most people wanted to live. Alexei did some quick calculations. If he got Renard to come to his senses and give up the package by five, he could be home in roughly twenty-four hours. He could deliver the package himself. Pushkin was being strangely paranoid about this one painting. He wanted to meet with Ivan and Alexei himself to take the package into custody. But first he had to convince Renard to give up the painting.

A wet cough came out of Renard’s chest. “Sure. I can do that. I just need a little time to get the money.” Alexei felt his eyebrows rise. “I was told Pushkin sent you two million four days ago.”

Another cough and a shudder. “I spent it. I owed some people, some people from Columbia. Please. You can’t tell Pushkin I lost the painting. He’ll kill me. He might kill you, too. God, how did this go so wrong? I just need a little time. I can find it. She must have taken it with her last night.”

“He’s a very international idiot,” Ivan said in Russian. “How many dangerous groups can one man get involved with?” Alexei shook his head. Renard was going downhill fast. It was obvious the man had spent Pushkin’s money on cocaine. “Please, show some respect, Ivan. We are in his country. We should kill him in his own language.”

Renard let out a pitiful cry.

Ivan backhanded him. “Fine. But you are too soft on these people.”

As Ivan continued to pound on the gallery owner who’d been foolish enough to make a deal with the Russian mob and then renege on it, Alexei looked around the small room. The gallery outside had been stark and modern, but this was a work space. It was much more intimate, with small details that let a person know something about the occupants. Before he’d been too preoccupied with wailing from pain, Renard had explained that this was his restoration room.

Apparently he was not an artist himself, but he cleaned up works that had damage. It was in this manner that he had acquired the painting Pushkin desired. Alexei bent over and picked up the canvas that had been destroyed by Ivan when they first entered the room. Renard had tried to play a little game with them. He’d told them to pack up the painting and leave as though they were mere messenger boys without a brain in their head. Alexei knew better. Pushkin had sent them a copy of the photo of the painting they were supposed to bring back.

He’d pulled up the photo on his cell phone, unwilling to take the man’s word for it. Between the man’s sweaty, nervous demeanor, and Alexei’s excellent eye, he’d quickly discerned that the man was attempting to fool them. The painting looked very similar, but it wasn’t close to the same in Alexei’s eyes. There was something about the colors. Alexei had seen it right away.

Renard had explained, through his cries of pain, that he had hidden the Picasso for safekeeping and easy transport. Now he could not find it.

It was a very foolish play on Renard’s part.

Ivan had torn apart this work to prove what Alexei suspected. Ivan had cursed because the paint was still wet. Apparently Renard had hidden the Picasso behind another painting and switched them, hoping no one would notice until he was long gone. Alexei stared at the canvas Ivan had pried off the frame.

It was odd. Mostly it was a collection of colors, and yet he could feel the emotion from the canvas. It was all blues and greens and the slightest hint of purple. There was the faintest impression of a male figure. Alexei liked art.

“Who is artist?” He would bet it was a female. The softness spoke of femininity.

Ivan let the gallery owner drop to the floor. “What do you care?

This is not the painting that the boss desires. Are you sure it is painting at all? It looks like someone tosses paint can at a canvas.” Philistine. Ivan wasn’t smart enough to know his art. Alexei shrugged. “I am curious.”

Ivan kicked at Renard, his booted foot connecting viciously with the man’s gut. “Tell my friend, who is artist. He wants to know.” Renard turned his bloodshot eyes up and looked at Alexei. “She’s an employee.”

So it was a woman. “She is sad. This is very sad painting. I like it.

It say things to me.”

“It speak to you, Alexei. That is the right phrase. Don’t lecture me until you get your English right. You are correct about one thing. We have to be able to speak to the people we are killing or they will not know why they are dead.”

At those words, Renard began to scream. His high-pitched wails ate at Alexei’s nerves. He looked at Ivan and spoke in Russian.

“That was not helpful.”

Ivan shrugged. Renard tried to crawl away, but Ivan’s boot came down on his back. “Better he knows what is coming for him. He does not have the painting. He would have given it up by now.” Most people would have given it up by now. Ivan was an expert at pain delivery. So Renard didn’t have the painting, and apparently the money had gone straight up his nose. If he didn’t have the painting, Alexei needed to figure out who did. It would do him no good to return to Russia with nothing to show for his efforts. He needed that painting.

“Would police have the painting?” Alexei asked, hoping that the answer was no. He knew why Renard had brought in the police. The idiot wanted to keep his business, and the best way to do it was to pin the crime on someone else. But he prayed the man had been smart enough not to allow the prize to become evidence.

“No, it was a different painting, I tell you,” Renard managed. “I hid it behind a different painting. I don’t know. All of her stuff looks alike to me. I prefer realism. Her stuff is mostly swirly colors meant to express emotion. I’ve been staring at her work for months, and I don’t get it. Sold a couple for her. Always the same buyer. He pays top dollar.”

Ivan frowned as he looked down. “Perhaps I hit him too hard.”

“You think?” Alexei shook his head. Ivan always hit them too hard. It made it very difficult to interrogate a victim when his teeth were stuck halfway down his throat. He started to point at Ivan, and noticed that his fingers had a fine coating of blue paint on them. The canvas was still slightly wet. “This artist, she works in here? What if she took the painting you need and begins a new one?” Renard’s eyes flared. “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.

She has to have the painting. I tried to get into her place, but the police were there, and then some other people were there early this morning. I haven’t been able to get in.” If it was true, Alexei might still salvage this little mission. “This artist, she live close to here?”

Renard sagged, obviously pleased to have a few more moments of life left. His eyes were sparked with wild hope. “Yes, Jennifer lives on Good Latimer. I’ll take you there. That has to be where the painting is. I know it. I just know it. We might have to wait until the place is empty.”

Ivan smiled. “I will take care of anyone in our way.” But forty minutes later, Ivan neatly and efficiently took care of the only person in their way. Ivan slit Renard’s throat. It was quiet, and they weren’t worried about clean. The shag carpet beneath their feet was old, but quickly soaked up the blood.

There wasn’t a single painting in the apartment Renard had led them to. Alexei looked around. It was obvious to him that an artist lived here. There were easels and unframed, unpainted canvases.

There were half-used tools and oil paints all over the kitchen table.

There were brushes in a can in the bathroom. The whole bathroom smelled of chemicals.

“The boss is not going to like this.” Now that the mark was dead, Ivan shifted back to Russian.

Alexei followed suit. “He will be very angry.” Ivan started looking through the artist’s kitchen. “I need to find a good butcher knife. Pushkin will want us to at least bring back the head. I hate these international jobs, Alexei. It’s gotten so hard to get a decapitated head through an American airport. How much cash do you have? We will need to bribe someone.” He felt his deep groan rumble from his chest. This was a nightmare. “Pushkin will be even angrier we spent his cash on bribes, which is why we should attempt to offer him an alternative.”

“And what is that?”

Alexei glanced around the room. It was obvious the woman had left in a hurry. This woman either knew where the painting was, or knew who took it. He needed to find this woman, this Jennifer. There was an answering machine blinking by the phone. Curious, Alexei pushed the button. A cheery female voice came on.

“This is Jen. I’m not here, or I’m off in la-la land, so leave me a message.” There was a long beep and then another soft, feminine voice.

“Jen, it’s Callie. I can’t tell you happy I am Stef tracked you down, though I’m so sorry about the whole jail thing. Nate is coming to get you. You might not even get this message, but if you do, know that Zane and I will be waiting at the airport in Alamosa. I can’t wait to see you. I’m so happy you’re coming home. Bliss isn’t the same without you.”

“What is this Bliss?” Ivan asked.

Alexei looked around. “It is a place, I think. This Alamosa is where the artist has gone, and I think she took her canvases with her.

Perhaps she doesn’t know.”

“Or maybe she does and I have more work to do.” Ivan sounded like a man anticipating a treat.

Alexei stared down at the only framed picture in the whole house.

It was of two young women and an older female. There was a tall brunette with lovely, slender features. He would bet she was the artist.

There was a shorter but equally pretty woman with dark hair. The older woman was a blonde. She wore a shirt with dangling fringe, and a red cowboy hat sat atop her puffy hair.

He read the marking on the shirt the slender brunette wore.

Stella’s Café – Bliss, Colorado

If he was the smart man who managed to track down the painting Pushkin wanted, the boss would have to thank him personally. That would be the moment that Alexei avenged his brother.

“Call Pushkin. Tell him we are going to Colorado.”