Forbidden Bliss (Wolfe Family Rivals #5)

1. Tristan

Chapter 1

Tristan

T he golden light of dawn filters through the floor-to-ceiling windows, bathing my minimalist penthouse in a desert glow. I stand motionless, transfixed by the fiery hues of orange and pink streaking across the Las Vegas skyline before me.

My towering older brother, Ethan, stands behind me. “You’ve always had an eye for the exquisite.”

His amber eyes study the massive landscape painting dominating the living room wall before he shifts to take in several more nature-inspired pieces displayed throughout the open concept room.

My siblings and their spouses never miss an opportunity to discuss my art investments. They claim it’s a frivolous use of money, but I view it as self-expression with a potential for profit. It’s a constant internal battle between pleasing my family and following my passion.

I step back from the window and view the paintings from his perspective. Rubbing the nape of my neck, I sigh. “Yeah, it’s becoming my niche.”

Ethan levels me with a knowing look. “More like an obsession. You’ve been outbidding everyone at the auctions, which makes no sense because you already own all the pieces. Isn’t the idea of an art auction to get them sold?”

He’s right, but I can’t imagine anyone else owning these. “No one else deserves them.”

“That one of the pregnant woman by the lake would have fetched you a million dollars, but you instead hung it in your bedroom, of all places.”

I face him. “Did you come here to discuss business, or are you just here to babysit me?”

He angles his head to the side. “I came here because I’m concerned about your wellbeing, and like I mentioned last night, I discovered some information about this artist you’ve been obsessed with.”

I rake a hand through my hair, happy to change the subject. “Yeah. You said they might be up in Northern Nevada?”

My brother nods. “Yep. In the mountains.” He flings a glance at another painting. “Like the ones covering every wall of your penthouse.”

My heartbeat thuds against my ribs. It’s the first time I’ve ever gotten a tip on the anonymous artist whose work I’ve been collecting for years. A flutter hits my belly as I lean in. “Which mountains?”

“Sierra Nevada. Up near a little town called Blushing Creek.”

As I grip the back of a dining chair and stare into a vibrant landscape painting, my jaw sets. I will find this elusive artist if it’s the last thing I do.

Later, I’m restless in bed as the paintings and the mysterious artist behind them consume every thought. Rubbing a hand down my face and pushing off the sheets, I rise and step out onto the balcony. The crisp midnight air hits me, and as I take in a deep breath and let the coolness fill my lungs, my mind wanders.

Who is this person and why have they chosen to stay anonymous?

I had invited the mystery painter to attend events, dinners, and auctions, but they’d always refused with no explanation.

It’s time. I’ve got to track down this artist.

After throwing a few items into a leather backpack, I make my way down to the lobby, ignoring the curious stares of the building staff.

They’re used to it by now—me disappearing from my penthouse at random hours of the day or night without a reason.

Setting the bag into the trunk, I slide into my Lamborghini and smooth my hands over the wheel.

By dawn, I’m speeding down the highway with the Vegas skyline disappearing behind me.

Do I know exactly why I’m desperate to find that painter?

No.

Will finding them make me feel any better?

I sure as hell hope so.

I have no idea why I’m so drawn to this artist and their work, but I must sort this out.

After hours of driving through endless desert landscapes and winding mountain roads, a sight of a weathered gas station sign near Blushing Creek stirs my pulse.

The gas station sits on a deserted highway, its old and faded sign swinging slightly in the wind. The pumps are rusty, and the building itself looks like it needs an urgent update.

I park the car and get out. As I swing open the glass door, the smell of old motor oil and stale coffee hits my nose.

But as soon as I lay eyes on the paintings lining the walls, I freeze. The paintings have the same vibrant colors and dark, brooding tones as the art on my walls at home. These are the works of art that have captivated me for years.

My keen eyes continue to scan the rows of touristy prints displayed at the counter, when suddenly I spot it.

There, among the images of aspen groves and alpine lakes, with a pregnant woman viewing it all, is a piece I know all too well—the signature style I’ve been chasing. My eyes scan over the piece, taking in every detail and stroke of paint.

I thrust the print towards the attendant, my movements frenzied and impatient. “Do you know who did this?”

Before the lanky, older man can respond, a little girl with amber eyes appears at my side.

Her face is round and cherubic, with a sprinkling of freckles over her cheeks. She wears a faded blue dress that frays at the edges, and dusty white sandals.

The girl’s curious eyes meet mine, mirroring my intense gaze. Her small finger points at the print. “That’s Mama’s.”

Her voice echoes in my brain.

Mama’s.

Is she the daughter of the artist I’ve pursued for years?

Before I fully process this revelation, a woman’s voice rings out from another aisle. “Lana! What did I tell you about speaking to strangers?”

The girl looks down. “Sorry, Mama.”

My eyes snap up to the woman rushing over to her daughter and I halt, my brain scrambling.

The faint scent of her flowery, vanilla perfume fills my nostrils and triggers memories that flood my mind.

It’s Willow. My Willow.

After so many years, here she stands before me once again. Her sun-kissed hair cascades over her shoulders in waves while her blue eyes penetrate my soul, just as they did the first day I ever saw her.

“Willow?”

Her jaw drops before she freezes at the front counter. “Tristan.”

My mind reels. How is this possible? Willow is here, and the little girl called her ‘Mama.’ Strangely, the child’s nose and amber eyes resemble my own.

Oh my god. Is she …

Willow glances between the little girl and me while a crease forms between her eyebrows. She moves to usher the child away. “We have to leave, sweetheart.”

Panic seizes me. I won’t lose Willow again. Not when I’ve just found her. “No, wait.”

She reaches for the little girl’s hand and continues walking.

I stalk after them, my pulse racing. “Willow.”

She doesn’t turn and acknowledge me. She simply loads Lana into the back of a black Range Rover and gets into the passenger’s seat.

I glimpse at the driver’s shadowy silhouette as the sleek SUV backs out of its parking spot and pulls on to the main road.

Adrenaline pumps through my veins. Who the hell is that guy and why is he driving her around?

My fists clench at my sides as I watch the car disappear down the dusty road.

She’s not leaving me again. Not gonna happen. I jump in my Lambo and the roar of the engine comes to life.

Coming here should have been simple. The task was to locate the elusive artist, hear their story, and purchase more of their work for my collection. But now everything has changed.

I’ve spent years trying to forget Willow, filling the void with business and art investments. But seeing her now has cracked open that hollow place in my chest, exposing the raw wounds I’ve worked hard to bury.

Now that I’ve found her, I won’t make the mistake of letting her go. She will be mine once again.