Chapter Sixteen
Isabella
I checked my watch in Colton’s private elevator as we ascended to his penthouse—11:47 PM. The bank’s surveillance had forced us to find somewhere else to continue our investigation, and he’d suggested his place without hesitation.
Something about the lateness of the hour and the intimacy of visiting his private space made my pulse quicken.
We’d been working late at the bank again, piecing together the connections between the shipping manifests and my father’s notes, when Colton had suddenly stiffened. His eyes had flicked to the security camera in the corner of his office, its red light blinking steadily. Without a word, he’d gathered our most sensitive documents, tucking them carefully into his briefcase.
“We can’t keep working here,” he’d said, voice low and urgent. “Rodger has increased surveillance on both our offices. I noticed new cameras installed this morning.” His hand had brushed mine as he passed me my coat. “I have copies of the files we need at my place. It’s secure, no bank surveillance, no unexpected visitors.”
The way he’d said it—matter-of-fact, practical—had made it clear this was about the investigation, not us. But still, the prospect of seeing Colton’s home, of working with him somewhere beyond the bank’s watchful eyes, had sent a flutter through my stomach that had nothing to do with curiosity.
When the doors opened directly into his foyer, I caught my breath. The space was all clean lines and understated wealth, and large windows offering a stunning view of London’s skyline. No doorman, no security desk—just biometric locks and privacy so he could come and go as he pleased with no prying eyes. Moonlight crawled across the dark wooden floors, casting everything in silvery shadows that made the space feel almost dreamlike.
“Make yourself comfortable,” Colton said, leading me into a spacious living area. He moved with easy confidence through the room, at home in a way I’d never seen him at the bank. There was a different energy to him here; he was more relaxed, more himself. “Would you like something to drink?”
I was too busy taking in the details of his private world—a huge collection of leather-bound books lining built-in shelves, the abstract art that spoke of genuine appreciation rather than mere investment, the tiny touches that revealed the man underneath. A chess set near the window caught my eye, the pieces mid-game, suggesting he played against himself. The thought of him here alone, contemplating strategic moves in the night, made something in my chest ache.
“Wine would be nice,” I managed, setting my files on his massive desk. The surface was polished oak, documents arranged with meticulous order. So like him—everything in its place, everything carefully organized.
He nodded, shrugging off his suit jacket and draping it over a chair. The movement drew my attention to how his shoulders filled out his crisp, white shirt. I’d noticed the physical changes in him over the past months, but here, in this intimate setting, they were impossible to ignore. The training had transformed him from lean to powerfully built, though he hid it well under expertly tailored suits.
When he reached up to loosen his tie, I couldn’t help but watch the play of muscles beneath the fine fabric. His fingers worked the knot with deliberate movements that made me think of other things those strong hands could do. The thought brought heat to my cheeks.
“Red or white?” He was unknotting the tie now, his fingers deft and sure. The silk whispered as he pulled it free, and something in me responded to the subtle intimacy of watching him undress, even this professionally. I’d seen him without his suit jacket countless times at the bank, but watching him shed those layers here, in his private space, felt different. Seductive.
“Red,” I said, my voice slightly hoarse. He’d started unbuttoning his collar, and I forced myself to look away as he rolled up his sleeves. Each new inch of exposed skin felt like a revelation—the strong line of his throat, the definition in his forearms, the way his movements spoke of contained power. The physical changes in him were startling up close—the breadth of his shoulders testing his shirt’s seams, the way the fabric pulled across his chest when he moved, the new strength evident in every gesture.
The domesticity of the moment struck me; him loosening his clothes, me in his private space, the late hour lending everything a sense of intimacy we usually avoided. Six months ago, I would have never imagined being here, watching Colton Moreau transform from corporate attorney to something far more compelling. The man who emerged as he shed his professional armor was someone I found increasingly difficult to resist.
“Father’s records from five years ago,” I said quickly, pulling out the stack of notebooks I’d brought. Focusing on work seemed safer than dwelling on how different he looked in his home, how the softer side he usually kept hidden was more apparent here. I wanted to cross the room and help him with those buttons, to discover what else he kept concealed beneath his perfect exterior.
I forced my attention to the documents, though I remained acutely aware of him moving behind me, the soft sounds of him making himself comfortable in a way I’d never witnessed before. He set the glass of wine next to me, then disappeared into a room off the hallway. Coming out a few seconds later, he was rubbing his eyes and sliding on a pair of glasses. I noticed his glasses had been absent recently, and contacts had obviously taken their place.
He sat back down at the desk, pulled out his laptop and booted it up. After a moment, he looked up, his glasses perched on his nose in a way that shouldn’t have been attractive but somehow was. “More flagged manifests?”
“Better.” I moved to join him at the massive desk that dominated his home office. “Financial trails. He was tracking money through a series of shell companies, all art-related on paper, but the numbers didn’t add up.”
The desk was large enough to spread out the notebooks, but I still found myself drawn to his side of it, close enough to feel the heat from his body. He shifted to make room for me, his chair scraping quietly against the hardwood floors.
“Let me see.”
I opened the first notebook, pointing to columns of numbers interspersed with my father’s flowing handwriting. “See these notations? He used a simple substitution cipher, something we developed when I was young. What looks like authentication notes about pigments and canvas preparation is actually tracking suspicious transactions.”
Colton leaned closer to study the page, and I tried not to focus on how his proximity affected me. “Clever. Hidden in plain sight.”
“He was always clever.” I swallowed past the sudden tightness in my throat. “Too clever, in the end.”
His hand covered mine where it rested on the notebook, warm and steady. “We’ll find the truth, Isabella. Whatever it takes.”
The casual use of my first name sent a shiver through me. His forearm was near mine, lightly touching.
I forced myself to focus on the notebooks rather than how his touch affected me. “These companies—art dealers, private galleries, auction houses. All legitimate on paper, all with legal documentation.”
“The kind of paperwork that makes questions disappear,” he said.
“Exactly.” I pulled up the bank’s records on my laptop, aligning dates. “See the pattern? Every time one of these galleries made a major acquisition, there was a corresponding spike in wire transfers through numbered accounts.”
“Money laundering?”
“On the surface.” I shifted to show him another notebook, acutely aware of how the movement pressed my thigh against his. “But look at the amounts. Far more than even the most inflated art prices could justify.”
His other hand came to rest on the back of my chair as he studied the figures. The position effectively surrounded me, though I knew he wasn’t consciously trying to crowd my space.
“These dates,” he said, tapping the page. “They coincide with major shipping manifests. The ones with weight discrepancies.”
“Yes.” I pulled up more records on my laptop. “My father was tracking both, the financial trails and the shipping irregularities. He knew they were connected somehow.”
“And getting closer to understanding how.” Colton’s voice hardened. “Too close, apparently.”
I tensed at the reminder of how this had ended for my father. Colton’s hand squeezed mine tenderly, offering silent support.
“The shell companies are still active,” I said after a moment, needing to focus on facts rather than memories. “Still making suspicious art purchases. Still moving money through numbered accounts.”
“Can we trace the ownership?”
“That’s where it gets interesting.” I opened another file, conscious of how he shifted closer to see my screen. “Layers of holding companies, all carefully structured. But my father found a pattern in the incorporation dates.”
“Show me.” He uttered this command frequently, like he could never take anything at face value. Everything had to be proved, laid out so he could study it and draw his own conclusions.
I walked him through the complex web of shell corporations, trying to ignore how his breath tickled my skin when I leaned forward to point out key details. His chest brushed my shoulder as he reached past me to scroll through documents, and I caught myself holding my breath at the contact.
“These three companies,” he said, highlighting entries. “They were all incorporated within days of major leadership changes at the bank.”
“Yes.” I turned to face him, forgetting how close he was. Our faces were inches apart, and I could see deeply into those brown eyes. “Almost like...”
“Like the bank was creating new channels every time someone new joined the board,” he finished. His voice had dropped lower, rougher.
I found myself studying how his mouth curved when he concentrated, how his jawline had grown more pronounced since he’d started training.
“Isabella.” My name was barely a whisper.
“We should...” I swallowed hard. “We should check the other incorporation dates. Cross-reference them with bank records.”
“Yes.” But neither of us moved. The late hour and shared wine had created something intimate between us, making it hard to remember why we kept such careful distance at work.
A notification pinged on his laptop, breaking the moment. He straightened, checking the alert.
“Cooper’s contact came through with those shipping manifests from Rotterdam.”
“You finally told him?” Colton and I had debated on when to bring his brother on board, and I found his desire to protect his family added to his appeal.
“Yes—it was time.”
I took the opportunity to put some space between us, gathering scattered papers with hands that shook slightly. “Good. That gives us another angle to investigate.”
He started pulling up the new files, but I caught him watching me from the corner of his eye. The attraction between us was becoming harder to ignore, especially in settings like this—late nights and shared purpose and the way he looked with his sleeves rolled up.
We worked for another hour, documenting connections between shell companies and shipping routes. Every so often our hands would brush as we reached for the same paper, or our shoulders would touch as we leaned over documents together. Each contact felt charged with dangerous possibilities.
Finally, my eyes started burning from staring at financial records. I stretched, trying to work out the knots that came from hunching over laptops and ledgers.
“Here.” Colton’s hands settled on my shoulders, strong fingers finding tension points with surprising skill. “You’re too tense.”
I let my head fall forward as he worked out knots I hadn’t even known I had.
“Better?” His voice barely disturbed the room’s stillness.
“Mmm.” I couldn’t manage actual words as his thumbs found a particularly tight spot at the base of my neck.
“We should pack up for the night,” Colton said finally, his voice hoarse. He rose from his chair, gathering papers with mechanical precision that betrayed his distraction. “I’ll walk you out.”
The short journey to his private elevator felt endless, charged with unspoken words and lingering glances. His hand at the small of my back sent shivers down my spine as he guided me forward. The elegant hallway seemed to narrow, the air growing thicker with each step.
Then we were at the elevator, its polished doors reflecting our tense expressions in warped chrome.
The elevator doors had almost closed when his hand shot out to stop them.
A huge shudder of relief went through me.
“Wait.” His voice was rougher than usual. “You should eat something before you go. Have you had a real meal since our dinner out?”
I opened my mouth to protest, then realized I couldn’t actually remember. He must have read the answer on my face because his expression softened.
“I have leftovers from that Italian place you like. The one near Christie’s.”
It was such a small detail for him to remember, a casual comment I’d made weeks ago about their gnocchi. But he’d noticed. Had remembered.
“Fine,” I conceded, stepping back into his penthouse, trying to still my heart’s rapid beats. “But only because it’s Giacomo’s.”
His kitchen was like the rest of his home—clean, modern lines and luxury. But there were unexpected touches of personality: a child’s drawing, signed Clara, pinned to the refrigerator; a collection of coffee mugs that looked handmade; a leftover holiday card from his brother and his family still pinned on his fridge. Signs that underneath his exterior, Colton Moreau was more than who he appeared to be.
He moved through his space with easy grace, pulling containers from the refrigerator while I settled at the marble island. The domesticity of the moment struck me—how natural it felt to be here with him, sharing late-night meals and dangerous secrets.
“You’ve changed,” I said without meaning to.
He sighed and glanced up from plating pasta. “The training? I’ve noticed the way people, women in particular, look at me now—”
“Not just physically.” Though god, those changes were impossible to ignore, especially now as he reached for fresh wine glasses on a high shelf. “You’re different here. More...”
“Human?” His smile held a touch of self-deprecation.
“Real,” I decided. “Like you’ve let your guard down.”
He was quiet for a moment, opening another bottle of wine with ease. When he finally spoke, his voice was thoughtful. “Everything changed when you walked into my office and started questioning everything I thought I knew.”
The admission hung between us as he slid a plate toward me. The pasta smelled amazing, but I found myself watching him instead of eating. The way he’d rolled his sleeves higher to cook. How his forearms flexed as he poured wine. The new confidence in his movements had nothing to do with physical training.
“Eat,” he commanded softly. “Before it gets cold again.”
I took a bite, closing my eyes at the familiar flavors. When I opened them, he was watching me with an intensity that made my pulse quicken.
“What?” I asked, suddenly self-conscious.
“You make these little sounds when you enjoy something,” he said, voice low. “Like you can’t quite contain your pleasure.”
Heat crept up my neck. “I do not.”
“You do.” He moved around the island, closer than strictly necessary. “I’ve noticed it in meetings too, when you’re examining a particularly interesting piece, or when you’ve solved a puzzle in the documentation.”
“You watch me in meetings?”
“I watch you everywhere.” The admission seemed to surprise him as much as me. He ran a hand through his hair—a gesture I was learning meant he was struggling internally with something. “I shouldn’t. But I can’t seem to stop.”
I set down my fork carefully, too aware of his proximity. “And what do you see when you watch me?”
“Everything I want and shouldn’t have.” He leaned against the counter, close enough that I could see the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw. “Everything that makes me question who I thought I was.”
“Things like what?” My voice came out breathier than intended, but I had to know. Had to know if I was imagining this heat between us, or if it was real.
His eyes dropped to my mouth for just a moment before meeting mine again. “Like how much I want to kiss you right now.”
His bold confession hung between us, electric in the quiet kitchen. Another sigh escaped from my lips, and his eyes darkened at the sound.
I finally turned to face him fully. “What’s stopping you, Colton?”
“Isabella.” My name escaped his lips like a prayer, his voice containing barely restrained longing. His eyes darkened as they fixed on mine, the heat in them making my breath catch. “If I kiss you now, heaven help me, I won’t be able to stop. I’d lose myself completely in you. Every taste would only leave me desperate for more until I’d devoured every inch of your skin with my lips.”
He moved closer, close enough that I could feel the warmth radiating from his body, smell the intoxicating blend of his cologne and something uniquely Colton. His fingertips barely grazed my cheek, the gentlest touch that somehow burned.
“And trust me, my exquisite, beautiful masterpiece,” he continued, his voice dropping to a whisper that caressed my senses, “it wouldn’t end with just a kiss. It would consume us both entirely. And I can’t bear to offer you stolen moments in shadowed corners when you deserve to be worshipped properly, thoroughly, without the constant shadow of danger hanging over us. You deserve everything—all of me—not just fragments stolen between heartbeats.”
“Maybe I want this. Maybe I’ve wanted this for longer than I care to admit.”
His pushed a strand of hair behind my ear with aching gentleness. The calluses on his fingers created a delicious friction against my skin. “Fuck, Isabella. You make me forget every rule I’ve ever made for myself the past five years.”
“Good.” I leaned into his touch, feeling the slight tremor in his large fingers. My own hands found the front of his shirt, feeling the solid warmth of him beneath the fine cotton. “Some rules need breaking.”
A sound caught between a laugh and a groan escaped him. “You’re going to be the death of my self-control.”
“Promise?”
His eyes widened at my challenge, pupils dilating until only a thin ring of brown remained. He moved with that contained power I’d been watching all evening, backing me against the kitchen island. One hand slid into my hair while the other gripped my hip, and suddenly he was everywhere—the heat of him pressing against me, the soft, yet masculine scent of him filling my lungs, his breath warm against my lips.
“Isabella.” Just my name again. But on his tongue it was rough, almost painful. His mouth hovered a breath away from mine, close enough that I could feel his words rather than hear them. “Tell me to stop.”
Instead, I arched my back, bringing us closer, letting my hands slide up his chest to his shoulders. The muscles there bunched under my touch, betraying how tightly he was holding himself in check. His forehead dropped to rest against mine, and I felt him shudder when my fingers found the bare skin at his neck.
“Please,” I whispered, though I wasn’t sure what I was asking for. His hands tightened on my hips, and I gasped at the sensation of being held by those strong hands. I waited for him to close that final distance, to finally let me taste him, but he held himself rigidly still, fighting some internal battle I could feel in every tense muscle of his body.
Time seemed to stretch between us, heavy with possibility and unbridled desire. His thumb traced my lower lip, and I had to bite back a moan at the intimate touch. Every breath brought us closer, papers sliding forgotten to the floor as he pressed me harder against the counter. The anticipation was exquisite torture—being this close, feeling the heat radiating from his body, knowing how badly we both wanted this, yet neither of us daring to take that final step.
When he sighed and then finally pulled back without kissing me, it felt like tearing open a raw wound. I felt a physical sensation of deep loss, an undercurrent of frustration and desire. We were both breathing hard, and I could see the rigid control it took for him to put that small space between us. His hands stayed on my waist though, like he couldn’t quite make himself let go completely.
“We shouldn’t,” he said in a hushed voice, though his eyes never left my mouth. “The bank, the investigation, the danger...”
“Is that the lawyer talking?” I managed, hands still fisted in his shirt. “Or the man?”
“Both.” His thumb traced my lower lip again, making me shiver. “I can’t protect you if I’m distracted.”
“I don’t need protection.” I pressed closer, feeling his heart race against my palm. “I need you. Just you.”
He groaned and bit his bottom lip.
His laptop pinged, making us both jump. Reality crashed back in—the investigation, the bank’s surveillance, the danger we were both in.
Colton stepped back slowly. “We should...”
“Get back to work?” But I smiled to take the sting from the words.
“I need a break.” He tucked a strand of hair behind my ear, the gesture surprisingly intimate. “And maybe we need to figure out what this is between us before we complicate everything.”
I straightened my blouse, trying to regain some composure. “And what is this, exactly?”
His eyes softened as he studied my face. “Something worth protecting. Worth fighting for.” He paused, then added, “Worth changing for.”
The admission made my breath catch. “When did you start saying things that make my heart stop?”
“When I met someone who made me want to find the right words.” He picked up my abandoned wine glass, offering it with a slight smile. “Stay? Just...talk with me for a while?”
I accepted the glass, letting my fingers brush his. “About the investigation? Or about this?”
“Both.” He led me out of the kitchen, but stayed close enough that our shoulders touched. “Everything. Anything.”
We moved to his living room, needing distance from the kitchen and its lingering heat. The city lights sparkled beyond his windows, creating an intimate backdrop as we settled on opposite ends of his leather sofa. Even the space between us felt charged, like electricity waiting to spark dry tinder and engulf it in flame.
The wine loosened something in both of us, making the conversation flow easier. He told me about growing up with Cooper—stories of twin boys finding trouble in Paris’s shadowy corners, of a father who worked too much and a mother lost too soon. I watched his hands as he spoke, remembering how they’d felt in my hair just minutes ago.
“Your turn,” he said, refilling our glasses. “Tell me something real.”
I told him about my childhood in Provence, authentication lessons disguised as games, my father teaching me to spot forgeries before I could read. How we’d speak in code about paintings, developing our own secret language. Colton’s eyes softened when I mentioned my father, understanding the weight of that loss.
The night deepened around us as we talked. He’d rolled his sleeves higher at some point, and I found myself distracted by the play of muscles in his forearms as he gestured. The remaining buttons of his shirt had come undone, revealing a glimpse of his throat, tanned from his recent trip to Italy, that made my mouth go dry.
“You’re staring,” he murmured.
“You’re worth staring at.” The wine made me bold. His eyes smoldered at my words, that raw energy pulsing between us again.
We shared more stories, his first case at the bank, my first authenticated masterpiece. But underneath the words lay deeper currents. Each smile felt like a secret. Each accidental touch when reaching for wine sparked fresh heat. Even our silences held meaning, heavy with everything we weren’t quite ready to say.
“We should be more careful,” he breathed at one point, his fingers tracing patterns on the sofa near my hand. “This thing between us...”
“Would you change it?” I asked. “If you could?”
“No.” The immediacy of his answer made my heart race. “God help me, but no.”
The confession hung between us as the last of the wine disappeared. Outside, London’s lights shimmered beyond the glass windows, creating a world that felt separate from reality. A world where we were just a man and a woman, drawn together by something bigger than both of us.
What remained wasn’t just attraction, though that simmered underneath every look. It was understanding. Connection. The certainty that whatever was building between us was worth any risk, any consequence.