Chapter Eighteen
Isabella
I paced circles in the client show room, trying to focus on the task at hand rather than the memories of us at his penthouse. The faint brush of his hands. How close we’d—
“The auction is in two weeks,” Colton said, interrupting my dangerous train of thought. He was leaning against the conference room table, jacket discarded and sleeves rolled up again. It was unfairly distracting. “The Mayfair’s winter showcase. Do you think you can get me ready in time?”
I paused my pacing, studying him. Despite his carefully cultivated image as a sophisticated collector, we both knew his knowledge was surface level at best. “That depends. How much do you actually know about post-war European artists?”
His slight grimace told me everything. “I know enough to bid on the right pieces when needed.”
“But not enough to convince serious collectors you know what you’re talking about.” I moved to the bank’s impressive art collection, gesturing at a piece on the wall. “Who’s this by?”
He straightened his shoulders, eyes narrowing at the canvas. “Alejandro Martinez. 2018.”
“Wrong. It’s Carmen Rodriguez. You can tell by the brushwork in the lower left corner. This is her signature style from her blue period.” I turned to face him. “If you make mistakes like that at the Mayfair, we’re done before we start. These people are serious, serious collectors. You’ll risk Steele if they figure out that you’re not there for art.”
The muscle in his jaw tightened. “Then teach me.”
“Fourteen days to turn corporate law’s most famous bachelor into a convincing art connoisseur?” I couldn’t help my slight smile. “I’ve had tougher challenges. Though not many.”
His phone buzzed, another email from Rodger. We both ignored it. He moved closer, studying the painting with intensity. “What else am I missing?”
“Look at the composition.” I stepped beside him, the proximity sending a cascade of goosebumps across my skin. “See how the lines draw your eye inward? That’s deliberate. Rodriguez always creates this sense of movement, like the painting is pulling you in.”
“Show me.” That famous Moreau phrase again. His voice had dropped lower, sending shivers down my spine.
I moved behind him, trying to ignore how his body filled my vision. “You’re still looking with your eyes. Art collectors look with their whole body. They lean in,” I placed my hands lightly on his shoulders, guiding him forward, “they shift their weight, they...” My voice trailed off as he followed my guidance, his body moving with surprising grace.
“They what?” The roughness in his voice made my pulse quicken.
“They make it look effortless,” I managed, fighting the urge to slide my hands down his back. “Like they were born to this world.”
He turned slightly, and suddenly we were far too close. “Is that what you see when you look at me? Someone who doesn’t belong?”
“I see...” I swallowed hard. “I see someone who needs to learn the difference between Martinez and Rodriguez.”
The trace of a smile touched his lips. “Then teach me.”
For the next hour, I walked him through the basics—brush techniques, color theory, and the signatures of different artists. He was a quick study, but I couldn’t help noticing how often we found ourselves standing too close, touching too long, looking too intently.
I moved across the table, spreading out the auction catalog. “These are the pieces that will be featured tomorrow night. You need to be familiar with all of them.”
He leaned over my shoulder to see better, his chest brushing my back. “Walk me through them.”
“This is a Hargrove,” I said, fighting to keep my voice steady as his breath warmed my neck. “Note the distinctive use of negative space. And here,” I turned the page, his proximity making it hard to focus, “early Klein. The composition is characteristic of his pre-war period.”
“You really know your stuff,” he murmured, still too close.
“It’s my job to know.” I turned another page, aware of how his arm brushed mine. “These pieces especially, they’re exactly the kind of art perfect for money laundering. High value, subjective pricing, easy to move across borders...”
“That’s why we’re really there.” His hand settled on my lower back, steady and warm. “The art is just our cover.”
I turned to face him, realizing too late how close that would bring us. “Which means you need to be convincing. One mistake and—”
The sharp ring of his phone cut through the tension. His shoulders tensed as he checked the screen. “It’s Steele.”
He answered the call, turning to face the window. “What is it?”
I tried to focus on reorganizing the scattered auction documents, but found myself watching his reflection instead. The way tension radiated through his shoulders, how his free hand clenched at his side.
“Send it to me now,” he said sharply. “No, tell them to wait.” He ended the call, shoulders rigid. “They’ve moved up the private viewings. Next week. We’ve lost an entire week. And they’ve cut the guest list. Steele barely managed to keep me on it. More favors.”
“That changes things.” I moved to his side. “We won’t have the crowd for cover.”
“No.” His voice was rough. “But we might have something better.” He turned to face me, and the intensity in his eyes made my breath catch. “The preview is invitation only. Very exclusive. Very intimate.”
I caught his meaning. “Just serious buyers and their advisors. More private.”
“Exactly.” His palm rested between my shoulder blades as we returned to the desk, the touch sending jolts of electricity up my spine. “Which means fewer eyes on us, fewer people to convince.”
We bent over the blueprints again, his chest brushing my shoulder as he traced paths through the building. “The records room will be here. During previews, they’ll be focused on the main gallery. If we time it right...”
“We can slip away without anyone noticing. If we play it right, they might even think that we’re leaving to…” I gulped, hyper-aware of how close we stood. I couldn’t finish my thought. Couldn’t say the words “sex” or “fuck” in front of him. Not when it was taking everything in my power to stop myself from kissing him.
“These men know me,” he said quietly. “Executives and CEOs…they know I never bring anyone to events. Never get...distracted.” His fingers flexed against my back. “So when I do...”
The implications hung heavy between us. We’d have to sell it—the powerful executive and his art advisor, their professional relationship cracking under obvious attraction. It wouldn’t take much acting.
We both knew it.
“It’s a solid plan,” I said, trying to sound more confident than I felt. “Simple. Clean.”
“Simple.” He echoed with a harsh laugh. One of his hands was still at my back, burning through the silk of my blouse. “Nothing about this is simple.”
The double meaning wasn’t lost on me. I turned to face him, closer than I’d intended. “Colton...”
His phone pinged again—Steele’s data coming through. The moment fractured. We stepped apart, resuming our business personas without missing a beat.
“We should both go to the Ashworth event this weekend. I wasn’t planning on it, but…we can use the evening to sell us as a couple to the right people,” he said, his voice carefully controlled. “And tomorrow, we need to finally get into the art vault and confirm it’s empty.”
“You’re right, we need proof.” I gathered my things, keenly aware of his eyes following my movements. At the door, I paused. “Colton?”
“Hmm?”
“What if this works? What if we actually find what we need?”
His expression softened just slightly. “Then we end this. All of it.”
I nodded and left, wondering which ‘this’ he meant. The case? The pretense? Or whatever was building between us, heated and dangerous and impossible to ignore.
We’d be playing roles, but I wasn’t sure how much would be acting anymore. And that terrified me more than any of the dangers waiting in the bank’s vault or Mayfair’s hidden wine cellars.
As I waited for the elevator, my mind drifted to this weekend’s task—another event filled with lies. The bank’s client roster was made up of titled individuals with legacy properties, their manicured gardens fertilized by decades of buried truths. The Ashworth Estate would be no different, and half of London’s elite would gather to pretend they understood art while making deals in shadows.
I pushed those thoughts away. First, we had to get through tomorrow night. The vault. The evidence we needed.
The elevator doors opened, and I stepped inside, my reflection fractured in the mirrored walls. Less than twenty-four hours until we broke into the bank’s secure vault. After that would come the Ashworth gathering, then finally the auction at Mayfair. One impossible thing at a time.
And somewhere in the middle of it all, I had to figure out what to do about the way Colton Moreau made me feel whenever he looked at me like that.