Celt. (Den of Mercenaries #2)(10)

But for her, he found himself saying, “Kyrnon Murphy.”

“Amber Lacey. Nice to meet you … again, Kyrnon.”

He liked the way she said his name. She wasn’t from New York, he knew that much from the almost slow drawl in which she spoke—probably the West coast though he hadn’t spent much time over there.

“I …”

“Amber,” a tiny woman with a pixie cut interrupted, smiling apologetically at the pair of them. “Elliot needs you for a moment.”

Kyrnon looked to Amber as she looked to him, her lips parting as she prepared to say something, but he beat her to it. “I’ll be around.”

Nodding once, she disappeared with the girl, leaving him to watch after her, and the way her arse swayed in that dress.

For as long as he could remember, Kyrnon had been an arse man.

Once she was gone out of view, he continued his walk through, making note of the few laser projectors in the ceiling around certain, more expensive pieces. But in a glance, he could easily see that while what hung on the walls was decent enough, they still lacked in comparison to L’amant Flétrie.

This didn’t seem like the kind of place someone like Elias would have the Kingmaker’s painting displayed. Most black market dealings were in more secluded locations, where they could more readily control the traffic, and were able to have people killed if needed.

But for whatever reason, Gabriel and Elliot had made contact.

Kyrnon still needed to find out why.





Chapter Three





For Amber, the last couple of days had been spent working on The Withered Lover, setting up the canvases, mixing the paint and getting everything as organized as she possibly could before she even picked up a paintbrush.

It was just her process.

Yesterday, she had finally been able to actually start, and the minute that first stroke of her brush fell over the canvas, she felt at home. All worries of her screwing up flew out the window as she let instinct guide her. Hours later, when she was finishing up for the night, she had looked back at the pair side by side, only seeing the barest trace of light gray on the canvas she was working on.

To anyone else, it might have looked like nothing, but to her, she could see what it would become, and what would ultimately complete it.

Tonight, though, she had only been able to work on it until four in the afternoon when one of Gabriel’s movers—as Elliot liked to call them—came to retrieve L’amant Flétrie for the day.

The painting was never kept in the studio, removed whenever she was done working and brought back in whenever she came in.

Amber didn’t understand the need for it all, especially if no one knew where it was. It just seemed like too much hassle having to take it from one place to another each day, but then again, she didn’t really know the owner of it, so she couldn’t say whether he was just that paranoid, or the precaution was needed.

She would have worked longer had Elliot not been holding a showing, this one displaying a sculpture on loan from a wealthy family in Manhattan.

But in the course of her work, she had forgotten all about the showing, and realized belatedly that she wouldn’t have time to get home, change, and be back in time for the event. Luckily, Tabitha’s, apartment was across the street from Cedar, and she was more than willing to let Amber raid her wardrobe for something to wear.

“You should wear this one,” Tabitha had said from her spot at the vanity, carefully winging her eyeliner, even as she pointed to the dress she was speaking of, still wrapped in plastic from whatever store she had bought it from.

Though she wasn’t independently wealthy—the wealth was her father’s after all—Amber wasn’t a stranger to designer clothing, but that didn’t mean she was willing to shell out thousands of dollars on a dress she might only wear once. It was all about comfort for her—jeans and shirts over dresses any day—but when she was on the floor, Elliot had the final say in what they wore.

And his standards were high.

Once she was dressed, makeup applied, and jewelry on, Amber fussed with her hair, manipulating it the way she liked. Having been blessed—or cursed, depending on the day—with extremely curly hair, it had taken trial and error to learn how best to tame it, though even on the best of days, it still had a mind of its own.

That was the thing about naturally curly hair, it did what it wanted whether you liked it or not.

Tonight, though, it worked in her favor.

By the time she and Tabitha made it back over to Cedar, the wait staff was readying trays of food, lining up glasses on the front table filled with champagne. Slowly, over the next hour, people began filtering in until there was a steady crowd of people.

Though the showing had started at seven, and it was now going on eight-thirty, Amber was already a jittery mess, even with the flute of champagne in her hand. It wasn’t just because of how tired she was—though she could no longer say she felt that way—and it wasn’t because this was anything new for her.

But, because of the man she was talking with just before Tabitha had pulled her away.

Kyrnon, he said his name was, and even if she wanted to, she couldn’t have forgotten him—the stranger on the train.

Since the last time she saw him, he had cleaned up a little. His hair was freshly cut, his beard trimmed slightly, but she couldn’t have mistaken those green eyes of his, or the laugh lines in the corners of them. And though she wore heels, he still stood several inches taller.