We slip back through the bookcase into the private salon. The corridor beyond stretches empty in both directions, but that won’t last. Lorenzo Vescari’s absence won’t go unnoticed for long, especially with the auction scheduled to begin soon.
“We’ll take the service stairs.” I guide Jade toward the back hallway. “There’s less security coverage, and the staff are too busy to question us.”
We make it as far as the junction where the back hall meets the service corridor when we freeze at the sound of heavy footsteps approaching from the direction of our escape route.
Two security guards, moving fast, the crackle of their radios filling the air.
I push Jade into an alcove, assessing our options. The hall behind us leads back to the private salon and the hidden room. A dead end. The passage to our right returns to the main gallery, where too many people would recognize Lorenzo, now missing his distinctive jacket. The approaching guards block our path to the service stairs and freedom.
I see my window of escape in a small side corridor that leads to a different staircase and exit. But with Jade weakened, he’ll slow me down. One look at his frightened face, at the way his hands tremble as they clutch my jacket around his shoulders, and I make my choice.
“Follow that hall. There’s another set of service stairs. They lead to the back garage.” I reach into my pocket and remove a car key. “In the alley behind, you’ll find a brown sedan waiting.”
Jade stares at the paper, then at me, confusion evident on his face. “What about you?”
“I’ll land on my feet,” I say with all of Larenzo’s bravado. “Just go. Don’t turn back.”
Jade hesitates for a heartbeat, then slips away, his movements surprisingly silent for someone who’s spent days ina cage. I watch until he disappears around the corner, then turn to face the approaching guards.
Lorenzo Vescari emerges in full force, not the seductive charmer from the gallery, but the outraged collector whose status has been insulted. I stagger into the middle of the hallway, letting my foot catch on the carpet as if I’m drunk.
“Impossible!” My shout echoes down the corridor. “Absolutely unacceptable! I was promised a private viewing, not to be abandoned in this maze of mediocrity!”
The guards converge on the commotion, their expressions shifting from alert to confrontational as they spot me.
“Sir, you’re not authorized to be in this area,” the taller one says, hand moving to the radio at his belt.
I draw myself up to Lorenzo’s full height, injecting outrage into every syllable. “Not authorized? Do you have any idea who I am? Lorenzo Vescari does not wait in hallways like some commoncollector!”
The last word drips with disdain, as if nothing could be more insulting.
“Sir, you need to return to the main gallery.” The second guard steps closer, his posture tense as he prepares for resistance.
I wave my hand dismissively. “I was invited to a private viewing by Viktor himself. If this is how Halcyon treats its premium clients, I’ll take my considerable budget elsewhere.”
Momentary uncertainty creases their brows, and the name-drop buys Jade precious seconds to put more distance between us.
Then the taller guard’s radio crackles to life. “Security breach in the east wing. All personnel on alert.”
Their uncertainty vanishes, and they move to grab my arms with bruising force.
“Hands off!” I struggle enough to be convincing, but not enough to be a true threat. “Do you have any idea how much this suit costs?”
They slam me against the wall, my cheek shoved against the expensive wallpaper. Rough hands pat down every inch of my body from collar to ankles. I don’t resist. I have nothing incriminating on me. My lock picks are in the jacket Jade took.
“He has nothing on him.” One guard steps back.
“Take him to Harcourt,” the other decides. “Let him sort this out.”
As they pull me away from the wall, my heart pounds not with fear but with a single question that drowns out everything else.
Where is Ezra?
9
The guards’ hands dig into my arms as they drag me through Halcyon Hall’s labyrinthine corridors, their fingers leaving bruises on skin accustomed to silk shirts and gentle touches.
Lorenzo Vescari continues to protest, his accent thickening with each indignant syllable, but beneath the performance, my heart races as fast as a trapped rabbit sensing the hunter’s approach.
