Chapter 2 - Blood on the Museum Floor
The Calder Museum was drenched in golden light and old Boston money when our limousine pulled up to the marble steps.
I wore an emerald backless gown that clung to my waist, my dark hair pinned up with vintage sapphire combs Charlotte had sent to my dressing room.
The moment Graham stepped out of the vehicle, the paparazzi flashed their cameras in a blinding frenzy.
He offered me his arm, his fingers warm and steady against my bare skin.
"Breathe, Audrey," Graham whispered against my ear as we ascended the stairs. "You look like you're walking toward a firing squad."
"With your family, aren't I?" I shot back quietly under my breath.
A ghost of an amused smirk touched his lips before he slipped back into his ruthless public persona.
Inside the grand ballroom, Everett Vale was holding court beside an ice sculpture of a soaring hawk.
Everett was fifty-five, sharp-featured, and carried the bitter stench of a man who believed he had been cheated out of his birthright.
The moment his predatory eyes landed on us, he separated himself from his associates and strode across the floor.
"Nephew," Everett said smoothly, his eyes sliding over me with lingering insolence. "And the lovely little auditor from Cambridge."
"Audrey is my wife, Everett," Graham said, his voice dropping into a deadly, quiet register that made the surrounding guests step back. "Address her with respect, or leave the room."
Everett laughed, a dry, venomous sound.
"Of course. Still playing house with the daughter of the man who crushed Miles under six tons of faulty scaffolding?"
I felt the air freeze in my lungs.
Beside me, the muscles in Graham's arm coiled like steel cables, ready to strike.
"That was an industrial accident, Everett," I said, stepping forward before Graham could lose control in front of two hundred witnesses. "And an independent forensic review cleared my father's inspection logs three years ago."
Everett's smirk vanished, replaced by an ugly flash of annoyance that a woman had dared cut him off.
"Careful, little girl," Everett warned, his voice barely above a whisper. "The paper trail isn't as clean as you think."
Before I could demand what he meant, Graham stepped between us, towering over his uncle with terrifying physical dominance.
"Speak to my wife again tonight, and they will drag you out of this museum in a garment bag," Graham said with absolute chilling certainty.
Everett backed away with a forced sneer, but I noticed the subtle hand gesture he gave to two men lingering near the gallery exit.
"We're leaving," Graham ordered, his hand gripping my wrist with sudden urgency.
"Graham, what did he mean about the paper trail?" I asked as he guided me through the crowd toward the side doors.
"Not here," he muttered, reaching beneath his tuxedo jacket toward his concealed holster.
May you like
Before we reached the foyer, the museum lights abruptly snapped off, plunging the immense hall into total darkness.
A sharp gunshot cracked through the darkness, shattering the massive crystal chandelier above our heads.
