“I really have no idea. Maybe…?”
Ugh. I place my forehead in my palm. Damn it, damn it, damn it. “Okay. Thanks, Catherine.”
“My pleasure. Look, if you want something along the same lines as Wife, I can make a few recommendations.”
I’m sure. She’s plugged in to the art scene. But Salazar wants Wife, not some other similar sculpture. “Thank you,” I say. “I might take you up on that, but let me contact Dane first.”
“Good luck.” Her voice is full of pity and sympathy, as though she knows I’m about to embark on a hopeless task.
And she’s right. I might as well try to pry a seal out of a starving polar bear’s clutches. But I’m not giving up. Girding my loins, I call the iciclehog…er…Dane. As Salazar’s assistant, I’m one of the few people with his personal cell phone number.
“So. You’re going to honor the bet?” Dane asks.
Hi, Kim, how are you? Why, I’m doing great, Dane, how about you? “Hello, Dane. And no, that’s between you and Salazar. Nobody consulted me.”
“He’s your boss.” Dane’s voice is cool and flat, like he’s stating something as obvious and mundane as the fact that air is invisible. “He doesn’t need your permission.”
“I’m not some carcass to be tossed around between two snarling animals,” I grumble under my breath, but not too loudly, since I need something from him.
“Didn’t catch that.”
I’m not going to debate my agency with a man who thinks everyone should kiss his ass. “I’m calling about a sculpture you bought called Wife.”
“What about it?”
Can he sound any meaner? What does Sophia see in him? Surely money can’t possibly make up for his gross deficiency in human decency. “Can I buy it from you?”
“No.”
The answer is immediate and cold. Although I expected it, it still annoys me. “Why not? Did you buy it for Sophia? I can recommend something better.” I’m sure Catherine knows some good stuff.
“I’m planning to give it to Wyatt,” Dane says.
Huh? Did he just say what I think he said? “You’re giving Wife to Wyatt?”
“Yes.”
“But…why?” That’s a pretty messed-up thing for a hetero guy—with a wife!—to give another man… Isn’t it?
“A housewarming gift.”
I pull my phone away and stare at it. If I didn’t know any better, I might’ve thought Dane had a crush on Wyatt, but no way. Dane loves his wife enough to drive a pink car. “A housewarming gift,” I repeat.
“Yes.”
He doesn’t explain. Figures.
“Thanks,” I say, more out of habit than politeness, then hang up.
This isn’t exactly what I expected, but the end result is the same. The statue is not available. When Dane makes up his mind about something, nothing can dissuade him. Well, Sophia might, but I don’t know her well enough to ask. Besides, if he thought I was bugging his wife, he might hire a hit man. Not the incompetent kind Jo hired, but a really good one, like a former CIA agent or something.
But whatever Dane feels about his wife or Wyatt isn’t my main problem. My main issue, contrary and weird as it is, is realizing that Wyatt fucking lied about moving in to the empty unit next to mine.
Fancy, artsy-fartsy statues like those created by François do not go into regular apartments. They belong in ostentatious mansions and penthouses, the kind that you see featured in glossy magazines for the rich and the famous. Or maybe some slick architectural digest on the latest trends in multimillion-dollar homes.
Obviously Wyatt was just screwing with me, just like he did in high school. There’s a reason he’s divorced. Not even a barracuda like Geneva could put up with him anymore. And I’m not at all bothered that he’s still a dick. Not even a little.
Maybe I can tell Salazar there’s something much, much better than Wife that’s available. If I can convince him of that, I won’t have to bother with François, and I’ll still get the bonus.