The Billionaire's Passion Read Online Free Page B

could not find Carlson or Saunders, security chief Kucher called the police, who responded immediately.
    What the authorities found defied belief.
    In a secret room in the penthouse, police discovered a collection of paintings by some of the most famous artists in history. The one thing they had in common: every single one had been stolen over the last 30 years, and never recovered.  Works such as ‘View of the Sea at Scheveningen’ by Vincent van Gogh and ‘Le Pigeon Aux Petits Pois’ by Picasso hung on the walls. The combined worth of the paintings is estimated to exceed $1 billion.
    It is alleged that Carlson bought the paintings on the black market and stocked his own private art gallery with them. The extent of Eve Saunders’ involvement in the thefts is unknown, although it appears she is an accomplice in his getaway.
    Currently Carlson and Saunders’s location is unknown. They are both wanted for questioning in connection with the stolen artwork.
    “Oh no… no, no, no, no, NO,” Grant groans, his head in his hands.
    I just sit there, numb.
    First chased by a serial killer.
    Now chased by a serial killer AND the NYPD.
    Out of the frying pan, into the bonfire. With some gasoline thrown in for fun.

12
    I take it as a mark of Grant’s desperation that he turns on the television. With the volume waaaay down low, of course.
    Things are just as bad on TV.
    Every morning news show in New York – and most of them in the country – are covering it.
    Lots and lots of pictures of Grant, and the same cringeworthy photo of me from my company’s personnel files.
    There’s cell phone footage of us rappelling down the building.
    There’s eyewitness accounts from people who saw us on the sidewalk.
    There’s an interview with the cleaning lady from the 70th floor.
    Lots of stock footage of paintings by van Gogh and Picasso.
    Plenty of shots of the building’s exterior and lobby, but no footage of Grant’s apartment.
    And not a single interview with any of his security staff, either.
    “I need to call Jim,” Grant says as he stares at the TV.
    “Your security guy?”
    “Yeah.”
    “No. Unh-unh. Bad idea.”
    “I need to know some things.”
    “They’re all alive. You know that now.”
    “I need to know if any of them betrayed me.”
    “You’re not going to find that out from talking to them. It’s not like they’re going to say, ‘Oh, by the way, I sold you out.’”
    “What if he can give us clues on who the gunmen were?”
    I shake my head. “You really think Epicurus left that to chance? Even if we could find out their identities, they probably don’t have any idea who hired them.”
    “Then maybe they can tell us what he looks like.”
    “You yourself said that he wasn’t there.”
    “I could’ve been wrong.”
    “I doubt it. He was talking over speakers – he probably hacked into your home entertainment system through the main computer network.”
    “I have to know, Eve.”
    “But – ”
    “I hired you to help me.”
    His voice is an accusation, a command, a bitter rebuke.
    It stings. Like I’m the kitchen help or something, and not the woman he made love to just a few hours ago.
    WHY am I putting my neck on the line for this guy? I ask myself again, in a darker echo of my thoughts last night.
    And then his tone softens, as though he realizes he’s stepped over the line. “I need you to help me do this. Please. ”
    I can hear the pain and frustration in his voice. I sigh. “This is a bad, bad idea.”
    “Can you do it without them tracing our location?”
    “Probably… but it’s still a bad, bad idea.”
    “Do it anyway. Please.”
    I nod, and boot up the house computer in the den.

13
    Grant stands over me nervously. “What are you doing, again?”
    “I’m going through a deep web connection and filtering it through a – nevermind. I’m making it look like we’re in Mexico. That’s all you need to know.”
    “You sure it’s foolproof?”
    “Nothing’s foolproof,