Page 9 of His Untouchable Heart

I exhaled, shaking my head. This wasn’t me. I wasn’t some reckless guy chasing a woman just because she intrigued me.

But the thought of her had already settled in my mind.

And I knew it was there to stay.

CHAPTERFOUR

Gabrielle

I stood before the gallery’s frosted doors, the red of my dress pulsing like a hidden heartbeat. Outside, dawn hesitated while the street slowly awoke, and I inhaled the warm salty air before stepping into the vast sanctuary of the gallery. Silence pooled in the corners, punctuated only by the soft hum of the air conditioning system, as my heels echoed through the foyer, each step marking the impending long hours.

I had chosen this dress to feel invincible, to erase any awkwardness with its straightforward boldness. Yet arriving early made me feel exposed—a flare against the dim, unwatchful light. Pausing in the corridor, I saw my reflection: my hair fell in calculated disarray over my shoulders, and the V-cut of my dress revealed just enough.

I found Anthony leaning over a cluttered table strewn with cables and a sleek laptop in the main exhibit hall. His posture was relaxed yet commanding. The monitor’s soft glow illuminated his face and the angle of his chiseled jaw. His sleeves were pushed up to his forearms, revealing the lean, corded strength beneath, while his fingers tapped absently against the table’s edge as he studied a printout. A futuristic device rested beside him, its metallic surface gleaming under the overhead lights, but he seemed wholly absorbed in the document before him.

His rumpled brown hair had fallen over his forehead, and without thinking, he raked a hand through it. The movement was effortless, almost careless, but something about the way his fingers dragged through the strands sent an unwelcome pulse of heat through me. There was an intensity to him even in stillness, a quiet, magnetic pull that made it impossible to look away.

For a man who lived by rules and procedures, he carried an edge of unintentional seduction—completely unaware of the effect he had, or maybe fully aware and choosing not to acknowledge it.

Clearing my throat, I caught his eye. His gaze lifted, and for a fleeting second, something flickered there—an unguarded spark of desire that sent a thrill through me. The effect I’d been hoping for.

“Gabrielle,” he said, his surprise softening into something warmer, something almost indulgent. “You’re here early.”

I shrugged off my light sweater and replied, “I couldn’t wait.”

His glance flickered from the equipment to me, a hint of color rising in his cheeks. “I wanted to make sure everything was ready to start testing,” he said, gesturing to the table. His words trailed off, suspended like an unfinished sketch, until he suddenly brightened and asked, “Do you want some coffee?”

I nodded and moved closer. Behind him, a painting—Chagall’sThe Fiddler—was on an easel. The quiet morning light softened its vibrant colors, and I marveled at how the musician seemed to dance impossibly above the village, bridging reality and dream. Seeing such a celebrated work now out of the vault and into the light was both thrilling and eerie.

Yet, it wasn’t the piece I was hoping for.

My fingers curled slightly against my hip, a flicker of disappointment tightening my chest. I smoothed my palm over the fabric of my skirt, composing my expression before meeting Anthony’s gaze again.

Anthony picked up a thermos, poured coffee into a paper cup, and handed it to me. Our fingers briefly brushed—a touch that was both electric and tentative. “The Bruker Tracer is on loan from the MM&W Foundation,” he explained as he gestured toward the device. “They need us to verify the authenticity ofThe Fiddlerbefore they begin reaching out to the family who claims to be its original owner.”

I nodded toward the device on the table and asked, “I’ve heard of the Bruker but never seen a demonstration of how it works.”

He laughed softly, reassurance in his tone. “Yeah. It may look intimidating, but it’s our favorite non-destructive tool.” He cradled it like a cherished instrument. “It tells us the pigments’ chemical makeup without touching the paint. That way, we can confirm if the media match those typical of the period.”

Sipping my coffee, I leaned forward and asked, “So, how does it work?”

He perched on the edge of the table, his relaxed posture belying the enthusiasm in his eyes. “Think of it like detective work. We analyze the pigments and composition to ensure they match what the artist actually used. For example, if we found a modern synthetic dye inThe Fiddler, it’d be a red flag. With Chagall, it’s crucial that his signature hues—his deep blues, radiant yellows—align with the chemical makeup of his authentic works.”

Curious and emboldened by the moment, I cradled my cup and asked, “And how long does a scan take?” He smiled, glancing back at the painting as though its very presence held the answer. “We should know pretty quickly, like waiting for a verdict. The media checks out, and his style fits perfectly.”

A spark of challenge ignited within me. I stood and stepped closer, my daring red dress a silent promise. “Show me how it works,” I insisted.

Anthony hesitated for a moment, and then his gaze shifted from the table back to my face—a silent measure of the shifting morning dynamics. Finally, he smiled broadly and said, “Okay,” lifting the device and leading me to the painting.

When he handed it to me, the scanner felt cool and light in my hands, its metal smooth against my skin. Anthony adjusted my grip with gentle guidance until I angled the scanner toward the canvas. A small beep announced the start of the process. He grinned at me and reached for the laptop and a tangle of cables, his movements efficient. “You’ve got the hang of it,” he said, setting up the laptop on a nearby stand.

The screen flickered to life, casting a glow that illuminated the room with numbers and charts. Anthony leaned in closely, his breath warm against my cheek as he read aloud, “Copper, zinc, lead—these pigments fit Chagall’s period.”

His enthusiasm was infectious, transforming my earlier doubts into a thrill that coursed through me. Yet, unspoken questions lingered—what if the painting wasn’t authentic?

Anthony’s gaze locked onto mine, an intensity simmering beneath the surface. “Gabrielle, look,” he murmured, his voice carrying a hint of concern that made my heart race. A sudden beep shattered the moment. Anthony adjusted the settings, revealing new patterns on the screen. “Nothing unexpected so far,” he noted, excitement dancing in his eyes.

“Let’s do more scans to be thorough.” I nodded, feeling the tension build, “Okay, show me what else I can do.”

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