Page 7 of His Untouchable Heart

He wiped his hands on a towel before extending one toward me. “Damian Sinclair.”

I shook his hand. Firm grip, controlled strength. The kind of handshake that belonged to a man who never lost.

“Anthony Moreau.”

His smirk deepened. “I know.”

That caught my attention. “Do you?”

He slung the towel over his shoulder. “I follow the art world. Hard not to hear about the guy cleaning up the Devereux mess.”

I kept my expression neutral, but something tightened in my chest. “That’s one way to put it.”

He waved a hand. “Don’t get me wrong—I respect what you and The Monuments Men and Women Foundation do. Returning stolen masterpieces, righting historical wrongs, all very noble.” He gave me a sidelong glance. “But let’s not pretend this isn’t just another power game.”

I folded my arms. “And what are you involved in, Damian? Since you clearly have an opinion about power.”

His smirk sharpened, something calculating in his eyes. “Sinclair Acquisitions. We deal in rare and high-value art transactions—private auctions, investment consulting, and high-profile acquisitions.”

Of course. The man didn’t just follow the art world. He shaped it.

Damian led the way to the juice bar, moving through the space like he owned it. In a way, he did. Not literally, but the way people acknowledged him—the subtle nods from buff men, the lingering looks from women who clearly knew his reputation—it was obvious he was one of Miami’s elite.

I wasn’t interested in the social dynamics of this place, but I recognized them. Power had a way of revealing itself, even in something as simple as a post-workout juice bar.

The bar itself looked more like something out of a high-end hotel lounge than a gym. Dark wood counters, glass shelves lined with imported supplements, and a menu that read like a science experiment.

Damian barely glanced at the list before ordering. “Dragon fruit, maca root, raw cacao, bee pollen, and oat milk.”

The woman behind the counter nodded, as if this was a completely reasonable request. I skimmed the menu, unimpressed, and chose something simple: “Black coffee. Iced.”

Damian smirked as we stepped aside to wait for our drinks. “You’re not even gonna try the superfood concoction? It might boost your longevity.”

I crossed my arms. “I’m not trying to live forever.”

“Ah,” he mused, “a man with limits. Rare in Miami.”

Our drinks arrived—his in a sleek glass tumbler, mine in a standard to-go cup. Damian took a sip of his overpriced potion, exhaling with exaggerated satisfaction. “Tastes like money.”

I took a slow drink of my coffee. “Tastes like caffeine.”

We moved to a small corner booth, the low hum of conversation filling the space around us. Damian stretched out, completely at ease, while I kept my posture more measured. He was the type of man who could relax anywhere. I wasn’t.

“So,” he said, tapping a finger against his glass, “what’s your deal, Moreau? You come to Miami to work but not to play?”

I shrugged. “I’m here to oversee the Devereux case. My focus is on work.”

Damian tilted his head, studying me. “That’s a shame. Miami isn’t the kind of city that lets a man stay single for long.”

I exhaled through my nose, shaking my head. “I’m not interested.”

He lifted an eyebrow. “Not interested in Miami women?”

“Not interested in dating. Period.”

Damian’s smirk barely wavered, but I could see the wheels turning in his mind. “A man with your name, your background—there has to be a story behind that.”

I tapped a finger against my coffee cup, debating how much to say. I wasn’t in the habit of explaining myself, especially to someone I’d just met. But I also knew men like Damian. They respected directness.

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