Page 11 of His Untouchable Heart

Whoever was on the other side of that door had just interrupted a moment that never should have happened.

What had they seen?

CHAPTERFIVE

Anthony

"I hope no one saw us?”

“Let me handle this," I whispered to Gabrielle.

A stray wisp of her hair clung to her cheek, an unruly trace of our moment. I brushed it away, my fingertips grazing her skin for just a beat too long before stepping back, forcing myself to regain my composure. The gallery remained still, but the silence now felt heavy—a lingering echo of something that shouldn't have happened, at least not here, not ever.

You’re Gabrielle’s boss.

The morning light stretched long shadows across the front of the gallery, one of them familiar. Even before I reached the door, I recognized the deliberate posture, the squared shoulders.

Curtain. Alistair Devereaux’s attorney.

"Frank," I greeted, keeping my voice neutral, though my pulse marked its own rhythm beneath the surface.

"Morning. I forgot my keys,” he replied, stepping inside with the air of a man accustomed to delivering bad news. His gravelly voice, shaped by years of cigarette smoke and negotiations, carried a measured weight. A stack of manila folders rested in one of his large hands, gripped with purpose and possession.

As he passed by, I observed him. No lingering glances at Gabrielle, no flicker of amusement or suspicion in his eyes. Nothing in his stance indicated that he had seen anything at all. Still, I watched him closely, searching for any sign—a pause, an offhand comment, anything that might confirm or deny whether he had entered at the wrong time. I breathed a sigh of relief.

Frank isn’t going to fire us, or he would have already done so.

Gabrielle remained at the desk, head bent over the thick spiral notebook, flipping through pages with what looked like focused determination. But was it? I knew better than to assume calmness meant ease.

Inside the office, Curtain deposited the stack of folders with the precise care of a card dealer laying down a hand. “For you. Some papers to sign for the judge,” he said.

I ignored the files, instead gesturing toward a chair—a meaningless invitation I knew he wouldn’t accept. “So, Frank. What’s going on?”

He exhaled slowly, but I caught it—the briefest flicker of something behind his eyes before his expression smoothed over. Awareness? Or was I imagining it?

Beyond the office, the faint sound of pages turning carried through the stillness. Gabrielle was working, covering, or maybe waiting for her dismissal.

“It’s the Devereux case,” Curtain began, leaning back so heavily that the delicate wooden chair creaked under his mass. “Judge has new orders.” His words scraped against the quiet of the room.

“Oh?”

“Yeah.” He looked almost pleased with himself as though the imposition sinking into resistance was a kind of victory. “They want you to split your time.”

“Split my time?”

“MM&W needs you in Dallas. And here.” He paused for effect. “You’ll travel between both locations.”

I tried to sound unfazed. “Travel?”

Instantly, my mind filled with visions of airline tickets, crowded terminals, and departure gates—words that now loomed ominously like his shadow had at the front door.

“The art’s being returned to owners. There is a lot more to do before each piece is back where it belongs.” Curtain shifted his weight, resting his elbows on his knees, leaning in as if sharing a private collusion. “It’ll need someone like you to oversee.”

I winced at the implication, glancing at the stack of folders in a silent protest as if they could vindicate my role, my authority. “Gabrielle and I were planning to?—”

Curtain cut me off, nodding toward the main room. “Your assistant?” he observed, the words casting doubt. “She’s looking busy.”

“Yes. She’s organizing the pieces scheduled for verification.”

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