Chapter Nineteen
Isabella
The bank’s art storage facility was a fortress masquerading as a warehouse on the outskirts of London. Inside, past three security checkpoints and a retinal scanner, the climate-controlled vaults held billions in art and antiquities.
According to the records, anyway.
After discovering three separate insurance claims for artworks that clients were told were ‘unavailable for viewing,’ I knew we needed to check the vault ourselves. The documentation was flawless, suspiciously so. If our assumptions about the falsified claims proved correct, we’d have compelling evidence of the bank’s questionable dealings.
I tried to steady my nerves as we approached Vault Seven. I’d spent years avoiding these sealed rooms since the incident at our family estate in Provence—three hours trapped in the wine cellar at eight years old, screaming until my voice gave out. The memory alone made my chest tight.
Luckily, pieces were always brought to the presentation rooms, and up until now, I’d never had an excuse to go in.
“The Monet should be here.” I checked my tablet as Colton and I walked the sterile corridor, focusing on work rather than my growing unease. “Along with the Degas from last month’s acquisition.”
Colton’s footsteps echoed beside mine, his dress shoes impeccably clean and polished. “The one that weighs twice what it should?”
“Precisely.” I glanced at him, noting how the harsh fluorescent lighting emphasized the rugged angles of his face. My fingers itched to trace that jawline, a desire I’d been fighting for weeks now. “Shall we see what’s really in there?”
His jaw tightened. “You’re sure about this?”
“About inspecting art that officially belongs to our bank?” I kept my voice light, professional, though my hand trembled slightly as I reached for my access card. “It’s quite literally my job, Mr. Moreau.”
“At 7:00 p.m. on a Friday?”
“Best time for a surprise audit, wouldn’t you say?”
He didn’t answer, but I felt his tension as we approached the vault. Everything about this was irregular—the late hour, the chief counsel accompanying the art expert, the way we’d deliberately chosen a time when the regular staff would be gone.
I tried not to focus on how his presence affected me. On how our careful investigation had turned into something more complicated with each late night and shared discovery. Something that made me notice things I shouldn’t, like how his voice took on a different tone when we were alone, or the way his eyes would linger on me during meetings, dark with intent, before his guarded expression took hold again.
I swiped my access card, fighting down memories of another heavy door closing. The vault’s lock released with a pneumatic hiss.
“After you,” he murmured, his voice carrying that hint of roughness that never failed to create butterflies in my stomach.
The temperature dropped immediately as we entered; the vault was kept at a precise temperature to preserve the artwork. My silk blouse offered little protection against the chill, my nipples instantly hardening. I caught Colton’s gaze dropping to my chest before he quickly looked away, his own jaw clenching. I wished I would have put on a better bra this morning, one with more padding. But it was the sealed space that made my skin crawl.
“The Monet should be here.” I moved to the first storage rack, scanning the climate-controlled cases, staying close to the door. “According to the manifest, it arrived three weeks ago.”
Colton checked the second rack while I examined the first. The vault was large, perhaps forty meters square, with floor-to-ceiling storage systems designed for paintings and sculptures.
“Isabella.” His voice was tight. “The Degas isn’t here either.”
“None of them are.” I moved faster now, checking case after case. “The vault’s nearly empty.”
A sound from outside made us both freeze. Voices in the corridor.
Colton moved silently to the door, peering through the small window. His entire body went rigid.
“Reznikov,” he breathed. “And Ross.”
My blood turned colder than the vault air. What was Rodger doing here at this hour? And with Anton Reznikov of all people?
“They’re coming this way.” Colton’s voice was barely audible.
“We need to—”
The vault door swung shut with a decisive click.
Darkness. Complete, absolute darkness. Just like the cellar. Fear spiraled through my body, constricting my breathing. The memories instantly came crashing back. The smell of wine and stone, my small fists pounding against wood, screaming until my throat was raw.
“Colton?” I hated how my voice shook; hated how weak I sounded.
“Here.” His hand found mine in the black. “Don’t move.”
The emergency lights flickered on, dim blue LED strips that cast everything in ghostly shadows. Outside, voices murmured. The vault’s security panel beeped.
“They’re resetting the access codes,” I whispered, fighting to control my breathing. “We’re locked in.”
“They don’t know we’re here. They’re trying to mask their own footprints.” His fingers tightened on mine when he felt my trembling. “Isabella? What’s wrong?”
“I can’t...” The walls seemed to press closer. “I don’t do well in sealed spaces. Not since I was a child.”
Understanding crossed his face. Then, softly: “Come here.”
Something in his voice—a sweet tenderness I’d never heard from the always-composed Colton Moreau—made my pulse quicken for entirely different reasons. I hesitated for just a moment, professional boundaries battling with panic and something else. Something that had been building between us since that first late night when he’d looked at me across his desk like he wanted to devour me.
When I stepped into his arms, it felt inevitable. His suit jacket was warm from his body heat, his cologne light but distinctly masculine. This close, I could feel the strength in him, not just the physical changes from his training, but something deeper. More fundamental. There was a raw, primal energy that radiated from him, ancient and masculine. It was in the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, the unwavering intensity of his look that claimed without touching. Something elemental, like earth and fire combined.
“Better?” His voice rumbled through his chest where I was pressed against him, and the sound vibrated straight through to my core.
I nodded, focusing on his heartbeat rather than the walls closing in. His arms tightened, one hand rubbing slow circles on my back. The gesture was oddly intimate for a man who I’d watched pull away countless times when our fingers brushed over documents or our bodies drew too close in elevator rides.
“We should conserve heat,” he said, though his voice had grown rougher. “Sit.”
He guided us to the floor, maneuvering until I was practically in his lap, his suit jacket wrapped around both of us. The position should have felt inappropriate, but instead it felt...right. Like something I’d been waiting for without knowing it. Like all those moments had been leading us here.
His body was solid behind mine, radiating heat and security in equal measure. When had I started noticing the power he contained behind those expensive suits? The way his hands could break concrete in training but touched papers so delicately during meetings? The contrast that made me ache to feel those hands on my skin?
“They’re still out there?” I whispered, as much to distract myself from both our proximity and my claustrophobia as anything else.
“Yes.” His breath stirred my hair, sending shivers down my spine that had nothing to do with the cold. “But I won’t let anything happen to you.”
I closed my eyes, trying to focus on the muffled voices rather than the feel of his hand spanning my waist, the way his chest rose and fell against my back. Through the vault door, I caught fragments about cargo manifests and temperature controls. Then Ross’s voice grew clearer.
“The buyers in Dubai are getting impatient.”
Dubai? I felt Colton tense behind me.
“Your incompetence cost us three shipments,” Reznikov replied coldly. “And now you tell me there may be problems with the London route?”
“The alternative channels are secure. The delays are from having to rework the entire operation after the raid—”
“I don’t want excuses. I want results.” Reznikov’s voice hardened. “We’re losing money every day they sit in temporary storage.”
My mind raced, pieces falling into place. Everything was confirmed. And now this—some kind of failed operation in Dubai that had Rodger scrambling.
A particularly violent shiver ran through me. Colton’s arms tightened automatically, one hand sliding up to rub warmth into my arm. The touch, though innocent, felt electric. Every stroke of his fingers sent sparks dancing across my skin.
“Cold?”
“Not just that.” I turned my face into his neck, seeking warmth and something else. The steady beat of his pulse against my cheek was reassuring. Grounding. The scent of his skin made me want to taste it.
In the cold blue darkness of the vault, everything felt heightened. The brush of his fingers against my skin. The solid warmth of his chest against mine. His cologne mixed with the musty scent of the vault, creating an intoxicating mixture of suspense. Every point of contact between us seemed to burn despite the frigid air. Every slight movement sent awareness shivering through me.
His thumb brushed my cheekbone, and I couldn’t stop the small sound that escaped me. The touch was achingly tender. His eyes darkened at my response, pupils dilating until only a thin ring of brown remained. I’d seen that look before, across conference tables and in cramped elevators, always quickly hidden. But here in the dark, he didn’t look away.
“Bella...” He used my nickname, one that people rarely used. It sounded like a warning, a plea, a prayer. His voice had dropped to that rough timbre that made heat pool low in my abdomen. That made me imagine how he’d sound moaning my name in other circumstances.
Maybe it was the cold making everything feel more real. Maybe it was the adrenaline of danger and discovery coursing through our veins. Maybe it was how safe I felt in his arms despite the terror lurking outside. Or maybe it was simply that I’d been fighting this attraction for longer than I cared to admit, denying the way my body responded to his presence, the way my skin tingled whenever he was near.
I shifted in his lap, turning to face him fully. His hands tightened on my hips, not restraining, just steadying. Always so careful with me, even now. The emergency lights cast shadows across his face, emphasizing his strong cheekbones, the chiseled line of his jaw. This close, I could see a faint scar above his eyebrow that I’d never noticed before. Could count his eyelashes. Could feel the rapid beat of his heart matching my own.
“My beautiful Bella.” The endearment slipped out from his throat on a shaky exhale. One hand came up to cup my face, his thumb tracing my lower lip. The calluses on his fingers caught slightly on my skin, sending shivers spiraling down my arms. Fire followed in the wake of his touch. “We should...”
But he didn’t finish the thought. Couldn’t seem to find the words as I leaned into his touch. His other hand slid up my back, pulling me impossibly close. The position brought our faces mere inches apart, close enough to share breath. Close enough to feel the tension thrumming between us like a downed wire.
This time, I wasn’t going to let him pull away.
When I kissed him, it felt like the pieces of a puzzle flying together.
For a heartbeat, he went completely still. Every muscle rigid with shock or resistance, I couldn’t tell which. My mind instantly recalled the gossip from the break room—the carefully orchestrated encounters with visiting executives, the controlled distance he maintained with women, the way he never allowed real intimacy. Never stayed the night. Never kissed. I started to pull back, embarrassment flooding through me, but then his hand slid into my hair and everything changed.
He kissed me like a man starving. Like he’d been holding himself back for as long as I had. His mouth was demanding yet achingly gentle, taking control with a thoroughness that made me melt against him. I gasped at the first touch of his tongue, and he took advantage, deepening the kiss until I could barely remember my own name or where we were.
His hands weren’t gentle anymore. They roamed my back, my sides, learning every curve while holding me firmly against him. When my fingers found the bare skin of his throat above his collar, he made a sound that was pure erotic need. The kiss turned harder, deeper, with weeks of denied fulfillment fueling every molten touch.
I shifted restlessly in his lap, needing to be closer, and his hands clenched at my hips. The strength in them, carefully restrained even now, made me burn. When his mouth left mine to trail fire down my throat, I had to bite back a moan. His teeth scraped my pulse point and my hands fisted in his shirt, wrinkling the expensive fabric.
“Christ,” he breathed against my skin. His voice was shattered, his tone more guttural than I’d ever heard it. One hand slid up to cup my breast through my blouse, thumb brushing across the peak. Even through layers of fabric, the touch sent desire coursing through me. I arched into his hand, abandoning any pretense of control. Our relationship had started off on a bid for power over the other, but now…he could take it. Could take whatever he wanted from me. And I’d thank him for it, and beg him to do it again.
He groaned, deep and masculine, before claiming my mouth a second time. This kiss was different—slower, deeper, like he was trying to possess me from the inside out. His hands tangled in my hair, angling my head just so, and pleasure spiraled through me at his quiet dominance. Colton Moreau, taking what he wanted.
From me.
When we finally broke apart, we were both shaking. His forehead rested against mine, hands still framing my face like I was the only woman he’d ever desired. Like he’d kill for me.
“Isabella.” My name had never sounded like that before, both raw and reverent at once. “We should stop.”
“Because of the bank?”
“Because I need to focus. And I can’t when you’re...” His thumb traced my swollen lips and I gulped suddenly. “When you affect me like this.”
Footsteps in the corridor silenced us both. His arms tightened instinctively, drawing me deeper into the protective shelter of his body.
The footsteps paused outside the vault. The security panel beeped again.
“The new route through Morocco is set,” Ross said. “We can move half the merchandise through there while we secure the London channel.”
“Good. Get it done quickly. And Rodger?” Reznikov’s voice grew colder. “Remember what happened to the last person who cost me money. No more mistakes. And get that art authenticator who’s making trouble out of the way.”
The footsteps moved away. The corridor lights clicked off.
We sat in silence, my heart hammering against Colton’s chest. His arms tightened around me, strong and protective.
“Bella.” The nickname emerged rough with emotion. “I won’t let them hurt you. Ever.”
I drew back enough to see his face in the dim emergency lights. Saw the determination there. The fury.
This time when he kissed me, it was filled with everything we couldn’t say. His hands tangled in my hair as he took control, his mouth claiming mine with a thoroughness that made me forget everything else—the cold, the danger, my old fears. The terrifying conversation we’d just overheard.
When we finally separated, his eyes were dark with more than shadow.
“We should check if they’re gone,” I murmured.
“Yes.” But he didn’t release me. “Isabella...”
“I know.” I touched his face, feeling the tension in his jaw. “But we must stop their operation. Whatever they’re running through Dubai...”
I could practically feel his sigh. “We will. But carefully.”
“Your signature approach?”
“No.” His voice hardened. “Like people who know exactly what kind of monsters we’re dealing with. And now we know just how far their network extends.”
Fifteen minutes later, when we were sure the building was empty, I used my override codes to open the vault. The corridor was dark, silent. My claustrophobia eased the moment fresh air hit my face.
But as we walked to his car, his hand stayed at the small of my back. Protective. Possessive. Ready.
We had proof now, empty vaults and overheard conversations. Evidence of new trafficking routes and failed operations.
The question was: what would we do with it?
Colton’s hand tightened on my back, as if he could read my thoughts. As if he was already planning our next move.
I just hoped it would be enough.