Will she risk it all for a priceless desire?

A rising star in one of London’s top art investigation firms, Zara Leighton’s talent for seeing deep into paintings is in her blood. She’s chosen to help track down Icon, an enigmatic international art thief whose heists are methodical, daring, baffling. To Zara the case is maddening—bordering on an obsession.

She finds distraction in the chiseled form of top-shelf client Tobias Wilder, a magnetic American billionaire who demands her expertise, her discretion—and her secrecy. Wilder doesn’t ask questions. He gives orders. His gaze alone ignites her deepest fantasies. And his touch...

The sudden whirl of exclusive exhibitions and decadent parties that Wilder introduces her to is a potent aphrodisiac. But surrender soon becomes tinged with suspicion. Is Zara’s tryst with Wilder the real thing...or just a convincing forgery?

The Chase

Vanessa Fewings

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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For Mum

Acknowledgments

Embarking on this new series with Zara and Tobias has been a thrilling journey, one that would not have been possible without the support of many people. I have the deepest gratitude and respect for my editor, Ann Leslie Tuttle; her kindness and enthusiasm is inspirational, and I’m so honored to work with one of the romance industry’s most renowned senior editors. Thank you to Gina Macedo for your time and precision. Thank you to the entire HarperCollins and Harlequin team for all they’ve done for the ICON Trilogy.

This series exists thanks to agent Kimberly Whalen, and I’m constantly wowed and grateful for her expertise and passion. Thank you for sharing in my vision for this series and encouraging me to write it!

Thank you to Tara Carberry. Her enthusiasm for Wilder right at the start spurred me on to create an inspiring book boyfriend for us all.

Thank you to Peter Katz and Guy Birthwhistle for their support and generosity.

My gratitude for all the bloggers and reviewers who have supported me from the very beginning. Many of you have actually become friends, too, which leads me to thanking Hazel Godwin, Lauren Luman, Heather Pollock and Louise Sandford for their continued support.

Thank you to those reviewers who are new to me for taking a chance on my novel and recommending this series to your readers. They are the living force behind each author, and we couldn’t do this without them!

Endless gratitude to SueBee at Goodreads for her librarian skills and determination to take care of our beloved readers.

Nina Grinstead and Jenn Watson at Social Butterfly PR, thank you so very much for lending your powerhouse talent to the promotion of this series along with your entire team. A big thank you to Lisa Wray, publicist extraordinaire at Harlequin, for directing such a great promotion.

A shout-out to my incredible Facebook friends who are always cheering me on; thank you for telling your friends about my books! I hope you enjoy spending time with Wilder!

For Brad, my wonderful husband, who has supported me from the very beginning and has been there for every moment of my journey—thank you for making me see the funny side when I get too serious and reminding me there is a world outside the window when I become too obsessed with writing.

A big hug for Liz and Mand, my beloved sisters, who cheer me on.

To my beloved readers, thank you so very much for spending time with Tobias and Zara and joining me on this wild ride of their adventures together!

I hope this book inspires many of you to return to your favorite museums and to perhaps discover new galleries.

“Art is not what you see, but what you make others see.”

—Edgar Degas

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Title Page

Dedication

Acknowledgments

Epigraph

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Copyright

Prologue

The Courtauld Institute of Art

The stillness of the Witt Library embraced me as I sat at a corner table, my breaths slow and steady, my thoughts wandering, slipping almost into a trance. I tried to see the events that had transpired through his perspective as though I’d been there with him.

This faceless man who’d seized my every waking thought.

Closing my eyes, my fingers traced the file. I’d combed through every detail of this three-week-old report, a precise translation from French to English by the Police Nationale. As an employee of Huntly Pierre, London’s most prestigious investigative art firm, I’d been permitted exclusive access.

It wasn’t only that I’d been tasked with hunting him down, or his obvious passion for art that seemingly equaled mine, drew me to him. Rather there was an unfathomable connection to this stranger that now consumed my days and nights. Perhaps this was only the inevitable shakiness of a newbie forensic art specialist finding her way through the precarious underworld of corruption.

Though that didn’t explain why he’d visited my dreams as though we shared a deeper connection.

Forcing these nonsensical thoughts away, I tried to focus on the details in the file. I could see this theft had presented our suspect with a technical hitch like no other. There were so many irregularities to plan for when breaking into a private estate at three o’clock on a crisp Sunday morning. I imagined the kind of preparation it would have taken. More than requiring a disciplined mind to navigate through complex innovations in home defense, the job would also have demanded brute force. He’d abseiled into a privately owned, billion-dollar rotunda displaying some of the most priceless masterpieces in existence around its curved wall. The kind most people would never see. The estate was owned by the Burells, who had made their money through the family business. Their private contractor company used the guise of combat support to deploy well-trained mercenaries into war. Their impressive art collection was proof that business was booming.

Resting my hand upon the small samples of evidence collected, I envisioned him wearing black khakis with a tight T-shirt pulled over a sculptured torso. After all, given that the climbing harness he wore would suspend him fifty feet in the air, he’d have to be fit. Peering through his night-vision goggles, without which he’d be in pitch blackness, that sheer drop beneath him was an exhilarating rush that was all part of the allure.

The kind of bravery I coveted.

That’s all this was, surely? A curiosity for the kind of recklessness I’d never dare experience. The kind that brought freedom. A life fully realized without societal constraints.

Until we locked him away, irrevocably.

The evidence proved he’d been on track with claiming his prize, namely a glorious 1566 self-portrait by Tiziano Vecelli, more commonly known as Titian.

A print of the painting had been placed in the file, and I now marveled at Titian’s remarkable technique. He’d immortalized himself on that oil on canvas, masterfully capturing the charisma of an elegant seventy-eight-year-old and highlighting his sharp features in those rich deep shades. Should one look closer, there was a dash of melancholy too. Titian’s black-robed attire was an understated reflection of his modesty, despite his great wealth. That final touch of his right hand holding a paintbrush reflected his brilliance. Hailed by his contemporaries as “The sun amidst small stars.”

I shared the thief’s exhilaration of being so close to such a treasure.

I imagined what he’d felt as he surveyed the room and zeroed in on his target. Adrenaline fueling his descent until he’d paused to run through his options.

Failure was out of the question. He’d come too far.

The hole he’d drilled into the glass ceiling was altering the fine temperature control that protected the other paintings, and had there been any other way in he’d no doubt have used it. That breach had exposed the room to the humid French climate. Though luckily the weather forecast for Amboise had promised no rain.

He wasn’t a complete bastard; because one downpour would have left nothing but ruin.

A jolt of envy hit me that it had been him and not me experiencing all that inaccessible beauty.

Our man was clearly arrogant, well educated based on his grasp of this advanced technology, and already wealthy from previous heists. I sensed he’d been touched by the kind of charm that forged a blunt sense of entitlement. A self-serving desire to own whatever he set his sights on.

He’d not gone for the Saint Veronica by Robert Campin, a strange-looking baptism by Giovanni di Paolo or an overvalued Paul Cezanne. Trying to wrap my head around this fact there was also the consideration of his infamous MO.

He only ever took one.

Our man had researched this space until he knew it intimately and had even been prepared for that emergency generator kicking in after he’d cut the power. Because he’d hacked into their security firm’s database, he knew all about the pressure-sensitive marble floor tiles, finicky laser detectors and the temperature monitor set to go off after five minutes.

He’d burned through a few minutes when he must have looked up at the sky and spotted an enormous squawking raven perched on the end of the glass hole that he’d taken precious time to saw through.

Had he experienced a jolt of fear before returning to the Zen-like calm he must have possessed to do a job like this? Somewhere, I’d read a bird’s eyesight was sensitive to ultraviolet light. Something about visual pigments in their retinal cones. I’d stored this in the “interesting stuff of no current value” corner of my brain.

But for this case it couldn’t have been more vital.

Because there were two things I knew for sure. First, the ultraviolet flashlight strapped to his utility belt, standard equipment for any self-respecting thief, had been on and had caught that raven’s attention. Second, that very bird had dived straight toward the invisible layers of those state-of-the-art motion detectors.

Opening my eyes, my fingers traced the sample of black feathers found at the scene, proving he’d tried to prevent the bird from landing.

The only consolation was the raven had been found alive and happily perched atop a whimsical 1889 still life: Vase with Fourteen Sunflowers by Vincent van Gogh, worth millions.

Though minutes before, there had been the inescapable mayhem of a swinging climbing rope, flying feathers and scrambling hands to rein in the chaos.

Basically, he was fucked.

And he’d still gotten away with a Titian.

Closing the file, my heartbeat quickened with a fierce resolve to see this case closed and have this heist go down in history as the one that got him caught.

1

One week earlier

She’ll be safe here.

Since I’d first made the decision to leave her at The Otillie, I’d been reciting this mantra to reassure myself. I can even remember what I was wearing that early winter morning when I’d first set eyes on my beloved Madame Rose.

To me, my Madame Rose was so much more than a painting. She represented my childhood, my innocence, my strongest connection to my father. Rose had been a woman of her day—my father had told me this as he’d raised his bidding paddle and with one sweep of his wrist he’d secured Madame Rose Récamier as ours, outbidding every other art collector at Sotheby’s. Adding another masterpiece to his already vast personal gallery back when I’d called Kensington home.

Zara, within the texture lies the truth, he’d told me as he nudged me closer to the canvas. Can you see?

As I’d taken in—or at least tried with the perception of a ten-year-old—the brilliance of that French artist on that century-aged painting, I’d sensed life would never be the same. I’d known in the depths of my soul art would always be my one true love.

Tonight, I’d been so fazed about coming here that I’d forgotten to wear a coat that would have offset the chill of a London autumn and the cold temperature the gallery was kept at to preserve its treasures within.

Art galleries were quiet places with hushed whispers as respectful visitors paid homage to the genius of artists who’d left their indelible mark. Many of these painters had languished in poverty even after giving so much. As a child I’d always wanted to travel back in time to watch them work and tell them their talent had been worth all they’d sacrificed.

My stilettos clicked along the marble uncomfortably loudly as I neared Madame Rose Récamier. She’d hung in my bedroom and watched over me for years.

Stepping closer, my gaze roamed over her, marveling at those pristine strokes giving Rose a stunning realism.

I gave the softest sigh.

The year was 1803 when Jacques Momar had captured a moment in time with this Parisian socialite and, as I trailed my fingers through my auburn locks, I recalled how I’d wanted to be her. Chestnut irises, we had that in common, but her fiery gaze reflected a life of daring—one she’d chosen to live on her terms. Madame Rose Récamier had been known for her love of neoclassical fashion and her controversial interest in politics. She’d stunned Paris with her tenacity. Her reputation to enamor with her smart wit and intelligence had been expressed so beautifully as she reclined on that satin chaise lounge, her head thrown back and her gaze held firmly on the artist Monsieur Momar. In her expression there was love. As time went on I’d realized that look proved an affair had transpired between them. The kind of passion I’d only ever read about.

I saw something I’d never noticed before—uncertainty—the emotion starkly vivid and painfully real.

In his will my father had left Madame Récamier to me. And now I was leaving her here.

“She’s haunting,” Clara whispered, shaking me from my daydream. It was just like her to know I needed a few moments alone with Rose to say goodbye.

It felt comforting having my best friend here.

No matter how many months went by without seeing Clara, it felt like mere minutes had passed between us. She’d always come through for me, and I for her.

Her diamante-crystal, halter-neck dress made her look gorgeous, as always. She had a couple of inches on me and her thick blond curls were a contrast to my long auburn hair. Her high cheekbones were a reflection of the confidence that had helped her succeed as an advertising photographer. Her voluptuousness was a contrast to my smaller curvy figure. “Rubinesque,” she’d called herself, which matched her vibrant personality, and her bright eyes and warm smile were always welcome in my world that always seemed more complicated than hers.

As if sensing I needed it, she came over now to give me a hug. “She’s beautiful.” Clara squeezed me into her side.

“First time I saw her I was wearing my favorite floral dress.” I rested my head on Clara’s shoulder for a moment. “Red shoes. I loved those shoes.”

“Oh, Zara, this was a good decision.”

“Yes. She’s meant to be here.”

She paused for a moment and studied me as though being careful with her words. “What about the others?”

The three other paintings we’d saved that night...

Flames rising from our house and licking the air with those monstrous oranges and reds; a hellish glow...

The stench of toxic smoke in my clothes. My hair. My skin. My doll lost to the flames.

Stubbornly, I shook my head, not wanting to remember anything more about that night. “There was always this sense we were protecting Madame Rose by hiding her away.”

Now it was time to step away.

Let it all go. And move on.

“You okay?” came Clara’s reassurance.

I nodded to let her know I was.

It was behind me now, all that grief of dealing with the complex issues of my father’s estate and those endless meetings with softly spoken solicitors where coffee was my only friend. And those journalists who’d begged for a scoop on what plans I had to take the Leighton family legacy into the twenty-first century.

I had no real plans for anything, not really.

Other than settling into my new career. Moving on felt cathartic.

Clara tutted. “Dreadful thing.”

Shaken back into the room, I asked, “What is?”

“No one’s reckless enough to steal from a gallery. Not with all this.” She peered up at one of the discreet cameras.

She was referring to that theft in Chelsea: a portrait by Henry Raeburn had been stolen from a private estate.

“You’re right,” I agreed.

She patted my arm. “You’ll sleep better knowing she’s here.”

“You don’t think it’s connected to what happened in France, do you?”

Rumors had reached the community that some of the wealthiest families in Paris had suffered at the hands of an art thief and that news had set the city’s private dealers and their customers on edge.

“Let’s get some bubbly.” Clara led me back down the hallway. “You have some hobnobbing to do with these art-loving crazies.”

“Thank you for being here.”

“Wouldn’t miss it.”

I forced myself not to look back.

Making our way down the hallway, we continued to admire the collection, pausing here and there until I sensed Clara’s restlessness.

“That’s a nice blouse,” she said. “Gold brings out your eyes.”

I tugged on my pencil skirt. “Marks and Spencer.”

“I thought you were going to say some posh designer. You’re getting close to that birthday.”

Which was Clara’s tactful way of saying my inheritance would kick in on the eve of my twenty-third birthday. Pride had turned my thoughts away from it but these rising costs of living in London had me rethinking that. The idea of having to decide what to do with fifteen million pounds made me nervous. That decision wouldn’t come until next year and I still had time to nudge that thought far away.

A wave of guilt settled in my gut that my inheritance came from my father’s will. I spun round to face Clara. “I got the job!”

“What? Why didn’t you call me?”

“I wanted to tell you in person.”

“Oh, darling, that’s wonderful!”

“I’m officially a forensic art specialist at Huntly Pierre.”

I’d landed my dream job at a high-end firm in the middle of The Strand, and I couldn’t wait to start.

“Zara, that’s wonderful.” She leaped forward and hugged me. “I’m so excited.”

Years of studying art and I was finally being let loose.

“They know about your dad’s penchant for collecting priceless art, then?”

“No, I got this on my own merit.” I lowered my brow, hoping my family name of Leighton wouldn’t follow me around forever. “Have a knack for detecting forgeries apparently.”

Within the texture lies the truth.

Everything Dad knew he’d taught me; an education like no other. It wasn’t only studying at the Courtauld that had given me the talent for knowing the difference between an Uccello and a Masaccio, but my education had begun when my father had instilled in me his rare insight into art before I could even walk, hoping I’d follow in his footsteps.

“It’s in my blood.”

She winked. “The commission you’ll make when you confirm a piece is real should be quite something. These things are worth a fortune.”

“You can’t place a value on pieces like this,” I said wistfully, admiring Constant Troyon’s oil on canvas A Clump of Trees, with its soothing layers of greens and yellows. “For the first time I feel like I’m putting my knowledge to good use.”

“You know what else needs to be in your blood? Booze. More specifically, champagne.” We laughed too loudly as we neared the lift.

Standing back a little, I watched Clara hit the down button and the silver doors slid open. Peering inside that gaping chasm of metal, I felt my haunting phobia of lifts returning, the light inside flickered to taunt me, and my feet refused to move forward as that familiar fear swept over me.

Terror spiked my veins. “Let’s take the stairs.”

She raised her left foot to show off her heels. “I’ll break my neck.”

“You sure?”

“Zara.” She sounded baffled.

“Meet you down there.”

“This is why you have great legs,” her voice echoed after me. “You’re always taking the stairs.”

Her laughter followed me down the stairwell.

I peeled off each shoe and in stockinged feet burst through the fire escape door. I descended fast, round and round, counting the floors as I went.

Breathing in the chilled air, I rekindled the feeling that what I’d done tonight was one of my better decisions. Clara was right. The security was great and the responsibility of protecting all of Dad’s other pieces would soon be lifted as they made their way here.

It made me happy to think of other people getting to enjoy them too, and my feet flew down with a bounce in my step.

With a shove on the security rail I pushed open the heavy fire door and went on through into the dimly lit hallway.

Realizing I’d gone too far I turned to go back. The door was locked from this side.

Ouch.

As if right on cue my garter belt snapped off my thigh-high stocking and I hurried onward to find somewhere private to fix it.

My feet carried me away from the lift and along the hallway. At the end was a door stamped with a sign: Staff Only.

I went on in and saw the long mirror right in front of me. I neared it and gave myself a reassuring smile. I looked pretty tonight and was actually a little less geeky than usual, having switched out my cardigan and flat heels for my favorite gold silk blouse and black skirt, and even my hair was miraculously behaving. After putting my shoes down, I eased up my hem and attempted to reattach my stocking top.

Fiddly thing.

My fingers slipped so I hiked my skirt higher to better work the intricate reclipping. With that accomplished, I straightened my eggshell-blue high rise panties.

And then I spotted a movement across the room—

I yanked my skirt down, my mouth forming words of apology but failing to say them. I bent over to scoop up my shoes and rushed toward the door, my hand reaching round to neaten my skirt.

Oh no, my hem still exposed my bum.

Cheeks reddening further, I grappled with the unreasonable material and sucked up my embarrassment so I could throw a wave of apology to the stranger.

My gaze fixed on the living, breathing sculpture.

Making it to the door, I tried to force my stare away from the strikingly beautiful specimen of a man who was looking at me with a mixture of surprise and delight.

Finally exhaling, I was riveted by his sun-kissed torso with its finely chiseled abs, his black trousers low and revealing a hint of a V. An intricate tattoo on his left upper arm that vaguely reminded me of a Polynesian design, with its swirls in black ink and an image in the center.

My heartbeat quickened as I searched my memory for where I knew him from. I was awestruck by this breathtaking Adonis, who was reaching for a white shirt hanging on the back of a chair. He was tall and devastatingly handsome in a rugged kind of way. Thirty, maybe? Those short, dark golden locks framing a gorgeous face, his three-day stubble marking him with a tenacious edge and that thin wry smile exuding a fierce confidence. His green irises were a startling contrast to his lightly tanned complexion; his intense, steady glare stayed on mine as he calmly pulled his arm through a sleeve and covered that tattoo before I could make out more.

A gasp caught in my throat as it came to me that we’d never actually met, probably because this was Tobias William Wilder, a billionaire. He moved in the kind of refined circles one would expect from a business magnate and inventor who owned TechRule, one of the largest software companies in the world.

And I’d given this playboy mogul his very own peep show.

He’d popped up on my radar a year ago when I’d read an article on him in Cosmo, featuring his Los Angeles–based art gallery, The Wilder. It was an acclaimed museum that was one of the most prestigious in the world and it was also right up there on my wish list to visit.

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.

2

“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.

Part of me wanted it to be true. Needed to believe our beloved Joan of Arc had survived that fire. But with that revelation would come a truth so vivid I wasn’t sure I’d survive it. All I’d known would be proven a lie.

I’d missed her terribly; Ouless had masterfully painted one of France’s most beloved heroines. Her legacy included visions of Christ that inspired her heroic reclaiming of France from the British. Of all my father’s collection she’d both inspired and scared me the most, perhaps because some part of me knew I’d never be capable of that kind of bravery.

Clara piped up, “Maybe Ouless painted more than one?”

Nigel tutted. “How likely is that?”

“Sounds very likely,” she said. “Probably loads of them out there.”

I cringed too soon, revealing I knew all too well this remarkable British painter was known for his one-of-a-kind masterpieces. Ouless was considered one of the nineteenth century’s best known portraitists and his Joan of Arc had been sought after by too many collectors to count. My father had rejected every offer.

Nigel lit up with triumph. “There’s a chance it wasn’t destroyed as alleged.”

“I’m afraid it was,” I said through clenched teeth.

Clara sounded distant. “Really, Nigel? This is Zara’s evening to celebrate her dad’s legacy.”

“What’s left of it,” he muttered.

I reached out to the marble pillar to steady my legs.

“Any plans to visit the painting?” he added. “If that piece is real—”

“Of course it’s not,” I said.

“It’s coming to London for final authentication apparently,” he said.

My legs wobbled with the unsteadiness of my feet.

“Are you sure?” asked Clara.

“That’s the rumor.” Nigel frowned his disapproval.

Dread shot up my spine. “Who is this mystery dealer?”

Who was the outrageous person willing to put his or her reputation on the line?

“Have no idea,” said Nigel. “I’m sure you’ll want more answers?”

“Yes.” No.

I want to forget.

The resurfacing of that old lie proved jealousy for my father’s collection still went deep. I wasn’t ready to give up the others, not yet.

Black spots flashed across my vision—

Tobias Wilder strolled out of the crowd toward us carrying two glasses of champagne, and I sucked in a sharp breath of surprise. He offered one of them to me; bubbles rising to the surface, the chilled glass making my fingers tingle as I accepted it from him.

Soothed by his beautiful striking face and that rugged stubble clashing with his styled locks he’d since run a comb through.

“Thank you,” I said, amazed my underwear fiasco hadn’t scared him off.

“My pleasure.” Tobias gave a self-possessed nod and then gestured to the waiter beside him. The young man handed out more champagne flutes to the others in our group. Two more waiters hurried forward and held out their trays laden with china plates full of hors d’oeuvres.

Nigel, Liza and Clara all helped themselves to the assorted small bites of food with obvious glee, seemingly recognizing him too. With a wave of my hand and a kind smile, I declined an appetizer.

“That’s awfully nice of you,” Nigel said.

“Mind if I join you?” Tobias showed off that dazzling smile. “What a fantastic venue. Love this place.”

The staff hurried away.

Dragging my teeth over my bottom lip, I tried to think of something to say, perhaps draw his attention to the Raphael directly behind him. In that painting the Italian artist had captured the beguiling image of a young lady with a unicorn on her lap.

“You like that one?” Tobias asked me with his back still to the painting.

“Yes.” I loved it and adored the crisp gold and burgundy of the subject’s dress, her delicate beauty, her eyes exuding innocence and the way she held that small animal on her lap so very carefully.

“Is that a unicorn?” asked Clara.

“A conventional symbol of chastity,” I told her.

“The allure of High Renaissance.” Tobias turned to take in the portrait and then spun round and fixed his gaze on mine—

Liquefying my insides and making my chest tighten.

Oh, bloody hell.

He was still staring at me.

At least when I’d met him briefly in the basement there had been some distance between us, but now, with that intense green stare locked on mine and that delicate waft of heady cologne reaching me he’d made my thoughts freeze.

“Mr. Wilder?” Nigel proffered his hand. “It’s such a pleasure to finally meet you.” Tobias turned toward Nigel and reached out to shake.

“I was in LA when The Wilder hosted the Samurai collection,” Nigel told him. “Japanese art is my specialty.”

“That was five years ago.” Tobias turned to us. “The Taka Ishii Gallery generously loaned us a few of their most treasured pieces. First time in the US.”

“I’d have loved to have seen that,” said Clara. “Will it come to London?”

“Afraid not,” said Tobias. “The collection is at home in Tokyo now and won’t tour again in our lifetime. Though we are hosting a collection by Sandro Botticelli.” His face lit up with happiness. “It’s quite something.”

Sighs of admiration rose from everyone circling him.

“You’re all invited of course—” his gaze fell on me “—if you’re ever in the neighborhood.”

My heart fluttered at the thought of seeing those early Renaissance pieces by an artist who’d captured the deepest emotions in his subjects’ eyes.

Who was I kidding? My heart was fluttering over this hottie.

Tobias smiled wistfully. “Seeing La Primavera up close is a privilege.”

I wanted to tell him how much I’d always wanted to visit The Wilder Museum, but held back, not sure if that would come over as a little forward.

Tobias slipped into a smile. “Nigel, may I call you Nigel?”

“Absolutely.”

“I enjoyed that piece you wrote about the Tate.”

“The one on Anna Lea Merritt?”

“That’s the one,” he said. “Very insightful. Love her work.”

“She married her tutor,” I muttered.

Tobias looked my way, his eyes narrowing in interest, and he made me blush.

Clara’s eyebrows popped up, and I hoped she was the only one who’d caught my visceral response to this man. For some reason my mouth had stopped working and this was unusual for me. I loved taking part in this kind of conversation and Clara knew it.

“So what brings you to London?” asked Nigel.

“Business,” he replied.

With Tobias conveniently distracted, I took a breath and admired him discreetly. He moved with such refinement, and yet his earthiness made him less threatening. I kicked myself that I’d had him all to myself down in the basement and not taken the time to talk with him and get to know this enigma better.

Tobias tucked his left hand into his trouser pocket casually and took a sip of bubbly.

That lick across his bottom lip, that tilt of his head, that intensity in his expression as he listened to Nigel.

God, he was gorgeous.

A rush of excitement flooded my chest as I realized he was still hanging out with us.

I let out a wistful sigh.

And earned a flicker of amusement in Tobias’s expression; his eyes crinkled into a subtle smile.

Oh no, he’d sensed me staring.

Reason kicked in as I recalled my first instinct had been to run when I’d met him. He’d no doubt have a slew of women chasing after him and all of them from his world of beautiful socialites. The European supermodel types who took perfection all too seriously.

And based on the passing glances from the other guests surrounding us, many of them seemed just as enamored and more than proved my glum musing that men like this could only be enjoyed from afar.

There was an evening of Googling Tobias Wilder ahead of me when I got back to my Notting Hill flat. See what he was up to now and perhaps find a clue to why he was in London. I’d dig up some dirt on him, no doubt, some article to confirm my gut feeling about him. Tobias Wilder was out of my league for all the right reasons.

He stepped forward to shake Liza’s hand and then Clara’s, his smile reaching his eyes. Their faces lit up in delight at meeting this charismatic man.

“Pleasure’s all mine.” He turned to me and took my hand firmly in his. “Tobias.”

“Zara.”

His smile faded and he blinked at me.

“Zara Leighton,” I said brightly.

His hand slid from mine and he looked away as though distracted.

“Tonight’s a celebration for Zara,” explained Nigel. “She’s given her painting to the gallery. It’s quite a find. Have you seen it?”

“She’s beautiful,” said Tobias. “The painting. Well, I should go. Thank you for the great company. It’s been...insightful.”

“But you only just got here?” said Clara.

“I have an appointment across town.”

“Where are you staying?” asked Nigel.

But Tobias was already weaving his way through the crowd and heading fast for the door.

That masterful stride carrying him away from us.

We all swapped wary glances with each other at his quick exit, and I felt Clara’s arm wrap around my waist to comfort me.

Tobias’s attention had been short lived and someone or something had drawn him away all too briskly. Taking another sip of champagne, I feigned there had never been any hope it might have been me.

3

With my morning latte in hand, I wound my way up the fourteen-story staircase of The Tiriani Building toward the top floor. My fear of being late clashed with my claustrophobia. Taking the elevator was impossible, though, but as every building had stairs it was never an issue and on the positive side it was great for my bum.

During my interview three weeks ago I’d been wowed by the sprawling view that stretched as far as Canary Wharf, and the interior’s decor of steel and silver solidifying its cutting-edge reputation.

Pausing between floors to catch my breath and take delicate sips, careful not to spill my drink on my new blue silk blouse or Ralph Lauren skirt, I was close to being late for that 9:30 a.m. staff meeting. My first introduction to Huntly Pierre’s elite crack team of investigators had kept me up all night with a mixture of excitement and nerves.

I patted myself on the back with how well I’d already coped with disaster this morning. My curling iron broke seconds after switching it on so I’d had to shove my wayward locks into a neat chignon.

Huntly Pierre took up the top six floors and was a modern masterpiece of architecture smack-dab in the middle of The Strand, and the kind of real estate that proved the company was thriving. I’d been brought on for my special brand of expertise garnered from that art history degree I’d earned at Courtauld. This was truly my dream job. I would soon be hanging out at galleries all day, chatting with other art lovers, and my nosy personality would get its daily fix.

My face flushed as I recalled last night’s highlight at The Otillie, meeting the enigmatic Mr. Wilder. I’d fallen asleep with my laptop open on his pretty boy face.

One thing was for sure, he was the outdoorsy type and had a thing for motorbikes and sports cars, or any kind of speed, for that matter.

Soon after I’d gotten home from the gallery I’d sat riveted to my screen as I’d watched what was hailed as a rare insight into his life filmed last year and aired on national television. He’d taken the interviewer on a private tour of his Los Angeles gallery. As they’d strolled through The Wilder, perusing his fine collection of paintings, Tobias had sincerely expressed his passion for seeing art education continued in schools.

I’d let out a sigh as I’d watched him express his belief that students benefited greatly from learning to see beyond the ordinary—

“They must be taught to look closer,” he’d fervidly expressed. “They must be shown how to peer through the enlightened lens of art and develop the skills that will lead them to experience creative lives.”

That short journalistic piece had highlighted his serious nature, which I’d glimpsed last night. Though when Tobias had finally relaxed a little, enough to smile into the camera, he might as well have been looking through the screen at me.

My face burned brighter at the seeming chink in that bad boy charm that threatened to disarm my defenses.

Though there was tragedy in his past too. I found an article on him from five years ago, written in the Telegraph Online. His parents had died in a plane crash when he was a boy. Perhaps this was why he was so driven; he was running away from the pain. He’d refused to comment on that aspect of his life, preferring instead to keep it private.

There had been photo after photo of the press catching him making supersonic exits at every opportunity, his hair messed up and his sunglasses shielding those stunning green eyes. The press had christened him “Mr. Elusive” and it suited him.

Now that I knew it wasn’t unusual for him to perform a disappearing act I didn’t feel like it had been me who’d scared him away with any number of my usual social blunders.

I wished I’d savored that sun-kissed body a little more but I’d been so shocked to see a living, breathing masterpiece subtly flexing his muscles in The Otillie’s basement.

I felt a wave of melancholy that I’d never know the meaning of that Latin inscription on his well-toned torso. I wondered if he had any more of those mysterious inked inscriptions on any other part of his body.

I flinched and almost bit through my lip.

And burst through the top-floor exit with a little too much gusto.

That caffeine had evidently kicked in, and I startled Elena, the receptionist, forcing her to spring to her feet to greet me.

“Morning exercise,” I managed breathlessly.

“Good morning, Zara.” She sang the words in that heavy Glasgow accent.

I’d fallen for Elena’s easy breezy charm the day of my interview when she made me laugh with her cheeky humor. She’d worked here for years and seemed to know the inside scoop on everyone. I loved her fashion sense, that daring miniskirt just above her knees and those fine leather boots, which seemed a statement of her unwavering confidence—I’d overheard her on the phone handling difficult clients—her purple sweater added a dash of color.

A rush of movement came at me.

Danny Kenner swept past me with the biggest grin. “Hi there.”

His accent reminded me of Tobias’s, but Danny had a Californian lilt whereas Tobias’s had an indistinguishable husky edge.

His ripped jeans and Lacoste jumper, along with his Nike sneakers, revealed Huntly Pierre’s more casual approach to their dress code.

I smiled after him.

Danny had made me feel welcome during my first visit here, and we’d hit it off straight away with our shared love of “anything” by Rembrandt and Starbucks.

Elena beamed at him. “They got a fingerprint on the Jaeger case.”

My gaze snapped after Danny, wanting to run after him and hear more.

Last night, the same evening I’d dropped Madame Rose off at The Otillie, there’d been a theft from a private house in Holland Park.

This morning, I’d been riveted to the TV as the BBC newscaster had reported that nothing else had been taken. The Jaeger family had lost their greatest heirloom, an 1896 Edvard Munch, and were predictably devastated.

This second theft in under a month in London was sending the art community into a spin. The police were scrambling for clues and had brought in the team at Huntly Pierre.

Part of this job was also comforting the victims and I prided myself that with my tragic history I’d flourish with that aspect of my profession. I knew what it felt like to lose what had essentially become a friend; for some, art had a way of drawing you in and holding you spellbound for a lifetime.

I felt a rush of excitement that I was finally here.

“Your meeting with the staff got pushed,” she said. “The boss has a last-minute change in schedule.”

“I imagine everyone’s crazy busy,” I said. “How are you handling the press?”

“Everything goes through Mr. Huntly.”

“Of course.”

“He’ll come get you when he’s ready.”

“Great.”

“Let’s show you around.”

She introduced me to the rest of the staff, and I was greeted with warm smiles. Everyone seemed friendly and acted happy here, which was a great sign. The large windows allowed sunlight to flood in and the warm tone of those cream-colored walls gave the central cubicles a spacious feel.

When we made it to the room that would become my office I saw the small brown paper bag on the desk.

“It’s a muffin,” said Elena. “My treat to make you feel at home.”

“Thank you, Elena. That was so kind of you.” I peeked into the bag. “Now this is a perfect way to start the day.” It made my mouth water just thinking of it.

“Here’s what you’ll need to get started.” She handed me a file. “You’ll find everything on our private website. Just hit Staff Access. Change your codes and shred this.”

“Got it.”

She left me to get settled, and I sat in the leather swivel chair and fired up the desktop computer in front of me.

There was an empty bookcase flush against the right wall, a filing cabinet in the corner and a stack of empty files on top of it. The blank wall in front was just waiting for a painting. That view was something else: the River Thames looked beautiful with the morning sunlight reflecting off it.

I dragged my gaze away and tapped my code into Huntly Pierre’s database and began navigating the software. Taking a bite of that delicious blueberry muffin, undoing all the good of those stairs.

“Good morning, Ms. Leighton.” Adley Huntly leaned a shoulder casually on the door frame. His friendly face beamed a warm welcome.

Brushing crumbs off my hands, I pushed myself to my feet.

His white hair gave my boss an arty flair. He was strikingly tall and slim and his tailored suit rounded out his aristocratic air. Adley was well respected in the community as one of the most successful consultants in the industry. Working for him was going to be life changing.

I made my way over to him. “Sir, it’s a pleasure to see you again.”

“Likewise, Zara.” His handshake was firm and his smile reassuring. “Do you have everything you need?”

“Yes, thank you. Elena’s been wonderful.”

“Glad to hear it. Ready to get to work?” He gestured. “We’re in the conference room.”

He led me back through the foyer and down a long sprawling hallway. I’d not seen the east wing yet and tried not to gape at the whitewashed walls upon which hung a line of forgeries of the Old Masters.

“I want to thank you again for this incredible opportunity,” I said.

“We’re delighted to have you onboard.” He checked his phone as we walked.

I paused before the stunning replica of Vincent van Gogh’s The Starry Night.

“Good, aren’t they?” he said.

“They are.” I let out a sigh of wonder as we strolled passed a Salvador Dali. “Will I be part of the Jaeger team?”

“Perhaps. The painting’s gone. Lost without a trace, apparently.”

“Sorry to hear that.”

“Actually, we have a new assignment for you. A client needs an authentication on a piece he’s considering purchasing.” His face crinkled into a smile. “Thought we’d break you in slowly.”

“Of course,” I said, “Whatever you think is best.” Adley went on ahead into the conference room.

I glanced behind to take in one of my favorite paintings by John Singer Sergeant, affectionately known as Portrait of Madame X. A lifelike image of an elegant young woman wearing a long black evening dress, her hand casually resting on a small table as she stared off wistfully.

Virginie Gautreau had been an American beauty who’d garnered a notorious reputation for her rumored infidelities. The painting had caused a scandal during its 1884 debut in Paris.

My focus was captured by its guilty secret. This portrait was a brilliant forgery that could have slipped past the experts. It was that good.

“Ms. Leighton?” Adley called out.

Virginie Gautreau masked her true feelings so well. Like I was doing now.

My feet melting into the floor as my breath caught.

Adley had taken his place at the head of the table and beside him sat a stunning thirtysomething, her hair a striking platinum blond up in a neat chignon.

And sitting beside her—Tobias Wilder.

Now cleanly shaven, he’d outdone his last suit with this three-piece pinstripe number that highlighted his finely formed physique, his short dark blond hair perfectly combed and those striking eyes...were locked on mine.

What was he doing here?

There was no sign of that dashing warm smile. His mouth was fixed in a tense hard line of scrutiny and those irises were now a startling jade.

I dragged my gaze away from his and looked over at Adley.

He was studying my reaction. “Those forgeries have a knack of getting to you, don’t they?”

Catching my breath, I gestured to the paintings. “How do you ever get any work done?”

Tobias pushed himself to his feet and came over. “Miss Leighton.”

“You know each other?” asked Adley.

Tobias reached out to shake my hand. “Had the pleasure of meeting last night at The Otillie.”

Right after I’d caught him half-naked, I secretly mused, holding on to his hand for a second too long, the sensation of his touch temptingly addictive.

Cringing inwardly, I tried not to think about me unwittingly flashing him yesterday.

Casually, he tucked his hands into his pockets. “The gallery’s a favorite to visit when I’m this side of the pond. I’m good friends with Miles Tenant—”

“The Otillie’s curator,” said Adley. “Great chap. Knows his art.”

I went to ask him if it had been Miles who’d invited him to the party but thought better of it. Maybe later, when the formality of the meeting was over.

“Already broken the ice, then?” Alder’s gaze fell on me. “Good to hear.”

“One of my dad’s paintings,” I told him. “I’ve donated it to the gallery. They were kind enough to hold a reception in his name.”

“Of course, Madame Rose Récamier?” he said. “How was the reception?”

“Great,” said Tobias. “The usual crowd.”

“Got anything else hidden away?” said Adley cheekily.

I wore my best vague expression.

They didn’t need to know about my little secret stash of art gems. Amongst the collection was a tour de force from a painter who’d influenced the landscape of Western art. I’d already drawn too much attention, and what was left of our paintings threatened to disrupt the kind of peace I’d come to crave.

“Would anyone like a doughnut?” I gestured to the plate in front of us.

“No, thank you.” Tobias’s jaw muscles tightened and flexed, and he swapped a wary glance with the woman.

That spark of recognition on his face last night when he’d first met me had probably come from a Huntly Pierre memo he’d read with my name on it. Realizing this made me feel a little better.

Damn, this place was fantastic. I already loved working here. The kind of clients this place attracted was astonishing.

“Ms. Arquette.” Tobias gestured toward her. “My attorney.”

“So happy to meet you,” I said brightly. “Can we get you anything?”

“I’m fine,” she said with a softly spoken Swedish accent. “Any more coffee and I’ll never sleep again. Please, call me Logan.”

“Logan,” I said, “welcome to London.”

She started to say something but Tobias answered for her. “She lives here.”

“Oh, that’s lovely,” I said.

“I’m bicoastal, Ms. Leighton.” She flashed a grin at Tobias. “Sometimes LA. Sometimes here. I go where needed.”

Her neat chignon was showing mine up—whereas hers didn’t have a hair out of place, mine looked like I’d gone for the other end of the spectrum with wisps of hair fighting for freedom.

Tobias took a step toward me, closing the gap between us, and he raised his hand toward my mouth, his intense stare fixed on mine. I leaned back slightly, but his thumb was already brushing over my lower lip in a sensual sweep and it pouted naturally beneath his touch.

My breath stilted as a rush of tingles circled my chest and my cheeks felt flushed. Time slowing...

His irises were speckled with amber. That revelation, along with his mind-altering cologne wafting my way, caused a wave of giddiness.

The shadow of his touch on my lip...

“Crumb,” he said huskily and lowered his hand to his side.

“Muffin,” I managed and went for a seat near Adley, avoiding Logan’s ice-cold glare. Tobias gripped the back of my chair and nudged me forward into the desk.

“Thank you.” I wished I’d brought a pen and notepad now so I could pretend to write. “It was a gift from Elena. The muffin, I mean.” I offered a polite smile to Logan. “Our receptionist. It’s blueberry. With blueberry bits in there.”

Logan smirked as though amused.

He didn’t seem to notice, merely rounded the table and took his seat again right next to her.

“Careful,” said Logan, “don’t up-sell Elena too much or I might headhunt her.”

Tobias swiveled casually in his chair. “Let’s leave their staff alone.”

He’d brought his left leg up and crossed it over his right, showing off those fine highly polished leather shoes, and he looked so damn confident, so relaxed, so ridiculously dashing.

“Elena’s been with us for years,” offered Adley. “We’d be lost without her. Shall we go over the details?” Adley opened the beige folder in front of him.

I settled back in my chair, pretending that Tobias hadn’t fixed his stare on me. This seemed like cruel karma after I’d ogled him for a little too long last night.

I avoided his scrutiny by showing interest in the paintings surrounding me. More fakes hung from the walls. The large Jackson Pollock to our left was breathtakingly real. The original was safe in the National Gallery, a tube ride from here. A home away from home during my student days.

Pollock, one of America’s most famous abstract artists, had left a legacy of canvases splashed with brilliant roiling lines and blotches that even today stirred a visceral response. This one, if it had been real, would have fetched at least thirty million pounds if sold today. Luckily, it was in here and off the market so some poor unsuspecting collector with too much money didn’t throw it away on a counterfeit.

I’d once watched my father throw a mug of tea at a forgery. He’d told me afterward the artist had plagiarized the heart and soul of the painter. There was only one explanation for hanging these cruel betrayals up in the east wing. They were used for training.

Dragging my gaze away from the Pollock, I returned my focus to Adley.

He peered over his rounded spectacles at Tobias. “The plan is to authenticate before you buy?”

“It’s a time issue,” said Tobias. “It’s the kind of investment I’m willing to make but only if we can confirm its authenticity.”

“Which painting?” I asked.

“Mr. Wilder is hoping to move fast,” said Logan.

“You’re not going with an American firm?” said Adley.

“Discretion is essential,” replied Logan.

“It’s in the UK?” I wondered why he was not going with the firm he usually used. After all, his vast collection had been authenticated.

“It’s a well-sought-out piece,” said Tobias. “I need discretion.”

“We’re ahead of the curve with this one,” said Logan. “We want to move fast.”

“Huntly Pierre guarantees a strict privacy policy,” said Adley. “Our service is confidential.”

Logan’s glare locked on me. “How long have you worked for the firm?”

“Well, I’ve been with Huntly Pierre—” I looked over at Adley.

He gave a reassuring smile. “I can assure you Ms. Leighton’s art pedigree is exceptional.”

“If you don’t mind,” said Logan. “We’re merely crossing our t’s.”

“Of course.” Adley gestured for her to continue.

Tobias picked up a pen embossed with the company insignia and tapped it on the desk. “Tell us more about you, Ms. Leighton.”

“I studied art here in London.” I smiled, hoping that would allay their concerns. “I’ve loved art all my life.”

Logan opened the beige folder in front of her and read. “Courtauld Institute of Art?”

There was a flipping folder on me?

A wave of nervousness circled my stomach. “Yes, I graduated—”

“With honors.” Tobias’s stare locked on mine. “Impressive.”

“The Courtauld’s just down the road,” I told them brightly. “I can arrange a visit if you like.”

Logan’s frown narrowed. “We’re more interested in your current experience.”

“Oh, well, I’ve not been with the firm that long. But I’ve been immersed in the art world all my life. My father was an honorary member of the Royal Academy of Arts.”

“Are you a member?” asked Logan.

“No,” I said, “you have to be voted in. Members are usually practicing artists.”

Tobias reached out for that folder and slid it toward him along the desk. Turning the pages slowly, he seemed to be reading every single line of whatever was in there. If silence could have been considered a weapon he’d mastered the art of using it.

That Jackson Pollock was jarring my nerves, those swirls of white on black, those yellow blotches had hit the canvas with precision. To an untrained eye they would have appeared like a madman’s call for help.

Adley leaned forward. “Zara has a natural flair for—”

“Is this your first day?” Logan sounded incredulous. Tobias’s stare slowly lifted to hold mine.

Making me feel like I’d been caught in a lie. The unfairness of being thrown into the deep end hit me. The fine hairs on my forearms prickled.

“Ms. Leighton?” she said sternly.

“Zara?” Tobias sounded tense.

He’d gone from friendly American to scary interrogator with that steely gaze fixed on mine.

I straightened my back defensively. “As it so happens, yes.”

Logan’s skeptical glare shot toward Adley. “This is your best man?”

“My team is currently invested in a high-profile case,” said Adley.

“You’re essentially saying your staff is too busy for us?” Logan looked annoyed.

Adley seemed unfazed. “Well, as you probably know there have been a couple of art thefts, right here in London. We’ve been brought in by the Met to do what we can to help. See if they’re connected.”

He went on to explain the details. As my world crumbled around me.

This day was meant to be bloody awesome. Now I was about to prove to my new boss I had no right to be here.

Why had I even bothered? Why had I even believed I could make a place for myself in a world that had turned away from my family? I was destined to be discovered as a fraud myself. Might as well just hang me up on the wall.

I was starting to regret ever meeting Tobias Wilder. Even if my thighs were squeezed tight and that tingling between them was disagreeing with my current conclusion: he was beginning to look like a class-A rogue who always got his way. Yet my thoughts kept carrying me back to his secret tattoo, the first Latin word meeting the tip of his V and conveniently leading off toward his forbidden zone.

That video of him I’d watched last night had probably been a ruse to soften those hard edges of his public image.

He seemed willing to do just about anything to own that mystery painting. I’d seen that same determination in my father. These were the kind of men who let nothing stand in their way when it came to possessing that certain coveted masterpiece.

Adley and Logan continued to debate the wisdom of hiring such an obvious newbie with no fieldwork experience.

Tobias’s expression remained unreadable. The way he played with that pen made me want to snatch it out of his hands and ram it into the middle of that Jackson Pollock—

Those maddening swirls mirrored my racing heartbeat and those yellow blotches significantly matched the artist’s adoration for placing bright colors just so, a brilliant rebellion against order and a show of pride against expectations and yet setting them where our subconscious reassured us they were meant to be. That hint of a blue canvas beneath all that profound color was hard to fake, if not impossible, and I didn’t need to stick my nose up against it to know there was only one man who could pull off a Pollock as good as this one—

“Zara?” said Tobias.

I blinked his way as though stirring from a dream.

The way he’d spoken my name made me feel as though he’d touched me all over again.

My fingertips traced my lips.

We don’t like him, remember?

“Want to add anything, Ms. Leighton?” asked Logan.

Great, I’d suddenly developed ADD too, apparently.

Not wanting to embarrass myself or Adley one more second, I rose to my feet. “If you’ll excuse me...” I need fresh air. “I’ll get us some more water.”

“Well, this has been a colossal waste of time,” muttered Logan.

I folded my arms. “Excuse me?”

She gave a thin smile. “I was merely advising my client we’re running late.”

My arm shot up and I pointed toward the Pollock. “Look.”

Logan followed my gaze.

I took a sharp inhale of breath. “It’s a Pollock.”

Adley arched a brow as though inviting me to elaborate.

I rose and strolled over to it. “This is a sixty-million-dollar painting and the coffeepot is boiling just ten feet away from the canvas. Mr. Adley, whoever appraised your artwork needs retraining.”

“That would be me,” he said calmly.

My apology stuck in my throat and I swallowed to budge it, my brain replaying the last ten seconds to check if I’d sworn out loud.

I was too thrown to even cringe.

“And it just happens to be hanging in your coffee room?” said Tobias, smiling over at Adley. “A remarkable discovery.”

No, he wasn’t going to fill me with doubt.

Logan stared over at it. “Shouldn’t you x-ray it before jumping to a conclusion?”

“The evidence is backed by the frame, Ms. Arquette,” I said. “See? The frame is modest.” My gaze swept over the canvas, my heart sympathizing with this masterpiece and feeling just as misunderstood.

Adley gestured with open palms toward Tobias and it looked like resignation, or worse, an apology on my behalf.

Tobias’s fingers were resting on my file. “Thank you, Adley. I believe we’re done here.” He closed it and pushed to his feet.

Words were exchanged between him and Adley. A shake of hands. A promise to be in touch.

Tobias lowered his head, tucked his hands into his pockets and left the room without looking at me. Logan threw me a thin smile and followed him out.

I stood frozen, regretting the sudden delivery of my outburst as I watched them leave, realizing it was too late to salvage the meeting.

I spun to face Adley. “Sir, I’m so sorry. I don’t know what came over me.”

“You’re going to have to learn to keep a lid on your emotions, Zara.”

“Yes, of course.” I plopped back down in my seat.

Had I just blown my career on my first day? Yes, I bloody well had.

Adley’s attention went from the door to where Logan and Tobias had just exited and moved swiftly over to the Pollock, his attention lingering there. “Well done.”

I blinked my confusion.

Adley gestured to the painting. “Most people assume they’re all fakes. They don’t see beyond the other scoundrels hanging around them. They assume if one is fake, then they all are.”

Startled, I sat back.

“Our client requested a demonstration of your skills. I made a call.”

I wondered how much this had cost the firm. The security detail alone would amount to thousands. It had to be the kind of investment that would pay off when it nabbed a high-paying client. Adley stared in admiration at the painting and I stared at him, marveling at his faith in me to pull off this feat.

“They left in an awful hurry,” I muttered.

He shrugged. “Looks like we’re officially lending you to Wilder.”

My breath caught and my fingernails dug into the armrests.

“He’s requested an exclusive consultation,” he added.

“He asked for me personally?”

But Adley was already on the phone and chatting with a curator about having that Pollock they’d borrowed just this morning returned to the National Gallery.

4

My Range Rover handled the off-road terrain well.

Tobias Wilder’s Oxfordshire estate was tucked away in the middle of nowhere, though thanks to my navigational skills I was right on time. This place was not on the map, nor were the dusty tree-lined lanes that led me here.

And at 7:00 p.m. I’d not had the advantage of daylight.

There came a thrill of intrigue at seeing Tobias again, and I knew that the secret painting he wanted me to authenticate would also reveal more about him. As would seeing the inside of his home.

It’d taken me over two hours to drive from the city, and it felt good to stretch my legs and ease the stiffness from my limbs as I’d made my way up the driveway toward his door. The only way I’d known I was in the right place was that I saw a helicopter perched on the roof.

You’ll see it from the driveway, Logan’s instructions via email had said. Though she’d not mentioned the driveway went on for three miles.

And as most Brits didn’t have sleek-looking helicopters on their roofs or a line of silver Jaguars parked outside their multimillion-dollar houses, I knew this was it. Something told me Tobias liked toys. The expensive kind.

My modest flat was a shoe box compared to this place. My bedroom looked like a hurricane had swept through the place. I’d changed my outfit so many times and even now doubted this was the right choice. Black slacks, a white chiffon blouse, Ralph Lauren heels. I’d treated myself to a trip to my local salon for a professional blow-dry and now my unruly locks were shiny curls tumbling down my shoulders, and I might have spent a little longer than usual on my makeup.

I’d left my parka in the car.

The last time I’d seen Mr. Wilder was at the meeting yesterday morning. He apparently needed me in the field immediately. I was curious why time was such a factor. The art world moved at a snail’s pace right up until a painting went to auction. Then all hell broke loose with bidders scrambling to release funds so they could possess that certain piece they’d been waiting to come onto the market. Sometimes for years.

I knocked several times on the front door. With no answer I took the liberty of heading on in. There was sure to be security to signal my arrival.

Tobias’s foyer had a minimalist’s opulence.

Modern, if not futuristic, with chrome-lined trimmings and stark white marble tiles and yet vaguely homey in a high-tech kind of way.

“Hello!” I called out again.

My voice echoed, my fingers tense from holding my phone too tightly. I went to call out again—

A blur of movement shimmered in the far corner.

The petite geisha was dressed in the traditional kimono and moved swiftly toward me, her head bowed, her lips marked with a red kiss of lipstick, her movement serene as she made her way into the center. Her black hair was rolled into several elaborate buns and her striking features were highlighted by her pure white foundation.

Why was I not surprised that Tobias had a pretty woman working for him? She came closer, her hands held together in greeting and her fingers eerily pale.

“I’m Zara. I’m expected by Mr. Wilder?” I gave a quick “I hope so or that would be awkward” smile.

She raised her line of sight and stared at me. “Yo¯koso.” Unease rose in my chest; a sense something was wrong. She vanished.

I staggered back, my handbag slipping from my grip and my iPhone joining it on the marble with a loud crack as it bounced at my feet.

My throat constricted with fear.

Blinking around the foyer, all air gone from my lungs, heart racing, my brain telling me to run and yet my legs too weak to respond.

The geisha girl was back before me. Right there. Her head respectfully bowed, her gaze rose to meet mine, her line of sight exact. And yet—

“Yo¯koso.” She bowed low.

These impossible seconds unfolded like a cruel nightmare. Her fading image flickered back into focus.

“What the fuck...” I hissed through clenched teeth.

“She’s a bit glitchy.” A male voice. My stare shot toward it.

Tobias Wilder stood at the top of the stairs with his hands tucked casually inside his trouser pockets, his thoughtful frown deepening. He was more striking than I’d remembered him, that dark blond hair crowning his handsome face and his green eyes were mesmerizing as they held mine. His well-defined physique was now dressed sharply in a classically styled tuxedo, his white shirt open at the collar with no bow tie.

I chastised myself for staring too long. The geisha was gone.

Blinking furiously, my brain tried to process what I’d seen.

Tobias made his way down the stairs. “The uncanny valley.”

“I’m sorry?”

“A hypothesis.” He paused on the last step. “From the field of aesthetics.” He raised his gaze to the ceiling. “The brain triggers unease. It clearly senses what it’s seeing isn’t real. What was your initial emotion?”

My thoughts swirled, my jaw easing its tension.

If try not to pee yourself was an emotion, that would be it.

He gave an assured nod. “Revulsion? Even if she is pretty.”

“A hologram?” I wanted to tell him that was wrong in so many ways.

He arched his eyebrows playfully. “I started off with a rat. That did not go down well.”

This man was bloody insane.

And I was in the middle of the country and quite possibly alone with him.

Trying to pull back on my startled expression, I said, “You have a beautiful home, Mr. Wilder?” It came out as a question. “Long driveway.”

“Please, call me Tobias.”

My gaze darted around to see if anyone else was here.

“Would you like a drink?” He gestured to the left.

I knelt to retrieve my handbag and cringed when I saw the shattered glass on my iPhone’s screen.

He stood above me in that devilishly handsome pose, his face calm as though he’d not just scared the crap out of me and smashed my phone. I peered up to see his intense stare locked on mine, and a rush of ill-timed excitement flooded my veins.

He’d frozen me there with his stare.

“I’ll get you a new one,” he said firmly. “You’re three models behind, Zara. This will not do.”

My gaze swept over my phone.

He held out his hand, and I felt his firm grip as he assisted me up. I stared at him. “That won’t be necessary.”

“I think you’ll find contradicting me is unwise.” He winked.

God, I’d forgotten how gorgeous he was. How his striking green eyes crinkled so seductively when he smiled.

“I insist.” He waved it off.

My cheeks scorched with embarrassment as I followed him out of the foyer. This was my first day out in the field, and I intended on getting my act together and impressing both Tobias and my boss when he reported back to him.

For now, I’d have to tuck my cheeky retorts away.

His cologne wafted around me and I subtly sniffed him in. The scent of a fresh forest in the morning, and something spicy, something forbidden. A poorly timed vision of his naked, toned torso flashed through my thoughts.

I wondered if Tobias’s messy-yet-artful, post-fucked hairstyle was on purpose. His flawless bespoke tux showed off his tall frame and broad shoulders and his onyx-and-silver cuff links shone as they caught the light. He had the kind of walk that proved his unwavering confidence as he went about intimidating those who dared to enter his stratosphere.

He’d either come from a posh dinner or was heading out to one. Probably with some übersexy vixen who made me look like the girl next door. Might as well have worn that parka, it wasn’t like he was going to be admiring my curves anytime soon.

“This shouldn’t take long,” I reassured him.

He turned and flashed a heart-stopping smile. “I’ve already had the pleasure of a demonstration of your skills, Zara.”

“The Jackson Pollock?”

“Quite a gift.” He gave a ghost of a smile and his American aura oozed approachable and yet those stunning good looks were unnerving.

We made our way into a large sitting room, sparse like the foyer, a leather couch facing the long sweeping window from floor to ceiling. Beyond the view lay miles of lush green grass that eventually met with a forest that stretched out for miles.

All that lovely nature extended in here too with those tall thriving plants that gave the place an earthy feel. To the left there was a clear wall of glass with falling water echoing like rain along the full length of the room.

The beauty of it took my breath away.

“The house is run by solar,” he said when he caught me staring at it.

“Why the hologram?” I asked. “Is it part of your security system?”

“I tinker.”

“With holograms?”

“Inventions.”

Of course, I’d read that about him but hadn’t expected to see one so soon, and certainly not such a brilliant demonstration of what he was capable of.

Tobias made his way over to a chrome bar. From behind there he opened a fridge door and brought out an impressive bottle of Krug champagne and a carafe of orange juice and set about making us drinks. “You made a fine test subject.”

“You observed my reaction?”

“Software failed. The experiment was compromised.”

“What else do you invent?”

He arched a brow. “The nature of an invention is to create that which does not exist.”

“Obviously.”

Tobias paused as though I’d offended him.

“I’m sure it’s all top secret.” I softened the moment.

“Failure is common.”

“Didn’t Edison say something about being so close and not giving up? That you’re usually right there when you give up.”

“And how would one test such a theory?”

My teeth scraped over my lower lip as I ran through that logic.

He turned around and reached up to the glass cabinet behind him and brought down two champagne flutes.

“I’m driving,” I said. “Water would be nice.”

“Not tonight.”

“I meant when I leave later.”

He spilled a trickle of orange juice onto his hand and licked the tip of his finger; a curl of his sensual mouth, a flash of tongue.

He threw me a mischievous grin. And I almost melted on the spot.

Being in the same space with him addled my thoughts, and I had to force myself to pull back on my imagination, which was teasing how wonderful his gorgeous body would feel against mine. A fantasy that felt impossible.

“Thank you for driving all the way out here,” he said.

“It’s my pleasure. I’m glad to be of help. Do you rent the property when you’re in town?”

“I own it.”

Of course he did, and it felt like such a silly question now.

He peered out the long window. “I’m not too popular amongst the neighbors. Whoever submitted the schematics for the height of the fences got their metric system muddled with the foot units and measured it all wrong.”

I had noted how tall the gates were as I’d driven through his property.

“Turns out,” Tobias continued, “fox hunters can’t jump the gates during a hunt.” He uncorked the bottle of champagne. “And their hounds are too big to fit through. So those foxes use my land as a sort of sanctuary. Naughty foxes.”

I caught his cheeky grin.

“Well, that’s quite wonderful,” I said.

“In the winter I like to stand right where you are now and look out and watch them play in the snow.”

With a tilt of champagne and a dash of orange juice he’d prepared two mimosas. My gaze roamed over him in awe.

He caught me staring and straightened his back. “Perhaps now is a good time for us to go over my expectations.”

I stepped forward, eager to hear. “Of course.”

“Now that you work for me—”

“Technically I work for Huntly Pierre.”

“Who have officially loaned you to me.” He caught me with his glare. “Let’s toast to a successful evening.” He raised a glass and offered it to me.

I took it. “Cheers.”

“We were discussing the ground rules.”

“I’d be happy to hear your expectations.”

He took a sip. “I expect confidentiality—”

“That goes without saying.”

“Unquestioning loyalty—”

“Of course.”

“I expect you not to interrupt when I’m speaking—”

“I was merely—”

He arched a brow.

His overly confident manner sent my equilibrium reeling and I had to stare out of that long glass window to regain my composure.

“Let’s discuss tonight,” he said.

He wasn’t just into controlling holographic geishas apparently. I looked around. “Sir, perhaps I could see the painting?”

“Tobias.”

I gave a thin smile. “Tobias, I’d love to see it. The painting, I mean.”

He raised his glass and took several sips, his stare holding mine.

Mirroring him, I took a sip, enjoying the delicious tang of orange and expensive champagne, and ran over what I knew about him. He was a self-made billionaire but so far he’d not acted spoiled. Though from what I’d seen he could be considered bossy.

He was the kind of challenge I usually rose to but I was here to please him. The client, my addled brain corrected my erotic musing.

Wilder might as well have had heartbreak central stamped on his forehead. And I’d had more than my fair share of that. Those internal alarms were there for a reason.

“Are you going out? Am I making you late?”

“Follow me.”

“May I get my equipment from the car?”

“No need.”

Behind his back, I took a gulp of bubbly.

I set the glass on the bar and followed a few steps behind him, relieved to be getting to the reason why I’d driven all this way. Strolling down the well-lit hallway and vigilant for any more geisha-like surprises.

“Perhaps I could see more of your inventions?” I said softly. He threw me a doubtful smile.

“Perhaps a warning next time? Before you show it to me.” I wondered what other stuff he was working on. “What kind of application does the hologram have?”

“Security, mainly. I’m currently working on a touchable hologram. One that reacts to movement.”

“That sounds incredible.” I secretly ogled his bum.

Tobias had the kind of height and confident stride most women would swoon at. We’d not gotten to the place where I could pry about his personal life. I wondered if we ever would. My lips pressed together when my brain nudged me to ask the meaning of his Latin tattoo.

“No 3-D glasses, Zara, did you catch that?” He smiled my way. “Don’t tell anyone what you saw.”

“Of course.” I breathed out in a rush of giddy excitement, realizing I’d witnessed something special.

The fact Tobias had trusted me made me beam with happiness. Being here was fricking amazing. “So the seller lent you the painting so you could have it appraised?”

He pushed open a door.

Inside the modest room there was merely a central island. A couple of boxes resting on top of it.

One wall was a mirror from carpet to ceiling. There, in the corner, hanging on an ornate tall cupboard, was an elegant black satin gown, the kind you see worn on the runways of Paris. Tobias strolled over to the island and lifted the box sitting in the center. He opened the lid to reveal the strappy silver shoes inside.

I caught my breath. “Those are pretty.”

He was showing me his girlfriend’s things, and I feigned this wasn’t awkward at all. I looked around for the painting. There wasn’t one.

“You’ll need this.” He gestured to the box beside the shoes.

My frown deepened as I stepped forward, lifted the lid and rifled through the soft tissue paper, looking for the handheld X-ray scanner.

I pulled out a strip of black silk material and realized I was looking at Coco de Mer lingerie.

My breath left me in a rush as the bra slipped from my fingers back into the box. He came closer, his expression intense, his green irises fierce under the light.

“Tobias?” My gaze dragged from his and fell back onto the tag on that thin strip of material that was meant to serve as a bra and it was my cup size. My cheeks blazed like fire. “What’s this for?”

He glanced at the dress. “Please, put on the Alexander McQueen.”

“Why?”

“You can’t go dressed like that.”

“Go where?”

“To see the painting.” He brushed a strand of hair out of my eyes and tucked it behind my ear.

It felt as though I’d been struck by lightning and the echo of his touch lingered where his fingers had brushed my cheek; my eyelids fluttered. “We’re not staying here?”

“No, Zara.”

“We’re going out?”

He gave the kindest smile. “Yes.”

My stare returned to the sexy underwear and then moved from the strappy shoes and hovered over the dress. “That’s for me?”

He gave an assured nod. “Meet me in the foyer.”

Tobias left and his heady cologne lingered behind him, its effect just as powerful.

I leaned on the central island and clutched the edge, knuckles white, fighting this wave of light-headedness.

As though rising from a dream, the situation became glaringly clear. I’d stepped inside the world of the truly wealthy and just proven I was out of my depth. Yes, I’d come from money, but it had all been tied up in property and paintings and never had I experienced moments of decadence that took my breath away—

Until now.

5

Reason caught up with my arousal and nudged it out of the way, helping me see clearly without the distraction of that sex god clouding my view.

You don’t invite a professional woman over to your home, which is in the middle of nowhere, show her some erotic lingerie and tell her to put it on, and then force her to wear a gown from one of the world’s top designers. No matter how much it must have cost or how gorgeous those strappy straps looked with that risqué off-the-shoulder design and elegant ruching, and the way it fell to flatter a woman’s curves just so.

Even if you do go around flaunting you’re the sexiest man alive and a hero to wildlife, with the ease of someone who pretends he has no effect on those around him.

“No, you bloody well don’t.” I stomped down the hallway, through the foyer and out into the cold night air.

And headed for my Range Rover.

From what I’d seen, everyone back at Huntly Pierre seemed reasonable. I’d merely relay my concerns about our client’s eccentricities and be off the hook—

A burst of noise above.

A blinding fluorescent white lit up the house.

I forced my lips shut against the tornado of dust and leaves swirling around me and brought my hands up to protect my face from the scattering debris, crouching against the metal monster looming above, the force of wind shoving me back and blasting my clothes.

Whirling blades came into view—

The sleek helicopter turned a 180 and landed smoothly before me. Heart pounded, blood roared in my ears, my legs weakened.

The chopping lessened as the blades stilled. The air now quiet.

I blinked against the bright blur of headlights directed at me. Out climbed Tobias.

He walked toward me with that casual swagger of confidence, wearing a bow tie now to round out his intimidation, looking even more formal than before, even more handsome, with that familiar earthiness and a splash of bad-boy billionaire.

He stopped short of where I stood and locked his gaze on me.

Brushing off a few leaves that were stuck to my trousers and dragging my fingers through my hair to remove a few more to make my point, I raised myself to my full height, trying to regain some decorum.

That’s right, buddy, I’m not wearing it.

I stared him down.

Tobias stepped toward me, closing the gap between us.

And closer still until he towered over me, his expression calm.

Slowly, my chin rose as though daring him to kiss me and earn himself a slap. I knew better than to let this man in despite my thoughts scattering like those wayward leaves still finding their way around my feet.

I hardly knew anything about Tobias and yet he was seducing me with the ease of a man who always got what he wanted.

That was twice he’d scared the hell out of me. I was damned if I was going to give him the chance to do it again. He still hadn’t touched me, his hands tucked inside his trouser pockets in that seductive pose.

I flashed a glare. “It appears we have a misunderstanding, Mr. Wilder.”

“Yet I see the situation clearly.”

“Really?”

“Zara.” His breath felt warm on my mouth.

“Yes.”

He tilted his head slightly and his left cheek hovered near mine, his mouth close to my ear as he whispered, “It’s just a painting.”

I tried to remember the last time I’d been this daring and nothing came close to being whisked away by a gorgeous man in a helicopter to view a secret masterpiece. My universe was all about respectful whispers around century-old paintings housed in well-lit galleries in carefully controlled settings.

Was I going to let this adventure slip through my fingers?

“I promise to keep you safe.” He looked sincere. “Aren’t you even a little intrigued?”

“A little.”

“I want you to want to come,” he said without a hint of sarcasm.

My gaze moved over to that flashy helicopter.

“Say yes,” he whispered.

Whoever that girl was who’d stormed out of his house was nowhere to be seen now.

Instead, with my hand firmly in his grip I followed him back in and we walked through the foyer and down the hallway and back into the room with the dress.

He guided me into the center.

“I’ll put it on.” My gaze swept over the dress.

“I appreciate that, Zara.”

He was gone again, and I was left staring at my own stunned reflection.

It didn’t take me long to undress, peeling out of my underwear and then putting on his Coco de Mer. Staring at the mirror, I marveled how the lingerie flattered my figure, the bra with its delicate design that barely skimmed over my breasts and the Venetian lace panel on the back of the panties showing off my pert bottom. All self-consciousness left me, all embarrassment, as though it was quite natural to stand here wearing Tobias Wilder’s gift that barely covered anything.

My nipples beaded and nudged my bra.

A rush of blood to my head that he might have cameras installed in here and from another part of the house might be ogling me. The thought of me arousing him sent tingles between my thighs, his strong arms pulling me into him and holding me tight against his firm body and delivering a kiss so fierce it took my breath away; his full lips, his tongue teasing mine and delivering that unspoken promise he’d fuck me harder than I’d ever experienced.

The kind of passion that had women screaming for more.

I’d never reached those kinds of erotic heights with Zach. Not even close.

There’d been too many intimate moments where I’d feigned release with him because I just couldn’t get there, that elusive orgasm well out of reach, and until now I’d believed there was something wrong with me.

My breathing stuttered as my reflection came back into view and I realized I’d never thought of myself as sexy until now. Auburn curls tumbled over my shoulders and brushed my breasts.

I’d never been turned on by my own reflection. Until now.

Keeping my focus on why I was actually here was essential if I wasn’t going to lose my way, or lose my heart again and screw this up.

Within minutes I’d pulled myself together and put on the Alexander McQueen. I took a few more minutes to admire how well the dress fit over my curves and how incredibly gorgeous it looked on me. The intricate crystals woven into the material proved this was worth at least three months’ salary for me.

I used the counter for balance to slide into the high heels that were surprisingly comfortable. I opened my handbag and found my lipstick and dabbed my lips with a soft pink.

I went in search of Tobias, hoping he’d be pleased at least with the way I looked. I found him texting on his phone in the foyer.

When his gaze rose to mine he viewed me like something he’d created; his back stiffened as he stood taller.

A flash of excitement burned in his eyes.

Despite the fact that he was a virtual stranger, I somehow trusted him. This alluring enigma that was Tobias William Wilder was seductively hypnotic.

I loved being around him, and never had I met anyone as exciting as him.

I wanted, no, needed his approval. “Will I do, Mr. Wilder?” Searching his face for any sign of attraction to me, I forced a confident smile.

He merely held a fixed, stern expression and blinked my way.

I broke his gaze. “I’m afraid my handbag doesn’t match.”

“Do you have your magnifier?”

“Yes.” Rummaging through my bag, I felt for my miniature magnifier.

He stepped forward and took it from me. “Thank you.” Tobias tucked it into his jacket pocket. “You don’t need your bag.”

“But my phone—”

“Please—” He gestured for me to set it down on the table near the stairs. “You won’t need it.”

With each step toward it I questioned the sanity of leaving my phone behind and my credit cards, but his glare edged me on.

“Good.” Tobias gave a reassuring smile.

Staring through the glass window, I caught sight of the helicopter. “We’re really going in that?”

He gestured for me to follow. “Of course.”

Following him out into the crisp night air, I said, “I feel like Cinderella.” I giggled at my cuteness.

“I’m not sure what that makes me.” He smirked as he opened the passenger-side door of the helicopter and beckoned for me to get in. “Cinderella, we have to get you out of there before midnight.”

“Out of where?”

“Blandford Palace.”

My heart fluttered with joy.

We were heading to one of England’s most beautiful estates and seeing inside it had been merely a pipe dream. The manor was closed off to the public, and its rumored impressive collection of artwork was inaccessible, until now.

I vaguely remembered reading that large country estate was owned by one of the wealthiest siblings in England—the Blandford twins, their empire merging old money with the new from a thriving news corporation.

Tobias shrugged off his jacket and turned to face me, placing it over my shoulders. The warmth was welcoming. Until now adrenaline had made me forget the chill. I pulled his jacket around me and snuggled into it.

Focus, Zara, be professional.

The dashboard was all black leather and shiny controls.

When he wrapped his fingers around the central phallic control I had to look away to hide my blush.

Tobias handled his surroundings like his toys, with a focused intensity. That, and the way he broke into a relaxed smile had an addictive quality.

I counted myself lucky to be merely a professional colleague. God knew what kind of damage this man could do if you let him get under your skin.

A few equipment checks later and a brief chat into his headphones with air traffic control, we lifted off smoothly. Gravity forced us into our seats as we made a fast ascent.

With my heart in my throat and my knuckles white from gripping the seat belt too tightly, we banked left, and Tobias’s home shone brightly like a beacon below.

Within minutes we were flying over countryside, homes, farmland, and the city lights shrunk beneath us.

* * *

As I scanned the flickering lights below, it was easy to forget we were suspended merely in a machine, and now and again I braved a glance over at Tobias, who seemed lost in his own thoughts too.

We landed in the middle of a field and, after the blades stilled, we made our way over to an Aston Martin parked beside a deserted barn. This trip had been well thought out apparently.

We sped off into the night.

Large oak trees lined the driveway, arching above as a wooded tunnel and grandly welcoming visitors with its dramatic forest. Onward through the surrounding acres, their landscape shielded by darkness. When we drove over a bridge there came the view of two great lakes.

“They won’t let us land close?” I was forced back into my seat—Tobias accelerated around a corner.

“No-fly zone over the house,” he explained.

The drive up to the mansion was no different to the flight here, with Tobias quiet and our conversation lacking. With him focused on his speed I was happy to let him concentrate.

I could only assume my meandering back at his house had lost us time and he was trying to make up for it.

My breath caught at the sight of the monumental seventeenth-century Baroque palace that dominated the horizon. It was truly the most striking home I’d ever seen. Vast stone pillars towered at the entryway, and before it spread out a splendorous courtyard.

“Wow,” I said in a rush.

“You’re starting to sound like an American,” he said playfully. “We can’t have that now, can we?”

I was too exhilarated to stop my giggle and slapped my hand to my mouth before I embarrassed myself any further.

We parked left of the house, his Aston Martin fitting in perfectly with the other high-end Bentleys, Ferraris and Mercedes-Benzes.

He leaned right and his arm brushed mine. He opened the glove box and reached in and removed two masks. One black and simple, masculine, and the other, which he handed me, was beaded with shiny studs and delicate feathers rising from the top.

“Put this on.” He gestured for me to turn my head so he could help me secure the ribbon behind, his fingertips moving against my hair and making my scalp tingle.

I couldn’t wait to share my adventures back at the office. Elena was going to freak out when I told her about what kind of mission Adley had unwittingly sent me on.

After repositioning my mask to fit perfectly, I pulled down the rearview mirror. My reflection was that of a mysterious sultry siren.

Tobias of course looked gorgeous in his and when he caught me staring at him flashed a grin. “Ready?”

“Yes, I’m excited.”

“You look beautiful.”

I was grateful he’d already gotten out of the car and hadn’t caught my reaction to his compliment. Tobias Wilder had a kind side. And as we were about to spend the evening together at a party, discovering this about him would make tonight easier.

I wondered if it was a Rembrandt we were going to see, and my toes curled with the thrill of seeing the kind of priceless masterpiece reserved for stately homes like this.

Thanking Tobias for holding my door open, I appreciated his strong hand taking mine to help me out of the car.

We strolled up to the front door, which loomed grandly above. Taking those stone steps beneath the elaborate archway highlighting the Roman-themed grandeur.

I straightened my dress. “Why do we have to be out by midnight?”

“Not we, you.” His lips curled into a smile. “I need to protect your innocence.”

I flashed a smile back. “Oh, it’s that old-fashioned tradition where the men retreat to the smoking room in some kind of archaic sexist ritual.”

He wrapped his fingers around my left upper arm. “No, Zara, it’s because that’s when the fucking starts.”

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