Page 99 of Eternal Surrender

She fell forward, laughing with the glee of a woman who’d found the perfect man.

“Want to go again, darling?” he teased.

She spun around, throwing her arms around him, as though he had just handed her the most precious gift, as though in that instant he was offering her the entire world. He reached low and cupped her sex between her thighs and she nestled in for a hug.

“Best art gallery tour I’ve ever had!” Her laughter rang out.

He looked my way and winked his mischief.

I gave an incredulous smile, and then gestured that Montague had arrived.

Marcus splayed out his left hand, indicating he’d only be five more minutes with her, and then leaned forward, gently grasping Lola’s blonde curls, nudging her face lower.

I turned to go but hesitated briefly, admiring the sculpture’s masterfully chiseled face, my attention caught by his heavy-lidded rapture.

That sculpture, like me, had seen its fair share of antics, a sly, knowing tilt to its form as if it had lived through more than a few deliciously scandalous moments.

Within twenty minutes, Marcus and I were driving with Sebastian, who was at the wheel of the hired blue Mini Cooper. We’d just made a swift left at Great Newport Street.

Sebastian squeezed on the brakes in time to let several Japanese tourists continue their journey across the street, seemingly oblivious to the fact we’d almost run them over.

Just ahead, ensconced in the passenger seat of the Hackney carriage was Jeremy Montague, his taxi disappearing round the corner onto Charing Cross Road.

“I don’t remember mentioning anything about a Mini.” My knees were scrunched up against the front passenger’s dashboard.

“You wanted fast and nippy,” Sebastian said.

I grabbed the handrail. “Had a Jag in mind.”

“Can’t believe you sold Montague the Brown Odalisque,” Marcus said from the backseat.

Sebastian crinkled his nose. “You never told me it was off limits.”

He navigated the car onto Bow Street and there we watched Jeremy Montague exit his taxi and head up the steps of the Royal Opera House with the painting tucked under his left arm.

“What’s that other thing under his arm?” Marcus asked.

Sebastian peered through the windscreen. “Some kind of material?”

“Pull up here.” I gestured to the curb.

Montague quick-footed it inside, and Marcus and I were out of the Mini and right behind him. We entered the grand foyer with its illustrious white arched windows overlooking the finely polished pinewood floorboards. Rising on either side of us were thin ornate pillars.

Montague was well ahead of us. He swept a long black cape around his shoulders, still hugging the painting snugly beneath his left arm. With a nod of permission to enter the theater from a male usher, Montague slipped out of sight.

Marcus and I followed, though when asked for our tickets we merely had to trance out the young man to make it past him and into the grand amphitheater.

Above us spread out an endless dramatic ceiling with opulent colorful circles and on either side were golden lit three-tiered private booths, throwing rich textures of yellow light into the center and illuminating the stalls.

The stage was set for a performance of Phantom of the Opera. This audience, however, mingled among the seats, all of them wearing late eighteen-century attire and all of them masked.

And we’d lost Montague.

My elaborate plan had gone awry.

Chapter Twenty-One

Belshazzar’s, the once-thriving haunt of London’s elite, was now a shell of its former place, stripped bare of everything and everyone that had made it one of England’s most exclusive clubs.