The Billionaire's Caress (2 page)

It’s not like that.

What’s it like, then?

Like Hannibal Lecter is after me.

“Yeah,” I say grudgingly. “But are you lying to me?”

“I’ll tell you everything,” Grant promises. “But we have to wait until we get back to the penthouse.”

“Why?”

“Because it will be easier to show you.”

The seriousness in his voice makes my stomach turn with dread.

“Did you learn anything else?” Grant continues.

“He called himself Epicurus.”

“What? Seriously?”

“Yeah. He says he has ‘unusual tastes.’”

Grant doesn’t say anything again, just stares out at the traffic – which frightens me a little.

“Do you know what he’s talking about?” I ask.

“Later,” Grant says. “Anything else?”

“He’s incredibly proficient with technology. He had the entire place wired to some kind of central control. He shut down the elevator, tapped into the surveillance cameras, and turned the lights on and off at the touch of a button. Not to mention cloning your cell and jamming my signal so I couldn’t call out.”

“Jesus…”

“But I’ve got his voice.”

Grant looks over at me. “What?! Really?!”

“Yes.” I take out my cell and open up the Voice Recording app. “I started recording him when…”

Oh no.

Grant sees the look on my face. “What?” he asks, concerned.

‘New Recording 7,’ runtime of 6:37, is gone.

But a new one is in its place, only one second long.

It’s titled
‘Naughty girl – don’t record me again, Eve.’

I cry out, drop the phone like it’s a poisonous snake, and start shaking all over again.

“What? What is it?” Grant says, and stops the car right in the middle of traffic.

Cars are honking all around us.

“Go – go,” I manage to choke out.

“Not until you tell me what’s got you so upset.”

I show him the phone. “He deleted the recording I made and left
that.
”

Grant’s eyes get wide.

“This guy can do
anything
with technology,” I say. “We’re not safe anywhere. He could be listening to us right now over our cell phones.”

“He can do that?” Grant asks incredulously.

“The government can spy on people through cell phone microphones even when the cell phone is shut off.”

“My God…”

“It’s not just the cell phones – he could have hacked the car’s communications system. Or God knows what else. When we get back, we have to isolate every bit of technology you have. Pull out every cell phone’s SIM card and battery… disable any surveillance systems, including computer webcams. We can’t give him any possibility to spy on us.”

Grant nods grimly, and we drive back in silence to the penthouse.

“If you don’t tell me who’s paying you, I swear
to God
you will live to regret it.”

I’ve never seen Grant angry before.

He’s absolutely furious.

Hodge is sitting on the couch in the penthouse, and he’s incredibly nervous. I don’t blame him, considering there’s a group of guys who look like they’re from the Secret Service standing around him. Suits, sunglasses, guns under their jackets.

“I promise you, Mr. Carlson, I’m not working for anyone else,” the chauffeur says, his voice quavering. “I got a text from you telling me to pick up Ms. Saunders – ”

“Bullshit!”

“He’s telling the truth,” I say from the opposite couch, trying to calm Grant down. “Remember, I got texts from your number, too.”

Grant looks over at me in irritation. “Did you have to tell
him
that while I’m questioning him?”

I continue typing on my laptop. “This isn’t some CIA interrogation. I’m looking at his phone records right now, and I can see the texts he’s talking about.”

“I thought we were supposed to deactivate every bit of technology we’ve got,” Grant says, pointing at the pile of battery-less cell phones in a pile by the doorway.

“I’ve shut down my microphone and webcam, and I’ve got safety measures in place,” I assure him. “If Epicurus tries to get into my system, believe me, I’ll know about it. In the meantime, I’m pretty sure Hodge is telling the truth, so quit scaring the poor guy to death.”

Grant considers my words, then nods and turns back to his security guys. “I want him isolated until we sort this out.”

“I didn’t do anything,” Hodge says, his voice pleading. “You have to believe me, Mr. Carlson.”

“Alright, alright,” Grant grumbles. “Sorry to scare you, Hodge, but from this point on it’s ‘trust but verify.’”

“Thank you, sir,” Hodge says, then turns to me. “Ms. Saunders – I am so sorry for what happened. I had no idea…”

“I know, Hodge. It’s alright.”

“It’s not alright… I never meant to put you in danger… I’m so, so sorry…”

My heart breaks for the guy. He’s really torn up.

“Take him down to the security station,” Grant says, “and sit on him until we can definitively clear him.”

All but one of the security guys escorts Hodge out of the penthouse. The last guy remaining says, “We checked with the gallery owner, an Emilia Van der Wahl. She said that she got a phone call yesterday afternoon offering her $20,000 cash to rent out the gallery today, no questions asked. She took it.”

“Does she know who it was?” Grant asks. “Did she meet him?”

“Nope. Once the money showed up via delivery service – in a locked briefcase, with a combination texted to her – she followed his instructions to a ‘t’ and left the key out back.”

“Who the hell just rents out their gallery on a minute’s notice to a complete stranger?”

“Apparently somebody with money problems,” the security guy says. “Her gallery’s insured, so she wasn’t worried about anything getting stolen… but she needed the money to keep it open.”

“Epicurus probably knew that,” I say. “He probably targeted her specifically
because
of that.”

Grant sighs. “Follow up with the delivery service and the phone call to the gallery owner, Jim. I doubt you’ll find anything, but we can hope.”

“You got it, Mr. Carlson.”

The security guy walks out.

“So not only is he a wizard with technology, he’s rich enough to throw away twenty grand to send you a message and mess with your head,” I say.

“That doesn’t surprise me,” Grant replies.

“Why not?”

Grant grits his teeth. “Because of those things he told you to ask me.”

“Yeah, about that…”

Grant sighs in resignation, then gestures with his head. “Follow me.”

We walk down a wood-paneled hall in the penthouse. Grant stops halfway down the corridor and presses three spots on the wall.

Just like the passageway in the hotel, a door swings open where there hadn’t been anything before. The separations in the wood paneling form the outline of the door, which swings inward.

“You really like these secret passage things, don’t you?” I ask.

“You have no idea.”

We walk through, into a dimly lit corridor. There don’t seem to be any other doors – but by now I know better. Ten steps in, he stops and presses another three spots.

A panel slides open, revealing a keypad. He types in a 10-digit number, and a final door opens up in front of him, magically appearing in the wall.

“What the hell?” I say.

“Some people have panic rooms. Me… I have secret rooms.”

“Why?”

“Take a look.”

He gestures, and I walk into one of the strangest rooms I have ever seen in my life.

It’s an art gallery, sort of. A dozen or so pictures hang on the white walls of the 30x30 room.

There’s an impressionistic seascape with a single boat in the water, and half a dozen small figures on the tan, flat beach.

Another looks like a Picasso, with fractured lines and unusual planes.

Another painting is of three figures – a highly realistic portrait of a woman seated at a piano, a long-haired figure seated with his back to the viewer, and a standing woman who might be singing. It looks European, maybe from the 1600’s or 1700’s.

Painting after painting, eighteen in all. I can’t be sure – I’m not exactly an art aficionado – but the works seem similar in style to great masterpieces I’ve seen all my life.

“What
is
this?”

“Probably the single greatest private collection of art in the world,” Grant says.

“Wow, somebody’s modest,” I mutter.

“I’m not being modest. That painting right there?”

He points at the seascape.

“That’s ‘View of the Sea at Scheveningen’ by Vincent Van Gogh. It was stolen in 2002 in Amsterdam. This one here?”

He points at the painting of the three figures in front of the piano.

“‘The Concert’ by Vermeer. Stolen in 1990 by a couple of guys dressed as Boston police officers. It’s valued at over 200 million dollars.”

Holy shit…

Grant walks around the room and gazes at the paintings with a look of wonder on his face. “The paintings in this room are unique – because they were stolen and never recovered. The sum total of all the works in here is beyond priceless.”

I stare at him, a rising feeling of disgust in my stomach. “You buy stolen paintings?”

“I didn’t exactly
buy
them.”

Suddenly, it all becomes clear.

“You’re a
thief ?!
You
steal
paintings?!
”

“Not from museums,” he protests, like the fact he didn’t take them from museums makes it all okay.

“Oh, just people, then,” I say sarcastically.

“From the people who stole them in the first place. Or who bought them from the thieves.”

“How do you steal them?”

“Well, the first thing you should know is that I’m what you would call a cat burglar.”

I stare at him. This is surreal. “Like in a movie?”

“Pretty much.”

“I thought you were an architect!”

“I have my hobbies,” he says with an impish grin.

“Are you being serious right now, or is this some kind of bad joke?”

“It’s not a joke, I assure you. I’m one of the best burglars in the world. I could have tracked down the owners of these paintings, then figured out how to steal them… but it’s way easier when the people who own the stolen works stash them in buildings with secret passageways.”

I stare at him, my mind blown.

It’s genius.

Horrible, but absolute genius.

“You rob people whose houses you designed,” I realize.

“I don’t rob
all
of them,” Grant says, annoyed. “Not even most of them. I’ve broken into a couple hundred skyscrapers and mansions over the years – some I designed, a lot that I didn’t. These paintings are the hauls from maybe a dozen jobs. Besides, I’m going to eventually give them back to their rightful owners.”

“‘Eventually’?”

“I’m not going to keep any of them longer than three years.”

“Oh, so you’re a
good
cat burglar,” I sneer. “Because you only steal from a handful of people, and then you’re going to give it all back.”

“To the
rightful
owners. The museums or private owners.”

“Riiiight.”

He’s getting angry. “I do it for the thrill, not the paintings. They’re just an added benefit.”

“That makes no sense.”

Grant fixes me with a cold, piercing look. “I would have thought that the woman who broke into the Defense Department servers at 15, and who was one of the highest-ranking members of Anonymous by 17,
might
understand what I’m talking about.”

I blush.

He’s got my number.

Because yes, I
do
understand.

I know the thrill he’s talking about. The rush of working so hard to get behind that locked door you’re not supposed to enter… the frustration of being denied, time after time… and then the pure ecstasy when you finally bust it open, like a treasure chest in some sort of digital pirate’s tale.

Not that I’m about to admit that to
him
.

“How do you know all that?” I ask angrily. “About Anonymous and – and the rest?”

“I have my sources.”

“Tell me!”

“What does it matter? All that matters is, in the end, you and I are exactly the same.”

“No we’re not,” I snap.

“Oh, that’s right… you quit,” he says mockingly.

Now I’m furious. “Maybe
you
should have quit. Is that why Epicurus is after you? Did you steal a painting from him?”

Grant’s face goes pale, and his smile fades. “No. Not a painting.”

“But you broke into his house?”

“Not
his
house, no… but one he was renting. One I designed.”

“And you checked the secret rooms?”

“Yes.”

“And…?”

Grant looks absolutely haunted as he answers. “I found the women he was keeping imprisoned.”

I stare at him. I want so badly never to have heard what he just said.

“…what?”

“It’s easier if I just tell it from the beginning.”

“I’ve been doing this for years. Remember when I said that my obsession with secret passageways and architecture began when I was five, and I visited that Victorian house? Well, I saw
Entrapment
when I was a teenager, and I was like,
I want to do THAT, too.
Sean Connery, man. I wanted to be a thief because of him. And because I figured I could get chicks like Catherine Zeta-Jones, I guess. So I started studying in my off-time. Rock climbing… lock picking… rappelling… tight-rope walking… parkour…”

“Parkour?”

“Jumping and scaling obstacles. Jumping from building to building. French guys created it in Paris just for fun, to do crazy shit in the urban jungle. It’s saved my life more than a couple of times.”

Damn. No wonder his body is in such good shape.

“My family had money – which you already know – so I could afford to hire the best teachers there were. And the best teachers were criminals. In college, I would actually pay former Interpol guys to hunt down the greatest thieves in the underworld, then offer them exorbitant sums to teach me whatever they could over the course of a week. My father thought I was blowing obscene amounts of money on partying. He never found out I was actually studying under some of the most wanted men in the world.