Safe at Last (Slow Burn #3)

He was also a get-to-the-point kind of guy and not keen on wasting time on bullshit and pleasantries, something Zack appreciated and also had in common with Dane.

“What can DSS do for you, Mr. Sterling? I understand you want a full security detail for an upcoming exhibit in a week’s time. That doesn’t give us much time to prepare so we need to know exactly what you expect from us and what our duties will be. You want the best and that’s what you’re going to get. But you can’t expect the best if we don’t have all information and any potential liabilities exposed and assessed.”

Sterling sized up Dane quickly, fleeting respect flickering in his eyes. Zack suspected this man didn’t offer his respect often, nor did Zack suspect he needed to. He was a man who commanded it.

“I imagine this will be a routine matter for a firm of your reputation,” Sterling said, revealing that he’d at least done his homework. “No expected threats. I merely want a presence, a subtle presence, to ensure that all goes smoothly. This is an important event for this gallery and the artist. It will be a debut showing and I’ve put a lot of money into publicity and marketing. There will be much curiosity, as I’ve been very vague about the identity of the artist.”

Eliza’s eyebrow arched, but she remained silent, studying Sterling intently.

“I expect a certain dress code, which I assume won’t be a problem,” Sterling began.

Zack could almost hear the mental collective groans going up from everyone except Dane, who was no stranger to looking the part of a wealthy art patron.

Sterling had opened his mouth to continue when the sharp tap of heels alerted them to Cheryl’s presence as she hurried up to them, carrying a large, unwrapped canvas, excitement clear on her face.

“I’m so sorry to interrupt, Mr. Sterling, but I knew you’d want to see this right away. The last piece was just couriered over. Shall I place it where we discussed?”

Everyone’s gaze swept curiously to the source of her obvious enthusiasm.

When Zack looked, all the breath left his body, crushing his chest as his world tilted on its axis.

Voices sounded around him. Sterling was speaking with his assistant. But Zack was utterly numb. He stared at a scene so perfectly rendered, a scene that took him back to another time and place. A place he’d once shared with Gracie.

Exactly as it had existed when he and Gracie had spent so much time under the awning of those tree branches, nestled in the roots, Gracie wrapped securely in his arms, Zack a barrier between her and the rest of the world.

And the woman in the painting?

Even with her back turned, he’d know her anywhere.

This wasn’t a current depiction of that spot. Too much time had elapsed for it to remain unchanged. The parts along the lake owned by a paper company had been sold off years ago, and now, where it had mostly been untouched forest, it would be developed, trees gone, the landscape irrevocably changed by housing subdivisions.

His vision blurred, eyes stung, and the two initials acting as the artist’s signature wobbled into view. A simple A.G.

Anna-Grace. His Gracie. Dear God, she was alive?

But if she was alive. Well. Painting, even. Then why the hell had she disappeared and why had she never made an effort to contact him?

The painting meant something to the artist. It was evident in every brushstroke. Emotion jumped off the canvas and grabbed the person viewing it by the throat. He was besieged by nostalgia, knowledge of a time when everything was new, innocent, the world a vast opportunity in the making, life not to be survived but to be lived to the fullest, with every day savored.

But if he drew the conclusion that the painting—the place depicted—held value to the artist, then wouldn’t it follow that he meant something to her? Because someone who cared about another person in that fashion didn’t simply vanish, never to be heard from again, unless some great tragedy had occurred. And if he did in fact hold any memory or feeling to her, then why the fuck wouldn’t she have made a minimal effort to alleviate the nightmares he’d been victim to for more than a decade?

Then his gaze fell on the title of the painting and his heart began to pound even harder.

Lost Dreams.

It was certainly a depiction of that. For him. But what would have caused her to give it such a title?

There was an inherent sadness to the drawing, as if the memory indeed was painful, a depiction of lost hope, and as the painting was titled, lost dreams.

Even the silhouette of the girl facing the lake seemed lonely and barren somehow.

Unwanted tears burned the edges of his eyes and he was besieged by a sense of sorrow. The painting didn’t suggest that she had willingly parted ways with him and instead suggested regret . . . grief over the past.

“Zack?”

His name registered sharply and he shook himself to awareness to see the entire group staring at him, an array of expressions on their faces.