Page 6 of Crash Course
The manaffectedher.
And that wascompletelyannoying.
Cilla popped her eyes open and swung her head right. where a man unlocked the gallery’s front door.
As galleries went, it wasn’t the worst she’d seen. A storefront a few blocks west of Broadway, it sat nestled between a clothing boutique and a home interior design shop. Why her father had agreed to this loan, she had no idea and didn’t care to ask since he’d more than likely take it as her questioning his judgment.Heaven forbid!She’d learned at a very young age some battles weren’t worth fighting. Not with him, anyway.
Cilla peered back at Phin. "We ready?"
"Let’s do it."
Wanting her hands free, Cilla tucked her purse behind the driver's seat so no one would see it through the darkened rear windows. She slid the loan agreement and one of her business cards from the outer pocket of her briefcase and stepped from the vehicle. She paused for a few seconds, stalling to adjust her blazer sleeves while she concentrated on the task ahead. Then she lifted her head to find Cruz, head cocked, lips slightly pursed, studying her with a sort of detached fascination.
She jerked her head once. "Watch me work."
"I look forward to it. We’ll follow your lead."
He hustled ahead of her and swung the front door open. She strode by with Phin on her heels.
A guy, maybe late twenties, dressed in one of those ankle-length suits she detested on men, gave her a once-over, taking in her Gucci shoes and black Valentino trousers. A low-key ensemble that screamed money and the ability to spend it on ridiculously expensive art.
This poor guy probably figured a sale might be in his not-so-distant future.
He offered a too-bright smile. "Welcome in! How may I help you?"
Cilla kept moving, her strides quick as she scanned the various art lining the walls.Bingo.She pointed at the Banksy. "That’s it." She kept walking, her gaze on the kid. "Is Greg here?"
The loan agreement supplied by her father listed a Greg Adams as the soon-to-be-annihilated-by-Cilla owner.
The sales guy shifted his gaze to Phin, then to Cruz, who looked like King Kong compared to this kid.
"May I tell him who’s asking?"
"Priscilla Randolph."
A scraping noise sounded and she swung back to Cruz, already moving the rope stands that kept patrons from getting too close to the art.
"Hey," the kid said. "You can’t do that."
Cilla whipped back and shot a hand up. "My father owns that painting. We’re here to collect it."
For a few seconds, the kid stood there, his face a mix of slack-jawed confusion and panic. "Greg!" he shouted. "Come quick!"
A man, likely Greg, stuck his head out of a doorway at the back half of the space. "What’s wrong?"
Cilla flapped the folded agreement in the air. "Are you Greg?"
"Who are you?"
"Priscilla Randolph. I’m an attorney here to collect the painting you were supposed to return to my father, Darren Randolph, three weeks ago."
Greg’s focus wandered beyond her shoulder. "Don’t touch that! The alarm will go off."
Cilla turned, found Cruz stepping toward the painting. "Ask me if I care?"
Hustling straight past her, Greg charged, knocking her sideways and sending her rocking on her spiked heels. Bastard.
"Whoa."
