Page 3 of His Untouchable Heart

A knock at the door pulled me from my thoughts.

“Come in.”

Gabrielle stepped inside, moving with the effortless precision she always possessed. The ledger was in one hand, and her phone was in the other. There were no wasted movements or unnecessary glances. She was always in control.

“I’ve sent the photos to MMWF,” she said, her voice crisp but measured. “They should confirm receipt soon.”

I nodded. “Good.”

There was a flicker of hesitation—not much, but enough to catch my attention. I glanced up, watching her closely, the way her fingers tapped lightly against the worn leather cover of the ledger.

“Something else?”

A breath. Small. Controlled. Then she shifted the ledger slightly in her grip. “There’s something in here you need to see.”

The way she said it—low, deliberate—tightened something in my chest. I leaned back, trying to ignore the subtle scent that always trailed in her wake, clean and expensive, something I hadn’t placed but had memorized anyway.

“Show me.”

She crossed the room, each step unhurried, her expression composed even as tension lingered just beneath the surface. She placed the ledger on the desk, flipping through pages with the kind of precision that hinted at something more than just professionalism. When she found what she was looking for, she turned the book toward me, her fingertip pressing lightly against an entry.

“There.”

One word. No embellishments. But the weight behind it was undeniable.

I followed her gaze, my eyes landing on a name written in Alistair’s meticulous hand. My grip on the desk tightened. A sale. A transfer. And a painting I never expected to see tied to this mess.

Frans Hals,A Lady and Gentleman in Black.

A slow exhale. The room felt smaller now, like the walls had inched in just enough to press against my shoulders.

Gabrielle didn’t move. “I take it this piece matters to you.”

I dragged my gaze away from the ledger, meeting her eyes. Something unreadable flickered there. Or maybe not unreadable. Just… tightly controlled.

I forced my voice to stay level. “It does.”

She nodded once, not breaking eye contact. “The Van Den Bergs owned it. A Jewish family in the Netherlands. The Nazis took it in the 1940s. After the war, it disappeared. Some say it was lost. Others say it was hidden.”

I had heard bits and pieces of the story. But hearing it from her—seeing the way she held herself so still, the slight press of her lips, the way her hand lingered just a second too long on the edge of the ledger—told me this wasn’t just some detached recounting of historical theft.

This was personal.

“And now we know where it ended up,” I said.

Her nod was sharp. “In the hands of Alistair Devereux.”

I closed the ledger, slow and deliberate, keeping my movements measured even as my pulse kicked up. The air between us stretched tight. Neither of us said anything. But something had shifted.

Some things carry weight.

Some things linger longer than they should.

This was one of them.

CHAPTERTWO

Gabrielle

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