Chapter Seven
Colton
Christie’s after hours felt like a cathedral to the wealthy, full of solemn lighting and hushed reverence. The familiar scent of money lingered in the air, but here it mixed with oil paints and history instead of the leather and cologne of my usual banking realm. I arrived exactly at eight, adjusting my cuffs as I nodded to the security guard who clearly expected me. Isabella Delacroix’s influence, no doubt.
She emerged from between two massive gilt frames, and I had to remind myself that finding someone aesthetically striking didn’t mean you had to like them. She was still in her work suit, but somehow she was even more confident here in her element. The angular cut of her dark hair emphasized the elegant line of her jaw, and her dark brown eyes held that same cunning intelligence I’d noticed in my office, the kind that came from years of distinguishing genuine masterpieces from very expensive lies. Everything about her was slightly different in this space, even her posture was more relaxed, her movements more assured. This was her world, not mine, and she knew it.
The gallery’s track lighting caught the professional mask she wore like armor. Not the seductive kind, but just the expertise of someone who’d spent years navigating the delicate politics of billion-euro art transactions. I struggled to push aside my instinctive dislike of anyone who made me feel this out of my depth.
“Mr. Moreau.” She gestured to a nearby Beckmann. “Your thoughts on the brushwork?”
I studied the painting, knowing this was part of our cover but feeling hopelessly lost. The canvas was a riot of dark colors and twisted forms; it was exactly the kind of modernist work Steele and Cooper would have loved to acquire in their previous lives. “Seems genuine enough.”
“Hmm.” A slight curve of her lips suggested I’d failed some test. The smile didn’t reach her eyes, which remained distant. Not calculating, just cautious. “Walk with me.”
She led me through the gallery, her heels silent on the thick carpet. She always wore heels, no matter what the occasion.
We passed millions in art—or what was supposed to be millions in art—before she stopped abruptly. Each piece we passed seemed to speak its own language, one she was fluent in and I could barely comprehend. It was unsettling, being this far out of my element. In my world of high finance and legal precedent, I knew every nuance, every statute, every law. But here, I was blind.
“We can’t talk here.” Her voice was low, controlled, with that hint of French accent that probably helped navigate both auction houses and board rooms. “There are too many ears, even after hours.” She checked her phone, her expression tightening slightly. “I have a membership at Brooks’s. Private club, old school. Very discreet.”
I knew Brooks’s by reputation; it was one of London’s oldest gentleman’s clubs, where the real power brokers met. The kind of place where fortunes were made and destroyed over handshakes and whispered conversations. “How did you get a membership? They don’t accept women.”
That slight smile again, but this time it held a touch of genuine amusement. “They make exceptions for certain people with certain…backgrounds. Shall we?”
Her car was waiting outside, a sleek black Mercedes with a professional driver. The rain had picked up again, casting halos around London’s streetlights and softening the edges of the city. It made everything feel slightly surreal, like we were moving through one of the impressionist paintings we’d just left behind.
“After you,” she said, holding the door.
I had a hundred questions, but I waited as we pulled into London’s murky streets. Whatever she had uncovered was serious enough to warrant this level of privacy. Serious enough to make an art expert seek help from a financial lawyer.
Brooks’s was everything I hated about my new role, the kind of place where underhanded deals that shaped empires were made over brandy and cigars. The kind of place I didn’t fit in—at least not before I assumed the position of chief counsel.
Isabella moved through it with the same self-assurance she’d shown at Christie’s. I watched her navigate the space, realizing she belonged here not because of any particular mystique, but because she understood the unwritten rules of spaces like this—when to speak, when to remain silent, how to make her expertise valued in rooms where it typically wasn’t. Rules that I had yet to get the hang of—social protocols you couldn’t study, couldn’t fake.
The private room she led me to was small but elegant with dark paneling, leather chairs, and a drink cabinet that probably cost more than my first truck. The lighting was dim but practical, meant for discreet business conversations rather than social calls.
“Cognac?” She was already pouring, her movements effortless. Everything about her was effortless, I realized. Polished. From her perfectly tailored suit to the way she positioned herself in the room, close enough to converse comfortably, far enough to maintain appropriate business distance.
“Is this where you tell me what’s really going on?”
She handed me a glass, then settled into one of the chairs. She was so slight, the chair didn’t even seem to absorb her form. The room was silent, heavy with the weight of whatever she was about to tell me. “That depends on you, Mr. Moreau.”
“How so?”
“On whether you’re actually interested in the truth, or just in protecting the bank.” She took a small sip, her expression carefully guarded. Her eyes were tired, I noticed suddenly. It was the type of tiredness that came from carrying knowledge you couldn’t unsee. Something shifted within me—was it sympathy? How often had I worn that look while I was in law school, trying to pay bills, pass classes, and help Cooper manage his business? “Your reputation suggests the latter.”
“My reputation?” I blinked, wondering for a split second if she was talking about my not-so-secret affairs.
“Mm. The man who makes problems disappear. Who keeps the bank’s sordid secrets.” Another measured sip. In the low light, I could see the tension she carried in her shoulders, betraying her composed exterior. “Tell me, when you saw those shipping manifests, what bothered you more, the fraudulent art purchases or the irregularities in the routing?”
I set my glass down, studying the wall to my left. Beside me, a portrait of some long-dead aristocrat stared down with painted disapproval. I was used to being the one who asked uncomfortable questions, who controlled the flow of information. Isabella Delacroix had quite neatly reversed our roles, and I didn’t like it.
“You think there’s more to this than art fraud.”
“I know there is.” She reached for her briefcase—it was expensive and stylish, like everything else about her professional presentation. She withdrew a single file with careful precision, the kind of methodical movement I recognized from years of handling sensitive documents. “Look at the temperature controls on these shipments. The weight distributions. The routing through specific ports.”
I studied the documents, forcing myself to focus on the numbers rather than my growing discomfort with the situation. The numbers didn’t make sense, not for art transport. But for something else...the implications made my legal training scream warnings. “What exactly are you suggesting?”
“I’m not suggesting anything yet.” She took the file back, her movements deliberate. “I’m seeing how you react to inconsistencies. To patterns that don’t quite add up.”
“Testing me?”
“Naturally.” A slight lift of her eyebrows. “Would you trust you, in my position, Mr. Moreau?”
She had a point. Outside, London’s traffic hummed against the windows, a steady rhythm that matched the growing tension in the room. The fireplace in the corner popped and hissed, throwing a spark towards the expensive rug every once in a while. I watched a particularly large spark extinguish just as it reached the ground, then turned back to her.
“So, what now?”
“Now,” she said, “you tell me if you’re willing to look deeper. To ask questions that might have very uncomfortable answers.” The light caught her expression—not mysterious or calculating, just worried. Genuinely worried.
I continued studying her face, trying to read past the stoic mask. She never appeared vulnerable or emotional; she was used to operating in worlds where precision mattered and women had to be as tough, if not tougher, than men to survive. Where mistakes could cost millions. “And if I am?”
“Then we continue this conversation. If not...” She shrugged slightly. “Then we finish our drinks, go our separate ways, and pretend this meeting never happened.”
“While you investigate on your own?”
“I’d prefer not to.”
The weight of what she wasn’t saying hung between us, heavy as the aristocratic atmosphere of Brooks’s. Whatever she’d discovered, she needed help, and my help specifically. But she wasn’t going to show her full hand until she was sure of me.
Smart.
Irritating, but smart.
Like everything about her.
I swirled the cognac in my glass, buying time to think. The bank paid me incredibly well to handle their problems discreetly, to make sure certain questions never got asked. Isabella Delacroix was nothing but questions, exacting, troubling questions wrapped in professional competence and an elegant beauty she wore like a mantle.
Through the window, street lights blurred in the mist as the rain let up. We sat in silence, two colleagues on opposite sides of a line neither of us had fully drawn yet. She waited patiently while I weighed my loyalty of serving the board against the growing certainty that something was very wrong at Devereux Private Bank.
Finally, I set my glass down. “Show me what you have. All of it.”
Her smile this time was different, smaller, but somehow more real. Earnest. “Not yet, Mr. Moreau. Not quite yet.”
Smart woman indeed. And possibly the most frustratingly thorough art expert I’d ever encountered in a skirt suit.