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Wilder was even more dazzling in person.
I’d imagined one day I might bump into him with the art world being relatively small, but never had I imagined a scenario as racy as this.
Why the hell hadn’t I worn my sexy panties?
“I’m looking for the stairs,” I managed.
“That way.” His refined American accent felt like another blow to my reason.
That alpha-maleness made him look like he’d just returned from a dangerous adventure in the Himalayas or even the jungles of Peru—
Where he’d spent his days hunting in the wilderness, or naked while fishing in a fast-running stream, and then making a campfire at night with those elegant hands, and then saving his friends from beasties that attacked our campsite.
His smile reached his eyes. A blush burned my cheeks.
He arched an eyebrow, amused.
Was he mocking me?
“I was looking for a signal.” I broke my gaze to hide my lie. “For my phone. You know, Wi-Fi.”
“Try the foyer. It’s a security issue.”
“I know that.” Which made no damn sense.
It was impossible to think straight because someone had made the executive decision to suck out all the oxygen from the room, or so it felt.
With a tug of his shirt he hid that other tattoo to the right of his lower abdomen, a Latin inscription leading to his groin immortalized in italic black ink.
“Excuse the—” He gestured to his state of undress. “I’m running late.”
This kind of manly perfection obviously knew just how beautiful he was, the way he blinked at me casually: the way he firmly weaved that bow tie around his collar without using a mirror and making quick work of forming that silk into a neat knot, and all the while his eyes not leaving mine.
Until I dragged my gaze from his to look around the room. On a table close by to him rested a black motorcycle helmet with its tinted visor down. Leather gloves beside it.
He moved with a sophisticated elegance that had me doubting I’d caught his body inked so seductively. A waft of expensive musky cologne reached me with its sensuous allure and did something crazy to my body. Trembling slightly, I shifted my gait and leaned farther back against the door, spellbound.
Nature might have bestowed this man with the ability to leave a trail of heartbreak in his sexy-arse wake but it had also provided me with the ability to detect danger.
“You might want to put some clothes on,” I said firmly.
“Well, now I’m dressed.”
Yes, he was, and this was a changing room, apparently, and I’d not exactly represented a pillar of virtue.
“Well, that’s good.” I swallowed my pride. “Please keep it that way.”
His gaze lowered to my feet.
And I remembered my strappy stilettos were flirtatiously dangling from my left hand, those spiked heels hinting at a sexy side I wished I had.
Intrigue marred his face, and then his expression softened again as his jade gaze returned to hold mine and he broke into a heart-stopping smile.
The seductive dazzling kind that threatened to melt my panties. I left in a rush—
Shaken with just how this man had affected me merely with a smile, my heart racing, I reconsidered risking the lift to take me as far away from him as possible. Embarrassment scorched my cheeks and made me glad I’d not worn a coat.
Taking a second, I leaned against the wall and stared back.
That alluring inked-up vision had taken my mind off the reason I was here. I felt an inexplicable need to run back in and continue to bathe in the aura of the most enigmatic man I’d ever met.
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“You all right?” Clara rested her palm on my forehead.
“The stairs took it out of me,” I fibbed and gestured to get the attention of a waitress.
She came over, and with a nod of thanks I lifted a flute of champagne off her silver tray and took several sips to quench my thirst.
My thoughts drifted to the basement and my run-in with Tobias Wilder. These were the kind of moments I cherished—me dipping my toe in the dangerous side of life—but I knew the moment I saw reason, I’d pull it right out.
The only romance I would ever indulge in again was the fantasy where everyone lived happily ever after.
Oh no, I’d really embarrassed myself down there.
Clara narrowed her gaze and it made me smile. It was the kind of smile you give when you doubt yourself beyond all reason.
“Happiness is the best revenge,” she offered brightly. “I’m happy you’re here.”
It was still difficult to accept Zach wasn’t coming back. He should have been here tonight and it hurt so bad that I’d had to tear up my invitation because it had his name on it.
I tried not to think of the way his copper locks flopped over his deep blue eyes, or how his refined nose made him look so cultivated and that endearing way he emanated his free-thinking spirit.
A month or so after my father’s funeral, Zach Montgomery, the man I had been destined to marry, complained my grief was causing him too much stress. With our finals looming he couldn’t be “distracted.” He needed a break from us, just for a little while. I’d lovingly given it to him.
I’d seen my understanding nature pay off when he’d graduated with an MA in art curating.
Afterward, when the intensity of our studies was over and I could see the strain lifted from his handsome face, I’d met him for dinner at our favorite pub, The Old Ship, and reassured him I’d pull back on all this unnecessary drama of grief. I’d truly believed he’d realize his mistake after our exams were over. Even with Clara’s disapproval I couldn’t have refused him had he changed his mind and asked to come back to me.
Until the dreadful truth came out.
That stark memory returning along with that knot in my stomach, and I felt like I was there again—
Tucked away in my favorite corner of the Witt Library, with my head buried in a book. I’d been reading about Vermeer and how he’d painstakingly chose his expensive pigments. Colors I’d once run my fingertip over, acutely aware of the privilege of such intimacy that came with ownership. One of the few from my secret stash that not even Zach knew of.
Snug in my oversize jumper to ward off the chill of the Witt, I’d been happily reading away until those familiar voices of my classmates had caught my attention. I’d placed my fingertip on the page to keep my place...
Their hushed gossiping the catalyst that sent my life into a tailspin: Zachary Montgomery was now living it up all the way across the world in a little town called Tivoli, where he’d taken a job in an art gallery.
The news came as a blow, not least because I’d had no idea he’d even left London.
The whispers went on to reveal a few of the other students had received their invitations to the wedding of Italian beauty and fellow student Natalia Donate to Zachary Montgomery.
Those late evenings Natalia had spent hours with us studying at my flat had provided her with access to more than just my art acumen. She’d made a play for my boyfriend and come out the resounding winner.
If paintings taught me anything with their endless portrayals of human suffering, it was that heartbreak is inevitable and we are fools to be surprised by it. Trust is an ill-fated pursuit.
Although Clara believed in true love and had no doubt found it, I questioned whether I was ever going to experience it again.
Clara tutted. “He doesn’t deserve one more second of you.”
I leaned in and hugged her. I’d tell Clara about my risqué adventure once I’d gotten control over this flush that threatened to rise each time I thought of him. I imagined over the course of the evening one of the many artists here or even sculptors would spot the infamous Mr. Wilder and try to persuade him to pose for them.
Naked. Preferably.
I treated myself to that thought.
“So what do you think?”
My attention snapped to Clara.
“They’ve gone all out, haven’t they?” she added as she looked around.
“This is more than I expected.” Using a pillar for a shield, I looked for Tobias in the crowd. “Can’t get over it.”
“They’re wooing you for the other paintings.” She turned to look at me.
“It does look like it, doesn’t it?”
“You never talk about them?” she said.
“They’re all I have left of Dad.”
She rubbed my back, knowing well enough not to push me. “He’d be so proud of you.”
The black marble tile almost clashed with the pink marbled pillars lining the room either side. Along those pristine cream-colored walls hung the finest eighteenth-century Italian paintings, which were apparently on loan from the Vatican.
Suppressing my melancholy, I vowed to enjoy tonight.
The Otillie was one of my favorite places to visit and easily one of the most prestigious galleries in the world, with a unique collection of both modern and ancient art.
Despite such grandeur, it was also famed for showcasing new and up-and-coming artists before anyone else had discovered them. Like the young painter Liza Blake, who stood alone in a corner looking a little forlorn. She’d been easy to spot with her blue hair, and her boho chic dress looked cute on her, those round rimmed glasses perched on the end of her nose. Artists were always so interesting, their perspectives so profound, and I admired their tenacity for following their hearts and sharing their emotional power. Perhaps it was the only way to find ours, through their vision of just what we were capable of.
“Let’s go say hello to Liza.” Excitement flushed my cheeks that I was here again.
I took in the other guests, a handful of well-known socialites, some I recognized from past events, the avid art collectors circling The Otillie’s rising new talent and ready to invest in their promising careers.
“Look who’s here,” whispered Clara. “Your favorite person.”
I almost coughed up my drink.
A well-worn face and yet strangely handsome in a highly bred kind of way. The Right Honorable Lord Nigel Turner stood out in the crowd with his high cheekbones and overly refined nose. His tweed jacket with that perfect bow tie made him seem extra quirky and yet moneyed. His chin rose with an air of superiority as he perused the other guests. Nigel was apparently related to “the Turner,” or so he told us. He worked at The London Times as their senior art critic and wielded the kind of power that could make or break an artist’s career.
I’d crushed on him back when Lady Zara Leighton had a nice ring to it. Right before I’d actually met him.
We made our way over to Liza, and she smiled with relief when she saw us. I got her talking about her favorite subject, modern art, and she soon relaxed as she chatted away about the latest piece she was working on.
Together we mingled with the other guests, sipping champagne and popping back way too many caviar hors d’oeuvres.
Clara arched an amused brow when I reached for another flute from a passing waiter’s tray. I’d never tolerated booze well, very often getting tipsy on merely one glass. Still, this night was the first real evening I was letting myself go in what felt like ages, and I soon found myself having fun. With Clara’s mischievous insights into the other guests, she had me and Liza struggling to keep our laughter down.
Nigel nudged up against Clara. “You’re looking lovely tonight.”
“Thank you.” She offered him a polite smile.
“You didn’t bring your camera?” he asked.
“Taking the night off. The staff get nervous when they see a photographer taking photos of their priceless paintings. Something about copyright.”
His overly critical gaze found me. “I was sorry to hear about your father.”
“Thank you,” I said. “I appreciate that.”
Those difficult few months were behind me now and for the first time tonight I’d felt that wedge of pain in my heart lifting. I swallowed my grief with a sip of champagne and broke Turner’s gaze, hoping he’d talk to Liza.
“I hear a rumor you’re hiding away more paintings?” he said.
I shook my head, not wanting to go there.
“One step at a time,” Clara whispered.
Nigel narrowed his gaze. “Your skills could be put to good use.”
“Excuse me?”
“That fire at your father’s home?” he said.
“I don’t remember much.” Other than the bitter taste of ash.
“She was ten,” snapped Clara. “For goodness’ sake.”
“Interesting that Walter William Ouless’s St. Joan of Arc has turned up in Venice?” he went on. “Have you heard?”
My throat tightened. “That’s impossible.”
“And yet.” He smirked.
A wave of panic circled my stomach.
