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A thin man moved forward, studying the painting’s gilt frame with gloved hands. “It’s wired to an alarm.”
Blue Eyes, clearly the group’s leader, turned and aimed the gun at Gus’ barrel chest. “Disconnect it.”
“No,” the guard said belligerently.
“I’m not asking.”
Haven held up her hands. “Please—”
The gun fired. Gus dropped to one knee, pressing a hand to his shoulder.
“No!” she cried.
The leader stepped forward and pressed the gun to the older man’s head.
“No.” Haven fought back her fear and panic. “Don’t hurt him. I’ll disconnect it.”
Slowly, she inched toward the painting, carefully avoiding the thin man still standing close to it. She touched the security panel built in beside the frame, pressing her palm to the small pad.
A second later, there was a discreet beep.
Two other men came forward and grabbed the frame.
She glanced around at them. “You’re making a mistake. If you know who owns this museum, then you know you won’t get away with this.” Who would go up against the Norcross family? Easton, rich as sin, had a lot of connections, but his brother, Vander… Haven suppressed a shiver. Gia’s middle brother might be hot, but he scared the bejesus out of Haven.
Vander Norcross, former military badass, owned Norcross Security and Investigations. His team had put in the high-tech security for the museum.
No one in their right mind wanted to go up against Vander, or the third Norcross brother who also worked with Vander, or the rest of Vander’s team of badasses.
“Look, if you just—”
The blow to her head made her stagger. She blinked, pain radiating through her face. Blue Eyes had backhanded her.
He moved in and hit her again, and Haven cried out, clutching her face. It wasn’t the first time she’d been hit. Her douchebag ex had hit her once. That was the day she’d left him for good.
But this was worse. Way worse.
“Shut up, you stupid bitch.”
The next blow sent her to the floor. She thought she heard someone chuckle. He followed with a kick to her ribs, and Haven curled into a ball, a sob in her throat.
Her vision wavered and she blinked. Blue Eyes crouched down, putting his hand to the tiles right in front of her. Dizziness hit her, and she vaguely took in the freckles on the man’s hand. They formed a spiral pattern.
“No one talks back to me,” the man growled. “Especially a woman.” He moved away.
She saw the men were busy maneuvering the painting off the wall. It was easy for two people to move. She knew its exact dimensions—eighty by one hundred centimeters.
No one was paying any attention to her. Fighting through the nausea and dizziness, she dragged herself a few inches across the floor, closer to the nearby pillar. A pillar that had one of several hidden, high-tech panic buttons built into it.
When the men were turned away, she reached up and pressed the button.
Then blackness sucked her under.
* * *
Haven saton one of the lovely wooden benches she’d had installed around the museum. She’d wanted somewhere for guests to sit and take in the art.
She’d never expected to be sitting on one, holding a melting ice pack to her throbbing face, and staring at the empty wall where a multi-million-dollar masterpiece should be hanging. And she definitely didn’t expect to be doing it with police dusting black powder all over the museum’s walls.
