“I’m sorry József planned his party on Valentine’s Day. It’s not as big of a thing here as it is back home.”
Royce nibbled on Marc’s earlobe until the man shivered. “I can’t complain since I’ve had you to myself for nearly three days. And after the party, I’ll have you all to myself in the hotel room.”
“Sounds heavenly,” Marc said on a sigh.
“Then get dressed.” Royce pulled away and gave Marc a light slap on the ass. “The sooner we get to the party, the sooner I get can you back here and undressed.”
Marc started for the jacket hanging on the closet door but stopped halfway across the room. He bit his lip. “You might change your mind about that,” Marc said in a low voice.
A chill ran through Royce and his muscles tensed. Something was going on—it wasn’t normal for Marc to keep things from him. In the eight months they’d been together, they’d adhered to the rule of always being honest and forthcoming with each other. In fact, Royce had been anticipating Marc asking him to give up bodyguard work so that he didn’t have to worry about his safety when he was on a job.
“I had an ulterior motive for accepting József’s party invitation,” Marc admitted. Balling his hands into fists, he turned to face Royce, meeting his gaze so that Royce could see the worry in his eyes.
“I assumed it was to get the man as a regular client.”
Marc shook his head. “It’s the Alexander III Commemorative Fabergé egg.”
A heavy weight suddenly sank into Royce’s stomach. He didn’t know anything about the egg, but there was something hard and unyielding in Marc’s tone that sounded too similar to another piece of art they’d discussed almost a year ago. A piece they’d liberated from the previous owner and handed over to his mobster uncle before alerting the police to its location. Marc was all about locating stolen art and returning it to the proper owners.
“Why do I feel like you’re not trying to buy me an early birthday present?”
“The Alexander III Commemorative egg has been missing since the Bolshevik Revolution. It was a gift from Czar Nicholas II to his mother, the Dowager Empress Maria Feodorovna, and was kept with her at the Gatchina Palace, near Saint Petersburg. During the first World War, the Dowager Empress left with many of her prized art pieces. Court Official Alexander Polovtsov made note of two Fabergé eggs, but the Alexander III egg was never listed among those taken. The egg had a gold bust of her dead husband, Alexander, hidden inside. She wouldn’t have left it behind.”
Royce scratched the whiskers on his chin. “So you think this guy Polovtsov stole it?”
“Maybe. It’s known that he later sold the two Fabergé eggs on his list to a private collector when he emigrated to Paris. He may have stolen it or used it as a bribe to help get the Dowager Empress safely to Crimea during the revolution.”
“Then why this egg?”
“There are just a handful of Imperial eggs that are missing, but this is the only one the Russian government wants back. It wasn’t sold legally. It needs to be returned to its rightful home at the Gatchina Palace.”
“And let me guess…József has it.”
Marc nodded. “I’m sure of it. Among private collectors, he’s got the second-largest Fabergé collection. I helped him broker two other deals, and he’s asked me numerous times to locate the commemorative egg, regardless of the cost.” Marc sighed, propping his hands on his hips. “I always said no. I don’t do black market art deals for anyone.”
“But he got it anyway?”
“I think so. When he sent the party invitation, he included a handwritten note stating that he acquired a new piece he was dying to show me. The Fabergé egg is the only thing we’ve consistently discussed over the years.”
Royce dropped down on the edge of the bed and scrubbed a hand roughly over his face. “And exactly when were you planning to tell me about this?”
Marc winced. “Somewhere between now and when we got to the party.” He cringed like he was waiting for Royce to explode. “I’m sorry. I was afraid that you’d try to talk me out of it or refuse to come to Budapest with me if I told you. I know how worried you were about me when we did that thing in Italy.”
“ ‘That thing?’ ” Royce repeated, sarcasm lifting his voice an octave. He stood, fists balled at his sides. “ ‘That thing’ was breaking into an Italian palazzo and stealing a five-hundred-year-old painting by a Renaissance master from a known murderer. Yes, I was worried about you!”
Marc rushed to his side, pressing soft kisses to the corner of his mouth while running his hands over Royce’s tense shoulders. “And I love that you worry about me, but there’s really no need. You’re always right there to keep me safe. No one is going to take me from you.”