Chapter 18
The boat cut cleanly through the water, spray misting over Gaby’s skin, the sunshine on the waves flashing like glittering shards of glass.
To a Florida girl, nothing about the scene should have felt dreamlike.
Yet the clothes, the luxury, the role she was playing made the moment feel surreal: too bright, too perfect, too calm.
She glanced at Rhys at the rail beside her.
Correction. Lucien Blackwood. She had to remember that.
He stood in a tan suit, open collar, loafers without socks, and ultra-dark designer sunglasses.
On anyone else, it would have screamed trying too hard.
On him, it looked effortless, and like he’d stepped out of a GQ spread titled “Men Who Own the Ocean.”
In another life, another version of her might have called this an adventure. But the island rising ahead of them stole the breath from her lungs. It didn’t unfurl like a resort. It loomed.
The mansion perched atop the cliffs. White stone walls and red-tiled roofs gleaming under the sun. Spanish-inspired architecture—arches, carved lintels, wrought-iron railings—gave it an old-world elegance, as if a Mediterranean fortress had been dropped into the Pacific.
It was beautiful. And wrong.
Rhys stood with the ease of a man accustomed to rare places, one hand resting lightly on the rail, his legs braced as the boat bounced over the chop.
At a glance, he looked relaxed, but Gaby knew better.
The slight tension in his jaw, the subtle turn of his head as he tracked the shoreline—he wasn’t admiring the view. He was assessing the threat.
The boat slowed as they approached the main dock. The wide platform jutted from the cliff, built to accommodate several vessels. A few were already tied off, but the largest, a long, low yacht with mirrored windows and a gunmetal hull, overshadowed the rest. álvarez’s, obviously.
Staff in pale linen waited in perfect stillness. No crowds. No noise. Just controlled privacy.
A man stepped forward as they disembarked, bowing slightly.
“Mr. Blackwood. Welcome.”
Rhys inclined his head with effortless entitlement. “Mr. álvarez doesn’t greet his guests himself?”
“He’s waiting above, sir.”
“Very well,” he murmured as he strode down the dock. Over his shoulder, he called. “Come along, Camille. Don’t dawdle.”
A steward offered his arm because she’d been abandoned. “Allow me, miss. The deck boards can be slick.”
She lost her escort at the stone steps and climbed alone, Rhys and his long stride having left her far behind. It was deliberate and part of his role. He didn’t cater to his property. She was expected to follow along, like a good pet.
She tried not to dwell on that, savoring the scent of jasmine in the air and her few moments alone, which she doubted would be many on the island.
Gaby arrived at the top slightly winded, where Rhys waited, not for her, but to greet álvarez, who swept down a rock path from the main house, flanked by men the size of Leland and Mateo.
She glanced back, reminded of their bodyguards.
They’d been on the boat with them but had disappeared once it docked.
“Lucien,” álvarez said warmly, as though greeting an old friend. “It seems meeting socially has become a habit for us.” Like a game show model, his sweeping gesture encompassed the grounds and the three-story mansion behind him. “What do you think of my little island?”
“Impressive,” Rhys murmured. “And away from crowds and prying eyes. I’m envious.”
“Mmm, it is my own little world,” he said, smug satisfaction heavy in his tone. “But for all its beauty, the best part is… I make all the rules.” He turned. “Come. Let me show you to the main house.”
They were led through open-air corridors where sunlight filtered through carved stone and trailing greenery.
Gaby noticed how the staff paused in their duties to bow as he passed, like he was the most powerful man in their orbit, but royal to boot.
When he stopped and gave a housemaid directions about the placement of a vase filled with striking red-and-gold long-stemmed blooms, she could have sworn she said, “Yes, Majesty,” when she hurried to obey.
Startled, Gaby inhaled sharply.
Rhys cleared his throat to cover, commenting, “Those are stunning. What are they?”
“I’m thrilled you asked. Exotic flora is another little hobby of mine. I employ a botanist and have a greenhouse on the island.”
“Are these native?”
“They are now,” he said with a chuckle. “Gloriosa superba,” he announced, full of self-importance. “In layman’s terms, flame lilies. They are a work of art—intricate, hypnotic, and as beautiful as they are toxic.”
A perfect metaphor for the island.
“You’ve come at a most fortuitous time,” álvarez said, smiling as he moved up the walkway. “I have many surprises prepared for a lover of beauty and fine art.” His eyes settled on Gaby—cool, assessing, making her skin crawl. “Your muse will fit right in.”
Dread pooled in her stomach as she tried to imagine what twisted entertainments he had planned.
“We’ll tour my collection at length when all my guests arrive, but just for you, Lucien, I thought you might enjoy a private sneak preview of La Caduta.”
Rhys’s interest was immediate, controlled. “I would. Thank you. I’ve looked forward to seeing Tentazione again since losing it at the auction.”
álvarez’s smile widened, unapologetically gloating. “Some collectors cling too tightly to what should be released.”
He didn’t take the bait. “Some works belong with those who understand them.”
“It’s uncanny how much we think alike, my friend.”
Gaby didn’t look to see his reaction, but she was certain Rhys concealed his disgust at álvarez’s attempt at flattery.
They passed through a stone portico into an expansive foyer. Paintings lined the walls, and statuary nestled in recessed niches, each individually lit to its best advantage. Gaby wasn’t an expert, but even she recognized a few pieces, or at least the styles they mimicked.
A storm-dark seascape that looked like a Turner. A portrait with the unmistakable brushwork of a Sargent. A still life so vivid it could have been a Dutch master, all gleaming fruit and shadowed silver. Cari and Simone would have lost their minds in here except for all the gaudy gold frames.
Still, the room was all about money. The collection alone could have fed a small country for months, maybe years. And this wasn’t even the main attraction.
álvarez led them through a set of tall, arched doors into an expansive gallery.
Where the foyer was crowded with pieces, the triptych dominated an entire wall, displayed beneath dramatic lighting that cast the panels in warm gold and deep shadow.
The original three works—Faith, Purity, and Obedience—were now joined by Temptation, completing the story.
Like a priest before an altar, veneration woven into every step, álvarez advanced.
“You’ve staged it beautifully,” Rhys stated, appealing to his obsession. “Exactly as it deserves.”
“Yes, but the hunt is over,” he said, almost sadly. “I shall have to find another rare work to pursue, to feed my obsession.”
His attention drifted to Gaby, lingering and speculative. She didn’t doubt for a minute his next acquisition would be a new muse rather than another painting.
“I’m sure you’d like to refresh yourself after your travels. We have facilities for your muse. Unless you prefer her to stay with you?”
Outwardly, she remained composed, eyes lowered respectfully, posture perfect.
Inside, she cringed as she imagined what those facilities might be.
Gilded cages? Metal crates like Enzo had used for new “merchandise.” She’d been in one for longer than she cared to remember.
Cold bars, no space to stand, treated like an animal.
Rhys didn’t hesitate. A faint, proprietary curve touched his mouth. “I’ll keep her with me.”
álvarez gave a dismissive shrug. “Your muse. Your choice.” He clapped his hands twice, making Gaby jump. A uniformed housemaid appeared. “Show Mr. Blackwood to his suite.”
And his guest, she wanted to scream. A real person who can hear you.
But for Natalie, and the others who might be stored in the “facilities,” she dutifully followed her owner, reduced to inventory again. This time, without even a fake name. No one had spoken it through the interaction. Not even Rhys.
***
As soon as the suite door closed, Gaby pulled the combs from her hair. While she shook it loose, she took in the room without seeming to.
Rhys felt it before he saw it. A smoke detector that wasn’t. A pinprick of glass embedded in a ceiling beam, angled toward the bed.
She stepped toward him, her fingers sliding up his chest to unknot his tie. Her lips barely moved. “Suite’s hot.”
Good. She’d seen it too.
His hand moved to the small of her back—light, unremarkable—exactly what would be expected. “Bathroom,” he uttered low.
She didn’t argue.
The en suite was all marble, glass, and polished chrome. Rhys crossed to the shower and turned the water on full. It thundered against the tile, steam rising fast and thick, swallowing sound.
He scanned the ceiling vents, the recessed lighting, and the mirror. Monitoring the bathroom felt like overkill, but álvarez didn’t do half measures.
“We can talk here,” he said quietly. “Assuming he hasn’t bugged the pipes, too.”
Without hesitating, Gaby reached for the clasp at the back of her dress and let it slide to the floor. Not seduction. This was the role.
Every line and gentle curve of her body drew him in as she stepped out of her panties and into the stall. Steam veiled and revealed in equal measure. She glanced back once, brows lifting slightly, then moved beneath the spray.
He stripped and followed.
The moment she put her hands on his chest, the air changed. Not because of the touch. Because of the awareness behind it.
“If they’re watching,” she said softly, “they’ll expect you to follow through.”
Her voice was steady. Her eyes were not.
“I won’t ask that of you,” he replied.
She searched his face. “You’re not asking. I told you once—I’ll do anything for Natalie.”
When he held still, she took the initiative and started to drop to her knees.
Rhys caught her shoulders. “If they’re watching, they’d also expect a muse to attend her master after a long flight.”
It was a delay, but a plausible one. He grabbed a loofah, covered it with foaming soap, then brought her hands to his chest. As she washed him, they compared notes.
“The main house has more security than the manifest,” she said.
“I counted nine guards on approach,” he replied. “Rotating patrols. Two elevated posts.”
“I noticed security in the courtyard we passed.”
“Iron gate. Biometric scanner. One guard. The east wing, opposite to where we’re staying,” he said, having clocked it, too.
She looked up. “Muse facilities?”
If Natalie were here, Rhys knew in his gut, they’d find her there. Like a priceless gem, locked away and brought out only when álvarez wanted to show it off.
He didn’t share everything his gut told him, merely, “That’s my read.”
She swallowed and nodded, centering herself. “Did you hear the maid call him ‘Majesty’?” she asked, unable to keep the contempt from her voice.
His jaw flexed. “Yes, which makes him dangerous.”
“And certifiable,” she added.
Once he’d rinsed, he swapped places with her, moving her under the water. The shower was roomy but not built for two, and his hand brushed her breast.
Her reaction was instant. His was impossible to hide. His desire rose long and hard between them.
“Sorry. That part’s out of my control.”
“It’s okay,” she whispered, meeting his gaze as her fingers closed around him.
“Gaby, you don’t have to.”
“Camille would,” she murmured. “And I want to.”
Neither of them could deny the pull, no matter how many times he tried to walk away.
That was the last thing he wanted now as he watched her sink to the tiles.
She didn’t look away as she first licked the tip then encompassed him in the warmth of her mouth.
He braced his hands against the wall, fighting instinct.
The mission was his priority, yet the squeeze of her fingers, the constant suction, and the slow circling of her tongue made it impossible to focus.
How many times had he imagined this—having her beneath him again, or waking curled around her back, pressed to her warm, satiny skin?
Looking down, he saw her spiky dark lashes, her sun-kissed skin glistening with droplets, and her pink lips enveloping him. He slid his fingers into her wet curls. His intent wasn’t control. He wanted to anchor the emotion arcing between them, need and something deeper, before reality intruded.
Rhys relaxed into her touch, but it soon became too much. With an indistinct sound, he drew her up, lifting her easily and pressing her back to the tile. He slid inside her in one controlled motion, their eyes meeting as heat and hunger flared between them.
To anyone watching, it might look like possession. What they wouldn’t see was his struggle to hold back, and how quickly he was losing that battle. Because with her, control was starting to mean something different.