Page 1 of His Untouchable Heart

CHAPTERONE

Anthony

"Are you contemplating keeping that treasure all to yourself?"

Gabrielle's voice cut through the heavy silence of the office, smooth and intentional like a river winding through an untouched land. The room, with its subdued colors, was gently lit by the faint light seeping through heavy curtains. The mahogany desk and leather-bound books lining the walls added to the atmosphere. The air was filled with the rich aroma of old paper and polished wood, a reminder of the history held within these storied walls.

I lingered for a moment, my gaze still fixed on the ledger in front of me, my fingers tracing its edges with a discerning touch. Its old, worn cover carried a weighty presence, a tangible reminder of the secrets nestled within its pages.

This ledger was a cartographer's delight in intrigue and betrayal. Each acquisition, transaction, and forged document enabled the Devereux family to transform pilfered masterpieces into seemingly legitimate holdings. The pages were yellowed and brittle beneath my fingertips, each a fragile relic of a past steeped in cunning deceit.

With a measured breath, I finally lifted my gaze to the doorway. There stood Gabrielle, framed by the ornate doorframe, her posture relaxed, yet her presence undeniably commanding. The light from the hallway behind her created a halo around her silhouette, enhancing her poised elegance. She was always like that—composed, graceful, dangerously unaware, perhaps without even a hint of self-awareness.

Or she was acutely aware of the power she wielded and wielded it with quiet mastery,I thought.

I gestured toward the ledger. “I wasn’t aware you were in such a rush." My voice was even, but beneath it, tension coiled like a spring, ready to snap with the slightest provocation.

She arched a perfectly sculpted brow, her gaze as piercing as a hawk's. "The Monuments Men and Women Foundation doesn’t entertain delays." Her words carried the weight of an unyielding authority that was somehow intoxicating.

No, they didn’t. The judge’s stern words echoed in my mind when he assigned me as the custodian of the Devereux Gallery. This wasn’t merely a favor to the art world; it was a binding duty charged with a certain allure.

I held dominion over the gallery’s inventory, a guardian tasked with returning stolen WWII-era masterpieces to their rightful homes. Yet, the role was a gilded cage, and its bars came at a cost.

I picked up the ledger, its worn leather cover cool under my fingertips. Gabrielle stepped closer, her heels tapping softly on the polished floor, a rhythmic counterpoint to the surrounding silence. "You want me to make copies?" Her voice was neutral, yet there was an unspoken edge beneath her words—a mystery that teased and tantalized.

I took in her features for a moment, then slid the ledger across the desk. "Photograph every page. Send them to MMWF by noon." My voice carried an undeniable finality, yet it lingered between us, charged with an unspoken promise.

As she reached out to take the book, my attention was momentarily captured by her blouse.

Silk.

Fitted.

The cut was just low enough to tease yet not enough to compromise her professionalism. The fabric shimmered subtly in the dim light, its rich hue enhancing the warmth of her skin. I mused to myself, grateful for the discreet cover of my seated position, which allowed me to appreciate the moment without revealing what she was doing to me.

I should have looked away faster. But I didn’t.

Gabrielle didn’t acknowledge my lapse in focus, but the subtle tilt of her head—the slight twitch of her lips hinting at amusement—revealed she wasn’t oblivious either. Her green eyes sparkled with a knowing gleam, catching the Florida sunlight that filtered through the blinds.

Reluctantly, I forced my attention back to the ledger. Yet my grip on control felt more fragile than I liked. My heart thudded in my chest. “You have an issue with deadlines?”

Her fingers caressed the book’s aged leather binding, her nails perfectly manicured, and her movements deliberate and unhurried. A faint scent of jasmine lingered between us, weaving an invisible thread of her presence. “No,” she replied, meeting my gaze evenly. Butyoumight if you keep stalling.”

Despite myself, I smirked, acknowledging the game between us. “Is that a warning?”

“An observation.” She lifted the ledger, flipping through a few pages before snapping it shut. “I’ll have the copies sent over before noon. Anything else?”

Her gaze held mine a beat too long, the tension between us unspoken, electric, like a live wire sparking beneath the surface. It wasn’t the first time I had felt it—this undercurrent of something alluring and undeniable whenever she was near.

She turned, her movements fluid and graceful, like a dancer in perfect control, as she walked toward the door. I told myself I wasn’t watching too closely and was indifferent to how her hips swayed as she walked.

Lies.

The door clicked shut behind her, and I let out a slow exhale, rubbing a hand over my jaw, feeling the roughness of stubble against my palm.

Damn her.

I leaned back in Alistair Devereau’s chair, letting the weight of it settle over me. The judge had been clear—this was my responsibility now. The Devereux Gallery, once a respected institution, was nothing more than a crime scene hidden in plain sight.

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