The face could be a mirror, with the exception of Kira’s forehead scar and the length and style of hair. But none of that was what had her heart racing. No.

The reason her hand trembled and she felt dizzy was this wasn’t an old work, an unsigned self-portrait painted when her mother was Alesya Ivanova Kulika.

No. This was painted by Anna Hanson five years ago.

Kira knew because she had posed for it. The painting was her, not her mother.

“How much do you want for it?” she asked Grigory.

“It is not for sale.”

“I’ll accept it as a gift, then.”

“Marry Aleksandr and it’s yours.”

Bile crawled up her throat. “I thought you wanted me for yourself.”

“I considered it, but I prefer Juliette’s company, and I don’t think she would be content to be my mistress if I married you.”

“How charming that I have no say. At least you considered her feelings.”

Juliette had left for her art studio when Aleksandr was introduced to the party. She’d said she was feeling creative and wanted to work, but Kira guessed the woman wanted to be away from Grigory’s son, who hadn’t bothered to hide his disdain for his father’s mistress.

Aleksandr had left right after running off Juliette. Now it was just Kira and Grigory in a room that could easily be part of an art museum.

“When did you get this?” she asked.

“Luka sold it to me a year—maybe two—ago.”

He was lying. A year ago, it had hung in the bedroom of her DC apartment. The last time she’d seen it was early February, when she met with the movers who’d packed her apartment and moved most of her belongings to her father’s basement.

Conrad had been in the hospital at the time, and she hadn’t known how long she’d be staying in his house, so the personal belongings that she didn’t need on a daily basis had all been packed for long-term storage.

When had it been stolen?

She had to admit, it was the perfect piece to remove. She’d have noticed immediately if one of her mother’s self-portraits had been taken. They were merely wrapped in sheets and propped in a corner. She didn’t even know if this painting had its own box or if it had been packed with other items.

Should she call out the lie? Did Grigory know where this painting had really come from? Did he know it was of Kira herself, not her mother?

She tilted the pendant with the camera so it would capture the image in HD clarity. The motion would look natural, touching the silver pendant that was so vividly reproduced in the portrait.

No one, not even Freya, had seen the portraits in the basement, so people viewing it for the first time wouldn’t pick up on the very subtle differences between mother and daughter. Kira’s jaw was slightly wider. Her nose a tad snub. Oh, how she’d envied her mother’s button nose when she was growing up.

She spoke to her image as she held the pendant, her words as much for those watching via camera as for Laskin. “My mother gave me the pendant when I posed for this.”

“You posed for it?” Grigory’s surprise sounded genuine.

“Yes. About five years ago. She gave me the pendant—which she wore nearly every day up to that point—and told me the story of my father giving it to her when they were first courting.”

Given that the same pendant appeared in the portrait in Luka’s back hallway, she had to wonder which father her mother had been speaking about.

“Luka told me it was your mother.”

“He lied. As did you when you said you bought this a year or two ago. This had to have been stolen from my parents’ house sometime after early February.” She turned to face him. “What I don’t understand is why sell it to you?”

Grigory studied her, his gaze assessing. “I have long admired the works Luka has that were painted by your mother. I prefer her landscapes—her painting of St. Agatha’s Tower is, in my opinion, her best work. Dark. Evocative. I would imagine you have a stockpile of brilliant pieces in your basement.”

Kira was jealous of this man who had seen paintings by her mother that she’d never gotten to view. “She was brilliant, but she mostly limited her art to portraits in the US.”

“A shame.” He returned his gaze to Kira’s portrait. “I asked many times to purchase the Red Tower piece. Luka kept it, with so many of her other works, in storage. A waste. But he always refused. Then, a few months ago, he offered to sell me this one. I agreed, hoping it meant he would come around on the others.” His gaze went from Kira to the portrait. “I wonder if Luka even realized it was you? Would he have sold it to me if he knew?”

“Well, he’s interested in selling me to you, so I suppose he would.”

“Huh. Yes. I suppose that is so.”

“I have zero interest in your son and am not for sale.”

“But think of all you’ll gain. You’ll have everything you could ever dream and an EU passport for unrestricted travel.”

“I’m supposed to give up my life and freedom for a passport? No, thank you.” The irony that months ago, getting a passport was her fondest dream. Now she had one and could well lose it along with her American citizenship, but still would never consider this ridiculous offer.

“You can keep your boy toy. As long as you give Aleksandr an heir, he won’t care what you do.”

“I’m sure my boy toy would be thrilled with that arrangement.”

She wanted to leave this house. This island. Even this country. But she had to tolerate this. She was the reason Rand was able to be here, working in the office, hacking the network.

If she flounced off, Rand would be booted.

He’d only been at it about forty minutes. They figured he’d need at least two hours.

Laskin didn’t believe there was absolutely nothing he could offer her to make marrying his son appealing, but to buy Rand time, he needed to think she was invested in this game, even if it was only to hear the terms or negotiate a surrender.

She had an idea that could give Rand at least an hour, probably more, and maybe she’d get more answers. She was certain Reuben and Grigory were working together. She rolled her shoulders, bracing herself for the next step needed. At least it wouldn’t require spending time with Aleksandr.

“Listen, I’m sick of this. I will not marry Aleksandr no matter how much you pay me. Everyone involved seems to forget that you have nothing to offer me that I want. Even that painting”—she jerked her thumb behind her, toward the portrait—“already belongs to me. I can prove it was stolen.”

“Good luck getting Interpol to take it from me.”

She would steal it back herself, then.

“Call Reuben. Make him come here. We need to talk and call off this farce.”

She had little doubt Reuben would come. Waiting for him should buy Rand lots of time.

“Why not go to his villa?”

“Several reasons. First, we need neutral ground, which their villa is decidedly not. Second, it creeps me out. My memories are vague, and everything about the place is unsettling. Third, I don’t want to see Luka. I don’t trust him. Don’t remember him except fearing him. But I remember Reuben. He was a good brother.”