“What?”
“More shit you won’t do anything with but spend a lot of money on?” he replied before rudely tossing it into the open car door.
“You’re always so negative.”
“I’m a realist. And you’re a hoarder.”
“I am not a hoarder.” She glanced away before adding, “I just like pretty things. Just be glad I purchased it and I’m not running down the street with Gucci security chasing behind me.”
“You mean like last time?”
“That was not Gucci . . . that was Harry Winston and I was just keeping my skills on point. Now stay here,” she continued. “I just have to go check a building about a block away. After that we’ll be—”
“Really?” he cut in . . . with that tone. “You have to do this right now?”
Neil Jeffers had been her bodyguard, driver, assistant, and friend since they’d met all those years ago when they were both way too young to be doing what they were doing. But it had bonded them. Like war buddies, except Neil was still a feline; which meant he was “dick-y” on principle. Just to irritate her.
“Patrice wants me to take a look. It’ll take five min—”
“Twenty. It’ll take twenty minutes. And I thought Patrice was on vacation.”
“She is, but she never stops working. We both know that. And once I get this done, we can go.” When he rolled his eyes, “What? What?”
“Nothing. Go, go. Keep everyone waiting, like no one has anything better to do but wait for you.”
“Why the feline sarcasm?”
“There’s no sarcasm. We all just looooooove waiting on you. It’s the most amazing part of our day.”
“Sarcasm,” she accused before turning away from him and heading down the street until she reached the empty storefront her Realtor, Patrice, had texted her about.
Patrice often found Tracey the best locations for her galleries, no matter what country they were in. They’d worked together since the ’90s, when Patrice had located that burnt-out building in the Bronx for Tracey’s first show of local young artists. Most of them were people of color with strong political opinions that they clearly expressed in their work. The event was a huge success, bringing in some very wealthy, pretentious art investors and critics as well as people Tracey actually wanted to impress. But then the NYPD showed up and it turned into a horrible riot . . .
Okay. Maybe she caused the riot. But the cops had made her mad.
In the end, though, that little felony on her record didn’t stop her career. In fact, over the last three decades, she’d gone from edgy, rebel art procurer to ruling establishment art procurer.
At this moment, she had galleries in Paris, Rome, Toledo, Manhattan, Los Angeles, S?o Paulo, Lagos, Johannesburg, and Sydney. She also handled private procurements for billionaires upon request. She was supposed to have opened a gallery in Hong Kong a few years back but she’d been banned from entering China since the late ’80s so . . . yeah . . . no gallery in Hong Kong. Or Tokyo. Or Seoul, for that matter. East Asia had pretty much banned her, but every couple of years she still attempted to make her way in. It wasn’t as if she didn’t bring a lot of money with her. But gee . . . you steal a few Ming Dynasty items by tunneling into a few unknown tombs with your claws and honey badger skills, and everybody gets mad at you! She was young! A teen! You’d think they’d let it go. Especially once she’d returned what she’d taken.
And yes, Tracey already had a gallery in London, but she’d always wanted to get her gallery onto Old Bond Street. A near-impossible task for an American like her, unless you knew someone who knew someone who knew someone who had connections with Buckingham Palace.
A place she’d also been banned from entering since the late ’80s.
Her reputation with Parliament wasn’t much better, but at least they hadn’t cut her off like the Crown. Because who knew when they’d need her and her sunny disposition to help out MI6 again? Not that they’d asked for that help, but she’d given it willingly anyway. Whether they’d wanted it or not.
Tracey knocked on the big wooden door. When no one answered, she pulled on the wooden handle. The door silently opened and she stepped inside.
“Hello?” she called out. “Anyone here?”
She stepped farther in, her attention focused on the building’s layout. Walls would have to be knocked down as this had been a clothing store previously. But the high ceilings were great, and she loved the natural light that . . .
Tracey’s nose twitched as a very specific scent hit her . . . offensive on every level.
Hyenas. Fucking hyenas.
She hated when Neil was right. She should have gone right to her meetings instead. She didn’t even have her gun on her. She’d left it in the car so she could go into Gucci without problems. She’d forgotten to grab it before coming here.
She wasn’t surprised this was a setup. It wouldn’t be the first time she’d been ambushed. Or the fifteenth time. But she was surprised when the hyena who emerged from the shadows wasn’t a Romanian female with muscles the size of cantaloupes. Tracey had taken a Matisse right out from under the talentless bitch and she knew it was an affront that would not go unchallenged.
This, however . . . she never saw coming.
“Freja?” she asked. It had been years since she’d seen the mean She-beast. “Freja Galendotter?”
The hyena smiled. “Hello, Tracey.”
More hyenas moved in from the shadows she’d so appreciated when she’d first walked in. They surrounded Tracey but kept their distance. Because they were all male. Not a female hyena among them except Freja. And she knew why.
“That’s right.” Tracey couldn’t control her wide grin. “I’d heard my niece kicked your ass. Tore your entire Clan apart with the help of a few lion males.” She kissed her fingers like a French chef. “Sensational.”
Freja’s expression hardened into one full of rage and hatred. Not so much for Tracey—they really didn’t know each other well, despite years of threats between them—but for Mads, the daughter Freja hated because she hadn’t turned out to be some super beast. A combination of hyena and Tracey’s idiot brother had produced what most mixes with badger produced: a regular ol’ honey badger. Just like her father. Honey badger genes always ruled supreme when it came to shifters. None of those coydogs or ligers or bear-cats. No matter what you or your family was, if you mated with a honey badger . . . you got a honey badger. And the Galendotters never let her poor niece forget it.
Tracey’s mom had offered to take the poor kid into the family, but Freja was such a vindictive sociopath that she refused. She kept the kid she hated just so she could make Tracey’s brother miserable. Because he hadn’t given her what she wanted: some freakish child she could use to torment her enemies.
Freja also made it clear that if any of the Rutowskis attempted to take the kid, she’d kill Mads herself. Cut her throat right in front of them. At the time, Tracey believed that threat. Why? Because Freja’s own mother and the females of that clan would do whatever they were ordered. If that meant killing a kid, they would do it. Without even a question.