Page 7 of Painted in Sin

I hate myself for this, but I don't have a choice. I follow him into the alleyway behind the gallery where his car is parked and running. Exhaust hangs like a cloud around the back end, hovering in the distinct lack of a breeze back here. Victor opens the door, and I move toward the car after locking up, only to see a dark, shadowy form standing by my car.

My eyes narrow briefly but I keep moving, climbing into Costa's limo, and I scoot to the far side of the seat where I can get a better look at my car. There's a person there, looming over my little sedan like they own it. Dark hoodie, eyes shielded, and as Victor gets in and closes the door, the person folds their hood back.

Nicola. Dammit.

Matthias was right. My ex isn't waiting around. He's coming for me. And for once, I'm glad I'm with the criminal and not alone. At least here, I'm safe.

6

VICTOR

Isabella De Luca is exquisite. Every eye in this restaurant has stolen a glance at her this evening. The sequined black gown she chose to wear reveals just enough cleavage to be immodest but not enough to rouse my jealousy as other men admire her. And the slit up her thigh is tempting, making my fingers itch to caress the silk of her skin, feel it pucker with goosebumps under my touch.

I sit in my private booth—the very same one where just over a week ago I entertained our friend Antony, the fence. The large marble pillar is no accident, positioned there specifically so that I can avoid any wandering eyes while allowing my guests the privilege of the same thing.

Isabella seems nervous, a bit stiff this evening. She wasn't expecting me to show up at the gallery and check on her work, but there is a lot riding on this painting. I've already been alerted to three different factions hoping to lift the painting when it goes on exhibit, which is why I didn't even bat an eyelash when I noticed the forgery.

"Enjoying the wine?" I ask, bringing my own drink to my lips. Ms. De Luca is an enigma I am desperate to crack open and explore. I'm not at all bothered by her reluctance to talk to me, or the fact that she faked the Raphael. She probably has the original stashed somewhere for safekeeping, most likely with the intent to turn it in to the authorities.

More "ears to the ground" revealed to me earlier this evening that an Interpol agent spoke of meeting with her tonight—the reason I whisked her out of the gallery and into this restaurant. She cannot turn in a painting to someone she doesn't have a face-to-face with.

"Very much, thank you," she says politely. I'm waiting until she crosses the line between polite and uninhibited and banking on the wine to loosen her up a bit.

"Your work is very interesting, Bella." I've taken to using this name with her now as a means of showing her position with me—near me, but beneath me. "Have you always loved Raphael so much?"

My eyes narrow on her as her shoulders relax a bit. I know just the way to peel back the layers of this onion and reveal the aromatic center I'm craving. A soft smile plays on her lips as she finishes her third glass of wine, hazy eyes half-lidded and heavy looking up at me.

"I have," she purrs, "since I was a teen." Her drink is gone and her hand flutters to the table to set the stemware down. "Raphael is a genius. His work is often overlooked because of the simplicity of his paintings, no noblemen or famous scenes. He painted raw images, often being commissioned by commoners instead of royalty. And he has a way with every stroke, like thestrokes alone tell me his emotions as he drew his paintbrush across the canvas."

I love how I can coax this side of her out, the part that eats, drinks, breathes the art. Her consciousness is on a different plane from most people’s, and I find it captivating how she describes things when she's in this mode.

"Have you ever thought of painting them? You know… using Raphael's works as an analog from which to draw inspiration and recreate his brush strokes?" My words are chosen carefully. Ms. De Luca has a sordid past, which I'm well aware of. If not for the dark thread woven through the tapestry of her life, I'd have overlooked her as a valid source for my authentication.

It is precisely her past with this specific vice that I've chosen her. A woman once nearly taken down for forgery is most likely to understand the delicate nature of my world and the work I need done.

She clears her throat and avoids eye contact as she reaches for the bottle of wine to refill her glass. I hold a hand up, waving her off, as I rise to reach it myself and pour a few fingers into her stemware. My nearness to her again makes her shoulders stiffen, but she doesn’t draw away. I see the blush of her cheeks, the way her lips darken with a flush of attraction. She wants to be open, but for now I know she'll hide inside herself, thinking there's no way I could possibly understand.

"No, never," she says tartly, accepting the full wine glass and bringing it to her lips again quickly. I've rattled her, perhaps pushed a button too close for comfort, which is the last thing I want to do. I don't want her on the defensive, running away. I want her to blossom like a flower under my gaze and feel the warmth of all I can provide for her.

"But you do paint," I say matter-of-factly. It raises her eyebrows and she nods once.

"I do, but I don’t fancy myself much of an expert." One shoulder rises and falls as she meets my gaze, and I allow that lingering union to unnerve her a little. Her eyes are fabulous, deep pools of the richest emerald green with flecks of gold and brown in them. Breathtaking.

"Will you allow me to see some of your work?" The question serves no purpose in our business dealings. It's selfish at best, a means for me to draw her out of her shell and allow her to see my softer side. I'm not just a killer and an art smuggler. I'm a man with desires, and right now, those desires are entirely focused on her.

"No, I'm not sure that would be possible." She blushes and looks away, downing her fourth glass of wine as she slips out of the booth. "If you'll excuse me, I need the ladies’ room."

With another slight nod, she walks away and I rise as well. My napkin falls to the floor. I stoop to pick it up and drape it over my empty plate, then I wait for her return. My staff will clean the table and my father will handle the tab, wrap it into expenses for the restaurant.

This entire evening has only been to serve the purpose of preserving my family's claim to the Raphael—and my father's absurd obsession with the frame. Still, I find her mesmerizing and I'm not able to separate my base desire to have her from the task at hand. I could very well have just driven her home and left her there, kept watch on her penthouse to ensure no late-night visitors. But I chose this because I find something curiously entertaining about her, something I want to experience more of.

So when she returns from the ladies’ room and she's surprised to see me standing with my elbow extended, ready to escort her to the car, I'm not shocked to see her hesitancy. Her eyes flick toward the table and then the exit. She clasps her hands together in front of herself and shakes her head in an almost non-distinguishable move.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm going to take you home, Bella. You don't think I would allow someone as valuable to me as you are to go home alone in this tipsy condition." I reach for her hand, wrapping it around my bicep. The deep blush returns to her cheeks as she fans her face and shakes her head again.

"I'm sure you have better things to do, Mr. Costa. I can find my way home." Her protest is adorable and not effective.

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