Harlow dragged in a breath. “I’m sorry, but that has nothing to do with me.”

Rhoda cocked her head. “You gave your father money, and you had dinner with Antoine Armand.”

Harlow lifted her chin an inch. “Believe me, I didn’t want to do either of those things. He threatened my father.”

Rhoda smiled—it was sharp and scary. “I’ll do more than threaten him. He came to my gaming tables and lost dismally.”

God. Harlow’s stomach tied into knots. Damn you, Dad. That was his plan? Win money back by gambling.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

“Oh, it’s worse than that, Harlow. Can I call you Harlow?”

“Sure.” Like she had a choice.

“After losing seventy thousand dollars…”

Harlow tasted bile. Seventy thousand? She was going to kill her father herself.

“…he then stole a dagger from my collection.”

Harlow stilled. “What?”

Rhoda opened the laptop on her desk and turned it around. The video on screen showed her father in a suit, shoulders slumped, walking down a wide, red-carpeted hallway. The dramatic art on the walls matched Rhoda’s office.

She watched her father run a hand through his hair, lines cutting deep into his cheeks.

Oh, Dad. He looked so dejected.

Then he paused next to a collection of daggers on the wall, just staring at them.

The knives were small, with curved blades, and jeweled hilts.

Then her father snatched one, tucked it into the internal pocket in his jacket, then hurried out of view.

Oh, no.

“The dagger is from the seventeenth century, from Mughal India. It’s set with emeralds and rubies, and is worth just over a hundred thousand dollars.”

Harlow sucked in sharp breath. “I don’t know where he is.”

“Would you tell me if you did?”

Harlow matched the woman’s raptor-like stare. “Probably not. Look, my friends will be really worried I’m missing.”

“I don’t care about your friends—”

Suddenly Mr. Scowly’s cell phone rang. He answered it quietly, then Harlow heard him curse.

“Kolar?” Rhoda asked.

“Someone took down the guards out front. We need—”

There was a thump outside the office door.

Harlow gripped the arms of her chair, watching as Rhoda frowned.

The door opened and Vander strode in.

Thank God. Harlow felt a rush of relief.

Vander’s face was its usual expressionless mask, but he was giving off the vibe that he was truly pissed. He’d changed out of his black suit into more black—black jeans, black T-shirt, and a black leather jacket.

His dark-blue gaze glanced at Harlow, scanned her, then looked back at Rhoda.

“You okay, Harlow?”

“Yes, Vander.”

Rhoda stood. “Vander, I had no idea she was yours.”

“She’s Easton’s.” Vander stopped in the center of the office, feet spread. “And I’m surprised you didn’t, since I called earlier to talk about Carlson.”

Rhoda swallowed then swiveled to look at Kolar. “You did?”

Kolar shifted nervously.