Page 26 of Eternal Surrender

He waved off Zachary. “What kind?”

“Financial.” I winked at Zachary.

He sped up toward the elevator.

“Did you find Paradom?”

Inwardly, I cringed that I had alerted him to what I was up to in London. Clearly Marcus had been following me. Entering his lair was a risk, but rescuing Ingrid came first. And letting him see I wasn’t afraid of him, that was intentional.

“Orpheus asked me to deal with your problem,” I said.

“Not sure we need your help,” Marcus said coldly.

“If you handle this wrong you’ll have Scotland Yard all over Belshazzar’s.”

“I find it odd that I met you just hours ago and now you’ve turned up here.”

“Stranger things have happened,” I said.

“Like what?” he asked.

“The way your barman makes Bloody Marys. He’s adding two shots of vodka. Now, by my calculation he’s wasting your money to make his drinks taste better. And if you do the math over a year⁠—”

“What is that?” He saw the necktie I was holding.

“It belongs to Sergeant Blake, Ingrid’s colleague. He’s in a Rover outside, waiting for her. I removed it from his neck without him noticing. It’s a party trick of mine.”

“You’re a fucking accountant.”

“I have other skills.” I tucked the tie into my pocket.

“I don’t trust you, William. And I don’t like you.”

“Still.” I feigned I had no choice.

“Thanks for the offer.” Marcus gestured for me to get back into the lift. “I’m handling this just fine.”

“Orpheus gave me just one directive,” I said flatly. “If Belshazzar’s is ever under threat I’m to carry out his instructions.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

I motioned the obvious. “You told me Ingrid was threatening the club.” I strolled confidently passed him, ignoring the cell where I believed Ingrid was being held and headed right to the end of the corridor and straight into Orpheus’s office.

Marcus seethed from the doorway. “What the hell?”

I went straight for the 1745 oil painting by Francois Boucher hung behind the large oak office desk. Boucher’s masterpiece Brown Odalisque elegantly portrayed a young woman reclining forward on a generous blue duvet, her sensuous gaze staring confidently at the onlooker and inviting him into the frame.

I glanced back at Marcus. “Admit you’re intrigued?”

“Arrogant fuck,” he snapped. “Touch nothing.”

“You bought this Francois Boucher for Orpheus.” Lifting the portrait off its hook, I revealed the safe hidden behind and rested the painting against the wall. “One of his favorites.”

He shrugged it off, but I could see it bothered him.

“I’m proving. . .” I turned away from him, “that I work for Orpheus.” I manipulated the mechanism and breathed a sigh of relief that the combination worked. “Only you and Orpheus have access, correct?”

Marcus squinted my way.