Page 6 of Silence and Surrender

I studied her face, looking for any sign that this was another power play. Another attempt to circumvent bank protocols, to trick me into letting her have free rein over acquisitions. But all I saw was her trying to mask genuine concern.

“I assume you have a suggestion?” I kept my voice neutral and measured, though something in me wanted to reach across my desk and...and…and what? Throttle her? Trace my fingertips along the inside of her flawless legs? Both options seemed equally unwise.

“I do.” She stood, smoothing her skirt in a gesture that shouldn’t have been as distracting as it was. “But not here. Not now.”

“You’re being deliberately cryptic.”

“And you’re being deliberately obtuse.” She sighed and gathered her portfolio from my desk and then lowered her voice. “You’ve seen the same patterns I have, Mr. Moreau. The weights that don’t match any known artwork. The temperature controls set for cargo that isn’t paint and canvas. The routes that make no sense for art transport.”

She was right, damn her. I’d spent weeks tracking those patterns, trying to make sense of acquisitions that didn’t add up. And now here she was, waltzing into my office with the same suspicions and her own unique brand of confidence.

I sighed and switched between the Italian, French, and English documents, catching the subtle differences in how the transactions were reported in each jurisdiction. It was exactly why the bank had recruited me—and exactly why I was now their biggest liability—was that why she needed me?

“Why come to me?” I asked, now genuinely curious. “After our...discussion about the Caravaggio, I’d think I’d be the last person you’d trust.”

Something flickered in her eyes—amusement, maybe. Or respect. Although her lips were a dark red, making her look harsh and unapproachable, her eyes were bright and clear, warm and inviting. “Because you’re the only one looking at the right documents. The only one asking the right questions.” She paused at my door. “And because unlike most people at this bank, you actually care about doing the right thing. Even when it’s inconvenient. You don’t give a damn about the money.”

The compliment, delivered in that cultivated accent of hers, hit harder than it should have.

“Mr. Moreau?” She turned back, one hand on the doorframe. “Until we meet again, I suggest you be very careful about which files you access. Some things, once seen, can’t be unseen.”

I watched her leave, her shapely ass shaking slightly as she moved past Sari’s desk. I forced myself back to the documents, irritated by my own distraction.

This was becoming problematic. Delacroix was insufferable, arrogant, and completely disrespectful of proper procedure, yet I’d caught myself watching her more often lately. The way her mind worked fascinated me despite myself—how she could look at authentication details and see stories others missed. Even as she drove me mad with her casual dismissal of protocols, I couldn’t deny that her instincts were usually right. It was...inconvenient to say the least.

After she left, I stared at the files on my desk, understanding her warning all too well. Someone was watching the system. Watching me.

I locked the documents in my wall safe and tried not to think about how her scent lingered in my office, something expensive that reminded me of the auction houses she frequented. The kind of perfume that suggested deep seduction and sensual secrets.

Instead, I focused on what she’d brought me. On shipping manifests with impossible weights. On temperature controls set for cargo that wasn’t art. On the toughness beneath her elegant exterior when she’d talked about fraud and forgeries.

Isabella Delacroix was still the most irritating woman I’d ever met. Still too independent, too willing to bend rules, too fucking sure of herself.

But, she was also right.

And that was the most irritating thing of all.

I needed to talk with her again, somewhere outside of the bank. Somewhere I could focus on the evidence rather than the way her skirt suit clung to her frame or how her perfume made my office feel like a display case at a high-end department store, the air redolent with the unmistakable aroma of exclusivity and expense.

Somewhere I could remember that no matter how intelligent or elegant or infuriatingly right she might be, Isabella Delacroix was still a complication I couldn’t afford.

Even if she was the only other person who saw what I was seeing.

Even if she might be the key to unraveling whatever darkness lurked behind those perfect manifests.

Even if part of me was already looking forward to our next meeting, heaven help me.

Chapter Four

Isabella

My alarm went off at precisely six, a concession to corporate life that still felt foreign after years of keeping artist’s hours. But the early morning light filtering through my Marylebone apartment windows made the sacrifice almost worthwhile.

Almost.

I moved through my morning routine with fluid ease, the ritual of it soothing after another late night studying shipping manifests. The Italian espresso machine, one of my one favorite extravagances, hummed to life as I sorted through the day’s possible outfits. Everything in my closet was carefully cultivated by me personally: vintage Chanel suits in conservative blacks and greys, silk blouses from small Parisian boutiques, shoes that cost more than some people’s rent but would last decades.

“The right armor matters,ma petite,” Father used to say while adjusting his perfectly knotted tie. “Especially in places where money pretends to be art.”

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