His Untouchable Heart (Off-Limits Billionaires #2)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

Anthony

"Are you contemplating keeping that treasure all to yourself?"

Gabrielle's voice cut through the heavy silence of the office, smooth and intentional like a river winding through an untouched land. The room, with its subdued colors, was gently lit by the faint light seeping through heavy curtains. The mahogany desk and leather-bound books lining the walls added to the atmosphere. The air was filled with the rich aroma of old paper and polished wood, a reminder of the history held within these storied walls.

I lingered for a moment, my gaze still fixed on the ledger in front of me, my fingers tracing its edges with a discerning touch. Its old, worn cover carried a weighty presence, a tangible reminder of the secrets nestled within its pages.

This ledger was a cartographer's delight in intrigue and betrayal. Each acquisition, transaction, and forged document enabled the Devereux family to transform pilfered masterpieces into seemingly legitimate holdings. The pages were yellowed and brittle beneath my fingertips, each a fragile relic of a past steeped in cunning deceit.

With a measured breath, I finally lifted my gaze to the doorway. There stood Gabrielle, framed by the ornate doorframe, her posture relaxed, yet her presence undeniably commanding. The light from the hallway behind her created a halo around her silhouette, enhancing her poised elegance. She was always like that—composed, graceful, dangerously unaware, perhaps without even a hint of self-awareness.

Or she was acutely aware of the power she wielded and wielded it with quiet mastery, I thought.

I gestured toward the ledger. “I wasn’t aware you were in such a rush." My voice was even, but beneath it, tension coiled like a spring, ready to snap with the slightest provocation.

She arched a perfectly sculpted brow, her gaze as piercing as a hawk's. "The Monuments Men and Women Foundation doesn’t entertain delays." Her words carried the weight of an unyielding authority that was somehow intoxicating.

No, they didn’t. The judge’s stern words echoed in my mind when he assigned me as the custodian of the Devereux Gallery. This wasn’t merely a favor to the art world; it was a binding duty charged with a certain allure.

I held dominion over the gallery’s inventory, a guardian tasked with returning stolen WWII-era masterpieces to their rightful homes. Yet, the role was a gilded cage, and its bars came at a cost.

I picked up the ledger, its worn leather cover cool under my fingertips. Gabrielle stepped closer, her heels tapping softly on the polished floor, a rhythmic counterpoint to the surrounding silence. "You want me to make copies?" Her voice was neutral, yet there was an unspoken edge beneath her words—a mystery that teased and tantalized.

I took in her features for a moment, then slid the ledger across the desk. "Photograph every page. Send them to MMWF by noon." My voice carried an undeniable finality, yet it lingered between us, charged with an unspoken promise.

As she reached out to take the book, my attention was momentarily captured by her blouse.

Silk.

Fitted.

The cut was just low enough to tease yet not enough to compromise her professionalism. The fabric shimmered subtly in the dim light, its rich hue enhancing the warmth of her skin. I mused to myself, grateful for the discreet cover of my seated position, which allowed me to appreciate the moment without revealing what she was doing to me.

I should have looked away faster. But I didn’t.

Gabrielle didn’t acknowledge my lapse in focus, but the subtle tilt of her head—the slight twitch of her lips hinting at amusement—revealed she wasn’t oblivious either. Her green eyes sparkled with a knowing gleam, catching the Florida sunlight that filtered through the blinds.

Reluctantly, I forced my attention back to the ledger. Yet my grip on control felt more fragile than I liked. My heart thudded in my chest. “You have an issue with deadlines?”

Her fingers caressed the book’s aged leather binding, her nails perfectly manicured, and her movements deliberate and unhurried. A faint scent of jasmine lingered between us, weaving an invisible thread of her presence. “No,” she replied, meeting my gaze evenly. But you might if you keep stalling.”

Despite myself, I smirked, acknowledging the game between us. “Is that a warning?”

“An observation.” She lifted the ledger, flipping through a few pages before snapping it shut. “I’ll have the copies sent over before noon. Anything else?”

Her gaze held mine a beat too long, the tension between us unspoken, electric, like a live wire sparking beneath the surface. It wasn’t the first time I had felt it—this undercurrent of something alluring and undeniable whenever she was near.

She turned, her movements fluid and graceful, like a dancer in perfect control, as she walked toward the door. I told myself I wasn’t watching too closely and was indifferent to how her hips swayed as she walked.

Lies.

The door clicked shut behind her, and I let out a slow exhale, rubbing a hand over my jaw, feeling the roughness of stubble against my palm.

Damn her.

I leaned back in Alistair Devereau’s chair, letting the weight of it settle over me. The judge had been clear—this was my responsibility now. The Devereux Gallery, once a respected institution, was nothing more than a crime scene hidden in plain sight.

And I was the one left to clean up the mess.

The job came with complete control, but I wasn’t na?ve enough to think that meant safety. Too many people had something to lose if the truth came out, and every decision I made was being watched.

Which was why I had to be careful.

Careful with Gabrielle.

Careful with the art and the money.

My fingers inched toward my phone, a habit I needed to break. I should have ignored it—should have focused on the report I was supposed to be drafting for MMWF.

But instead, I flipped the screen over and unlocked it. There it was. The brokerage account. The obscene number stared back at me.

Charlotte’s money.

Or rather, the money she had left behind without ever telling me it existed. I had found out weeks after she was gone when her lawyer contacted me, explaining that my late wife had been sitting on a fortune she never once mentioned.

Why?

I still didn’t have an answer.

The question gnawed at me during quiet moments—between meetings, in the dead of night as I stared at the ceiling—wondering what else she had kept from me besides the fact that she was a billionaire living like an ordinary person.

I hadn’t touched a cent. Not from her trust fund.

But I had considered it.

This morning, after my workout, I had almost placed a call. A luxury car dealership in Brickell. I could afford anything on the lot. A Bentley, an Aston Martin. I could have it delivered to my door by the afternoon. But the thought had barely settled before I shut it down.

The moment people saw me spending money, questions would start. And I wasn’t in the habit of answering questions. I locked my phone, shoving it onto the desk before the thought could tempt me again.

Money wasn’t the problem.

Trust was.

And right now, there was too much in this gallery I didn’t understand.

I pressed my fingers to my temples, forcing the tension from my jaw. I wasn’t a man easily distracted but today was proving otherwise.

I needed to focus.

The ledger sat in Gabrielle’s hands now, and that alone should have been my priority. The book was everything—a detailed account of decades of deception, documenting every piece of stolen art that had passed through the Devereux family’s hands.

Some pieces had been sold to private collectors under forged provenance. Others were still locked in the vault beneath this very building—a vault I now had full access to.

The weight of responsibility settled heavily in my chest.

This wasn’t just about restitution.

It was about power.

For years, institutions had turned a blind eye to what men like Alistair Devereux had done, pretending that it wasn’t tainted just because a painting had changed hands legally.

Now, I was holding the evidence to undo all of that. And the world was watching.

I rose from my chair, moving toward the window. The Miami heat pressed against the glass, a shimmering distortion of the streets below. The city was alive—chaotic and relentless, a far cry from the halls of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, where I had spent most of my young career. Back when, for me, art was about preservation, not corruption.

I exhaled, my reflection staring back at me in the glass. This was my reality now.

A knock at the door pulled me from my thoughts.

“Come in.”

Gabrielle stepped inside, moving with the effortless precision she always possessed. The ledger was in one hand, and her phone was in the other. There were no wasted movements or unnecessary glances. She was always in control.

“I’ve sent the photos to MMWF,” she said, her voice crisp but measured. “They should confirm receipt soon.”

I nodded. “Good.”

There was a flicker of hesitation—not much, but enough to catch my attention. I glanced up, watching her closely, the way her fingers tapped lightly against the worn leather cover of the ledger.

“Something else?”

A breath. Small. Controlled. Then she shifted the ledger slightly in her grip. “There’s something in here you need to see.”

The way she said it—low, deliberate—tightened something in my chest. I leaned back, trying to ignore the subtle scent that always trailed in her wake, clean and expensive, something I hadn’t placed but had memorized anyway.

“Show me.”

She crossed the room, each step unhurried, her expression composed even as tension lingered just beneath the surface. She placed the ledger on the desk, flipping through pages with the kind of precision that hinted at something more than just professionalism. When she found what she was looking for, she turned the book toward me, her fingertip pressing lightly against an entry.

“There.”

One word. No embellishments. But the weight behind it was undeniable.

I followed her gaze, my eyes landing on a name written in Alistair’s meticulous hand. My grip on the desk tightened. A sale. A transfer. And a painting I never expected to see tied to this mess.

Frans Hals, A Lady and Gentleman in Black.

A slow exhale. The room felt smaller now, like the walls had inched in just enough to press against my shoulders.

Gabrielle didn’t move. “I take it this piece matters to you.”

I dragged my gaze away from the ledger, meeting her eyes. Something unreadable flickered there. Or maybe not unreadable. Just… tightly controlled.

I forced my voice to stay level. “It does.”

She nodded once, not breaking eye contact. “The Van Den Bergs owned it. A Jewish family in the Netherlands. The Nazis took it in the 1940s. After the war, it disappeared. Some say it was lost. Others say it was hidden.”

I had heard bits and pieces of the story. But hearing it from her—seeing the way she held herself so still, the slight press of her lips, the way her hand lingered just a second too long on the edge of the ledger—told me this wasn’t just some detached recounting of historical theft.

This was personal.

“And now we know where it ended up,” I said.

Her nod was sharp. “In the hands of Alistair Devereux.”

I closed the ledger, slow and deliberate, keeping my movements measured even as my pulse kicked up. The air between us stretched tight. Neither of us said anything. But something had shifted.

Some things carry weight.

Some things linger longer than they should.

This was one of them.