A splash, an outraged shriek, and giggles broke the spell.
Rhys broke the kiss instantly. The sudden shift was brutal. The man she’d had under the moonlight vanished as his armor locked back into place.
“Much has changed since that night,” he said, the rasp in his voice the only sign he was affected. “We have to find a way to work together.”
Her throat constricted, and her chest ached. Her confession, their kiss, had changed nothing.
“And this isn’t it,” she breathed, stepping away from him. “Good night, Rhys.”
This time, he let her go, and she didn’t look back. If she had, she might have cried and begged after all.
Chapter 9
After a week of frantic planning and calling in every favor Cari and Simone were owed, the night of the showing finally arrived. Yet again, they’d reinvented the gallery, trading Gold Coast nouveau-riche panache for old-world, legacy-wealth sophistication.
Track lighting illuminated the framed and canvas pieces with museum-level precision. The crowd mingled, sipping Cari’s expensive champagne and nibbling on Emily’s canapés. Potential buyers and self-proclaimed art critics paused before each piece, studied it a moment, heads tilting then murmured their judgments. They wore custom suits and one-off designer gowns, exuding the effortless confidence of people accustomed to extravagance.
Security was unobtrusive but absolute. Dev’s signature. Cari and Simone matched his thoroughness step by meticulous step.
Rhys adjusted his cuff links as he crossed the room, every movement calibrated and unhurried. He wore the role of Lucien Blackwood with an old-money air, international polish, and the faintest hint of boredom with the whole affair. The kind of man who belonged anywhere because his wealth and importance allowed him to.
The gallery buzzed with interest in Sabitini’s protégé, but everyone knew the real draw tonight was the single item up forauction. He didn’t head straight for it. That would be rude and much too obvious.
Instead, he worked the room with a nod here, a murmured comment there. He allowed himself to be noticed without demanding attention, a trick he’d perfected long ago.
After sufficient time had passed, he moved toward the far wall to where the fourth panelhung alone under a spotlight behind a velvet rope. Rhys slowed, seeing it for the first time.
As a child, vacationing with his parents in Europe, he’d been dragged to museums aplenty. He’d seen the works of the old masters and eventually developed a genuine appreciation for them. The piece was exquisite in its brushwork and palette, and its boldness for the time. Bellandi didn’t hint at or censor the sensuality; he declared it.
Stopping a respectful distance away, he murmured in Italian, “Tentazione.”
The man beside him glanced over, sizing him up in a heartbeat before his gaze returned to the panel.
Medium height, salt-and-pepper hair, impeccably dressed, his wealth worn like a second skin, Sebastián Álvarez regarded the painting with a look of hunger that bordered on possession, like a lover he’d waited far too long to claim.
“It’s as beautiful as I imagined,” Rhys said. “Although I was beginning to think it didn’t exist.”
Álvarez turned again, mouth set in a hard line, perhaps perturbed at having his moment with the elusive piece interrupted. “Do you intend to bid, Mr…?”
Rhys extended his hand. “Lucien Blackwood.”
Álvarez took it, his skin soft from a life of luxury. “You’re British,” he observed.
“I don’t claim a country,” Rhys replied easily. “I’ve lived in too many places for that. I heard from the gallery owner thatanother serious bidder had emerged. Are you, by chance, my competition?”
Álvarez’s attention snapped back to the panel. “I must have it. It is a sin for the fourth not to reside with the others.”
There it was. Not desire—entitlement.
“It would indeed be a shame for you not to possess all of them, Mr. Álvarez.”
The other man looked at him sharply. In that single sentence, with knowledge offered like a courtesy, Rhys had revealed he’d done his research and knew exactly who Álvarez was and what he already owned.
Simone approached, elegant in a black gown that traced the lines of her lithe frame. The slit revealed a glimpse of toned thigh as she walked. Álvarez’s gaze slid to her, interest sparking briefly before extinguishing.
A curl of distaste tightened in Rhys’s gut. Past thirty, Simone was almost certainly outside Álvarez’s appetites.
“Gentlemen,” she said warmly. “Please enjoy the refreshments and explore the rest of the gallery while we prepare our featured piece for auction. Bidding starts in fifteen minutes.
