Dante’s Inferno #3
“What’s the sister like?” My attention shifted to Isabella as she pointed to something in the painting. She had black polish on her short, squared nails, and multiple rings on her fingers.
“Ice cold and tough as nails,” Chloe whispered. “She runs a string of bars and nightclubs, but a friend told me she often hosts high-stakes poker games.”
She definitely had that tough, edgy look about her.
“Don’t let her demeanor fool you,” Chloe added with a snort. “Apparently, she’s a bitch. Thinks she’s better than everyone.”
I recalled the arctic gaze, and even though I tried not to think badly of anyone, in this case, I could believe it. I hadn’t exactly warmed to her.
They moved on to the next piece, and then the next, making their way around the gallery.
An art critic from the New York Times came up to me and I was momentarily distracted. After I’d answered his questions on the exhibition, I turned back in time to see Dante disappearing down the hallway toward the office area.
Puzzled, I hurried after him. This section was cordoned off with a velvet rope. It should have been quite obvious it was out of bounds. If he was looking for the restroom, they were clearly marked on the opposite side of the gallery.
When I got there, he was nowhere to be seen.
I checked the storeroom but the door was still locked.
Nobody had accessed that. Next, I poked my head into the printing and photocopying room that doubled as Vincent’s office on the one day of the week he worked at the gallery. It was empty. That left my office.
Heart pounding, but also angry, I pushed open the door to find Dante Marcelli sitting at my desk like he owned the place.
“What are you doing?” I snapped.
He glanced up like I hadn’t just caught him sneaking. I noticed a desk drawer was open; I certainly hadn’t left it like that.
“Are you looking through my things?”
I wondered whether to call Vincent. We didn’t have security here, despite the enormous wealth on the walls. The guestlist was far too genteel for that. Last time I’d make that mistake.
Vincent was the closest thing I had to muscle, but the thought was almost laughable. The British accountant and art aficionado was more suited to tackling spreadsheets than intruders. Especially ones built like Dante Marcelli.
“I was hoping to find some notepaper and a pen,” he said nonchalantly. “But it doesn’t look like you have either of those things.”
“You want to write something down?” I frowned. “I can email you anything you want to know.”
The arrogant tilt of his head and the way his gray eyes fixed on me with a flash of annoyance made me think he was lying.
When he didn’t move, I took a step back and held out my hand. “If you don’t mind. This area is off limits to guests.” I didn’t care who he was, he was not allowed in my office.
“I’d like to put in an offer on The Fire Within,” he said, catching me off guard.
I pouted, studying him. With his muscular physique, tattoos, and unshaven, rough appeal, he looked the furthest thing from an art lover that you could imagine.
I kept my voice steady. “That piece already has an offer in on it.”
“I’ll beat it.”
“I’m sorry, it doesn’t work like that.”
“Who’s the offer from?”
“That’s confidential.”
He didn’t so much as blink. “Sergei Malakov, by any chance?”
I gasped. “How did you—?”
“I didn’t, but you’ve just confirmed it for me. Thank you.”
I balled my hands into fists. The smirking bastard had tricked me.
“Besides, I heard he shops here often,” he added, like the gallery was a Target or Walmart.
“I don’t appreciate you sneaking back here and then asking me about other clients,” I said snootily.
His lips curved into a sinister smile. “I was just leaving, Ophelia.”
I started at him confused. “That’s not my name.”
He’d already called me Evelyn, so he knew very well what my name was. And he couldn’t possibly know about the Millais painting above my bed. He’d never stepped foot into my apartment, nor was he ever going to.
He circled the desk. “You remind me of a Pre-Raphaelite muse.”
The reference had my pulse racing, even though I was beyond annoyed at his arrogance.
To my surprise, he raised a hand and brushed my cheek with his knuckles. I recoiled, which only made him chuckle.
“Are you as colorful in real life, Ophelia?” His gaze ran down the length of my body, from my chiffon neckline all the way to the flared silk skirt of my dress. “Or are you as rigid and unyielding as you look?”
I didn’t know how to answer that. The space suddenly seemed too small for the both of us. He was so close I could see the silver specks in his irises. Beautiful eyes.
Beautiful but cold. Did all the Marcellis have ice flowing through their veins?
“I think you should leave,” I said coldly.
He tilted his head. “You sure you won’t reconsider my offer for the Reyes? It’s a good one.”
“I told you, it’s already sold.”
He gave me one last lingering look, then nodded, and turned back down the hallway. I took a moment to gather myself.
But when I returned to the gallery, Dante and his sister were gone.