“The man’s got talent,” he said. “Go ahead. Open it.”
I did, then gasped when I saw the image on the canvas—the image of me. This one was different from the one that hung in the gallery, and I hadn’t seen it in his studio. I was naked, my back facing the viewer, my hands flat against a red wall. My legs were spread just a bit, not so much as to be obscene, but enough to be suggestive. And there was no mistaking my tattoo. For that matter, anyone who might not be able to read it could easily pick the words up from the delicate script on the wall. Ad Astra. To the stars.
“It’s amazing,” I said sincerely. “Stunning and provocative. How on earth did you do this so quickly? I mean, when did you find the time?”
“It’s not new. I painted it last year.” He met my eyes, smiling slightly when he saw my obvious surprise. “It’s been hanging in my office at Destiny. I thought it was better suited for here.”
“A year? But—” I glanced back at the portrait, my throat suddenly tight with tears. “We wasted a lot of time, Cole.”
He came to me, then drew me into his arms. “Then we’ll have to be sure not to waste any more.”
For a moment, he just held me. Then he kissed the top of my head. “I want you to open the other one, too, but first I have some news. The land deal’s done, deeds filed, property away from Ilya Muratti’s hot little hands and into the coffers of the newly formed Casino Building and Investment Trust, of which Damien Stark is the primary shareholder and I am the president and secondary investor.”
“And Damien doesn’t mind going head-to-head with Muratti?”
“We’re not. We didn’t double-cross him, didn’t steal the property out from under him. We bought it in an arm’s-length transaction from a seller who had been reluctant to sell to Muratti.”
He took my hand, then lifted it to his lips and kissed it. “As an added precaution, Damien asked his attorney to call Michael Muratti, Ilya’s son. Stark has a lot of connections, so it was easy for him to say that he heard through the grapevine that Ilya’s plan to forge the will fell through—not in so many words, of course—and to ask if there was going to be blowback. Because if there was, Damien might want to unload the property.”
“And?”
“Michael’s not remotely interested in playing the revenge game. They lost the property, we acquired it. End of story. And he’s taking his father back to Italy for a family reunion. He’s hoping to convince the old man to retire there. I want to keep your dad cocooned in The Drake for a few more weeks—at least until Muratti’s out of the country—but I think this thing is about to blow over.”
“Blow over?” I repeated. “To the tune of millions of dollars. Damien must have put in a fortune. For that matter, you must have, too. Good god,” I said, as that truth settled fully over me for the first time. “I can’t believe you did that for me. For my father.”
“First of all, I would do anything for you. Second of all, neither Damien Stark nor I are in the habit of throwing money out the window. The price was high, yes. But the land is prime. To be honest, I expect that your father’s poor judgment is going to end up adding another several million to my portfolio.”
“Oh.” I nodded. “I’m still not crazy about you guys taking such a risk, but that makes it better. Here’s to you two getting even more stinking rich,” I said, then held up an imaginary glass to toast.
He clinked an imaginary glass right back at me, then handed me the second present. It was a solid rectangle wrapped in pretty pink paper, and when I shook it I heard absolutely nothing.
“I don’t have a clue,” I said.
“Then I guess you have to open it.”
I did, carefully at first, but then losing patience and ripping the paper right off.