Page 72 of His Untouchable Heart

Louisa found me on the lower deck just as I was pretending to care about the canapés.

She moved like a woman who owned her silhouette—elegant, exact, all sharp lines softened by custom tailoring and decades of knowing more than everyone else in the room. She held a champagne flute in one hand and a slim folder in the other, the paper crisp and slightly too official for a wedding cruise.

“Am I interrupting a moment of quiet introspection,” she asked, “or just your performance of one?”

I smiled and gestured to the seat beside me. “Depends. Are you here to ruin my mood or rescue it?”

She dropped into the chair with a soft rustle of silk and laid the folder on the table between us. “You said you wanted tax relief. I had this in my car.”

“I was hoping for something with fewer numbers and more pictures,” I said, sipping my drink.

She arched a brow. “Then maybe stay out of the art recovery business.”

I shrugged. “It’s not the art I’m interested in. It’s the write-offs.”

She snorted delicately. “Of course it is. A billionaire’s love language.”

The folder contained an overview of the Devereux Gallery’s remaining assets: what had been sold, what was still in negotiations, what might be eligible for donation if I felt like playing the generous benefactor.

“The Monuments Men & Women Foundation doesn’t cover everything,” she continued, tapping a list. “Private efforts are still needed. Especially in Europe. And especially by people who can afford to lose a little liquidity.”

“Lose is a strong word.”

Louisa gave me a sidelong look. “You’re not doing this out of patriotism, Damian. Let’s not pretend otherwise.”

“I don’t pretend,” I said smoothly. “I just edit.”

She laughed. “You edit until reality fits your brand.”

Fair.

Louisa had a mind like a vault and the wardrobe of a Vogue editor. She could talk Byzantine tax law while choosing the perfect wine pairing and never break a sweat. Brilliant, composed, terrifying.

But even as she spoke, my gaze kept sliding elsewhere.

Juliette.

She was barefoot now—her shoes discarded near a potted palm—laughing too loud, dipping strawberries in the chocolate fountain with zero coordination, and eating off a plate she’d probably stolen from the bar setup.

Someone had definitely tried to tell her where to sit. She’d definitely ignored them.

She tossed her hair over one shoulder and said something animated to a group of guests who looked half confused, half enchanted. She was electric and entirely unscripted.

And it made it impossible for me to look away.

Louisa was clarity. Juliette was chaos. One sharpened you. The other set you on fire.

And God help me, I was already too warm.

“Are you still listening?” Louisa asked, not even looking up from the folder.

“Every word,” I said. I didn’t even try to sound convincing.

I was halfway through pretending to read Louisa’s report when I heard the low, measured tread of someone approaching with purpose.

Judge Valencia.

He moved like a man used to people standing when he entered a room. Even now, in a linen jacket and soft leather loafers, he carried himself like a verdict waiting to be delivered.

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