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I bit the inside of my cheek to stop from laughing.
Ilse nodded. “Of course. This way.”
For the next thirty minutes, we went through the same farce, and Dasselaar never appeared. We were near the rear of the gallery, looking at sculptures, when Jack nodded toward a concealed hallway. I tipped my head, acknowledging that I’d seen it.
“Ilse, what’s back there?”
She seemed shocked by the question for a moment but recovered smoothly. “A private collection for serious art investors.”
“We are serious investors.” I hunted through the thousands of hours of art history I’d listened to in my lifetime and pulled out a few names. Turning to Jack, I said, “I was really hoping tobring home something to complement the O’Keefe in your study, don’t you think?”
Jack’s lips twitched, but Ilse spoke before he could. “Which O’Keefe do you own?”
“Red Hills.”
Ilse’s mouth dropped open, then closed quickly. “That sold for over twelve million dollars at auction.”
I nodded. “I had to have it. As I said, I’m a serious investor. I was told this gallery catered to serious investors. If I’m mistaken, we’ll be on our way.”
“No.” Ilse looked over her shoulder. “Usually, the private collection is only shown by appointment, but Mr. Dasselaar is here today. Please wait for just a moment.”
Ilse hurried away, and Jack beamed at me. “For someone who claims to know nothing about art, you sure pulled that out of your ass.”
I shrugged. “Quin did a major project about Georgia O’Keefe when we were in high school. This was the only painting I remembered that wasn’t a flower.”
“How did you know it was sold at auction?”
“I didn’t. That was total luck.”
“Well played, sweetheart.”
Ilse’s heels gave away her return. “Gentlemen, you are in luck. Mr. Dasselaar’s morning appointment had to cancel, so he has time and is willing to personally walk you through the private collection. Please follow me.”
“Ilse, is there a restroom I could use?” Jack asked.
She nodded. “Of course. Just down the hall there.” She gestured to a hallway on the other side of the gallery.
Jack kissed my cheek. “Going to poke around while you’re with Dasselaar.”
I squeezed his hand, letting him know I understood.
“Shall we wait for your husband?”
“No, that’s all right. He doesn’t have my eye. He can join us when he’s done.”
“Certainly.” She turned and led me down the hall, which let out into a room almost as large as the gallery space up front.
Dasselaar had his back to the hall, speaking to someone I couldn’t see beyond his bulk, and I only caught the very end of a whispered threat.
“You will do as I say when I say. Or else.”
Ilse cleared her throat, and Dasselaar turned around. For a second, his face was a mask of anger, but the second he saw me, dollar signs replaced the rage, and he approached with his hand outstretched.
“Stefan Dasselaar. Ilse says you are a serious collector.” Dasselaar was a badger shifter, and his animal form was evident in his features. Sharp, intense eyes took me in, obviously assessing my value. His dark hair was liberally streaked with gray and white at the front, and his body was stocky, with a robust and vaguely muscular frame. He had a strong jawline and prominent nose with a slight downward curve reminiscent of his badger’s snout. In a word, he was imposing.
“Calvin Smith. Yes. Very.”
“I understand you own an O’Keefe.” His voice was deep with a strangely reedy quality.
