Page 7 of Crash Course
Feet from her, Cruz broke away from Phin and the painting and rushed toward her, grabbing hold of her arm before she face-planted. He shoved his free hand into Greg’s chest.
"Easy there, guy," he said. "Don’t do anything stupid. We’re here for the painting. That’s it." He swung his head to her. "You okay?"
Oh, she liked him.
"I’m good."
"Excellent." He let go of her and went back to Greg. "We’re taking this painting whether or not you disarm the system."
"Touch it and the police will show up."
Cruz gave Phin a bored look. "You believe this?" He went back to Greg. "Dude. The cops showing up isn’t our problem.You’rethe one violating the contract." He faced Cilla and held his out. "Give me that agreement?"
She smacked it into his hand. "This painting should have been returned three weeks ago. Mr. Randolph wants his shit back.Today. We’re happy to show the cops the paperwork."
"Which," Cilla said, "I’m not sure you want to happen, considering you’re currently illegally in possession of a ten-million-dollar piece of art."
"You know," Cruz mused, "I gotta wonder what otherborrowedart is here. Maybe we should have the cops take a look."
Cilla tsk-tsked. "Art crimeisquite prevalent these days."
"It is," Phin added helpfully. "Ask my girlfriend, the art expert. Or my brother, the FBI agent specializing in art crime."
Greg’s face pinched tight, his skin flushing to a deep red bordering on purple. Rage. Cilla had seen it hundreds, if not thousands, of times on her dad and it ignited something in her. Something wild and primitive and . . . angry.
Wasn’t this why she’d become an attorney? To fight back. To put bullies in their place?
She stepped closer to Greg. "Phin, pull that painting. Let the police come."
The blazing color faded from Greg’s cheeks and he retreated. Literally taking two steps back and putting his hands up. "Y’all need to leave."
"Not without this painting, we don’t." She slid her phone from her pocket. "In fact, I rather like the idea of bringing the police into it. I’ll call and explain why the alarm is going off."
"Not a bad idea," Cruz agreed. "Just so we’re on the up-and-up."
She made a show of tapping at her phone, but not actually calling. The last thing she wanted was to waste three hours while the cops investigated.
"Wait," Greg said. "Everyone, please, relax. I intended to call your father today."
"I'm sure."Sarcasm dripped like molasses. "Since he’s called you twice a day for the last three weeks?"
"I’ve been busy."
"Apparently so. I’ll say this, it takes a brave—or stupid—soul to risk Darren Randolph’s wrath. He’ll ruin you." She went back to her phone pretending to search for the number. "Here we go."
She tapped the screen one final time and lifted the phone to her ear, the entire episode a charade she hoped he didn’t call her bluff on.
"Wait!"
Folded like a house of cards.
Satisfaction flooded her. An absolute surge of energy shooting from her core and lighting her body up. She’d felt it before with every not-guilty verdict.
She loved—worshipped—that feeling.
This must be what her father felt, his drug of choice so to speak, each time he’d beaten someone into submission.
Ugh. Why, why, why did she drawthatcomparison? Did that mean . . . no.
