Page 73 of His Untouchable Heart

“Mr. Sinclair,” he said, stopping beside me with his hands clasped behind his back. “I thought I might find you somewhere quiet. You don’t strike me as the dance-floor type.”

I rose and extended a hand. “Only when the deal closes with a spin.”

He smiled, dry and approving, as if he appreciated the joke but liked the instinct behind it even more.

“I’ve been hearing your name more often these days,” he said. “Particularly in connection with art.”

“News travels fast when people think you’ve got deep pockets and shallow patience,” I said, motioning for him to sit. “Fortunately, they’re only half right.”

He didn’t sit. Just kept his gaze steady, the Biscayne Bay wind tugging at the edges of his jacket.

“With most of the Devereux Gallery’s legitimate works now sold,” he said, “Anthony’s going to be focused on building something new. Clean, credible. It’ll take time.”

I nodded. “Reputation takes longer than profit. But both can be engineered.”

Valencia inclined his head as if I’d passed some kind of unspoken test. “Still, there’s more work to be done. Especially in Europe. Heirs whose families were stripped of everything. Families who’ve never seen justice. There’s a market for that kind of effort. A moral one—and a financial one.”

“And let me guess,” I said, watching him closely. “You’re not suggesting the foundation do it.”

“The MM&W Foundation has its reach. But bureaucracy moves slowly,” he said. “And this… this could move faster in private hands. With the right vision. And capital.”

Ah.

There it was.

An opportunity with just enough risk to make it interesting.

“You want me to build something outside the system,” I said.

“I want someone who can move in and out of it,” he replied. “Someone with access. Discretion. The right people on speed dial.”

I tilted my glass toward him. “And the appetite for bending rules without snapping them.”

He smiled at that. “Exactly.”

“I assume you also want someone who knows the difference between a Modigliani and a forgery done in a garage in Jersey.”

“You’ll need help,” he agreed. “Someone fluent in art. History. International law.”

My eyes drifted toward Louisa—still in conversation with one of Anthony’s interns. She’d be perfect. Efficient. Sharp. Meticulous.

But then, as if magnetized, my gaze shifted one more time.

Juliette.

Barefoot again. Holding two glasses of wine like she wasn’t sure which was hers. She laughed at something a server said and completely missed the napkin she dropped in the process. She turned to look for the bathroom, spinning in a slow circle like a compass that didn’t care which way was north.

I could fake expertise. But art needed heart.

And unfortunately, mine had a weakness for chaos in heels.

“I’m interested,” I said finally, keeping my voice even.

The judge nodded once, firmly. “Then I’ll be in touch.”

As he walked away, I reached for my drink again—only to realize I was holding it like I’d forgotten what to do with it.

I caught sight of her just as I rounded the corner near the galley.

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