Page 39 of The Chase
“Seen enough?” he said.
“I need more time.”
His jaw clenched with tension and he gave a sharp nod.
Goya’s bold technique, a dash of daring freestyle, his ability to read the truth in the eyes of his subject, reveal their very soul, proved his profound understanding of the human condition. Had Goya’s illness, which had left him permanently deaf, been the catalyst for such unearthly insight?
This painting had gotten him into a lot of trouble. He’d been summoned before the Spanish Inquisition to explainLa Maja Desnuda, a rare nude in a sea of religious paintings that had been commissioned that year. He’d lived out his days in exile in France after the political upheaval of 1824. He’d died in Madrid, which was where this painting should have been hanging. The fact it was hidden behind another was heartbreaking and raised so many questions.
“How did you know?” I said.
He looked at the door.
Footsteps...
Laughter...the sound fading.
I breathed a sigh of relief as I watched him tuck my magnifier into the pocket of his jacket that still hung from my shoulders.
With a white handkerchief, Tobias dusted off his fingerprints and then secured the back of the frame to hide the painting, reusing the tape and smoothing it over. Together we carried the painting back over to the mantel and with a hefty tug we managed to get it resecured on the wire hanger.
Taking a step back I let him straighten the frame and continue dusting our prints off, which he did with ease.
I slipped back into my heels and kneeled to work on the straps around my ankles.
“Zara, put your mask back on, please.”
I used the antique mirror to straighten it and stared at my dazed eyes.
“You okay?”
He broke me from my trance and I gave a nod. “I’m fine.”
I was better than fine, I was in my element and wanted to spend the night here and move from painting to painting until each brushstroke of the subjects’ faces became branded into memory.
Strolling over to take a better look at the other paintings, my gaze drank in the miniature of Alberto Giacometti, an oil on cardboard capturing red roses. “This is pretty.”
Tobias’s firm hands wrapped around my waist and he spun me to face him, and with an ironclad grip he cupped my face. His lips crushed mine, forcing my mouth wider as his tongue possessed it, circling, setting every nerve alight with his intensity, owning me with his passion.
Weakening in his arms, surrendering, I let go and let him in, gripping his strong forearms and digging my fingernails into taut muscle. His hands left my face and moved to grab my wrists, and he yanked them behind my back and held them together, tight, forceful, dominating me with an unmatched strength.
Pleasure swelled low in my belly.
He’d chosen the perfect setting for our first kiss and my joy from being here fused with this electric current surging through me, flaring from his intensity and, despite our daring, never had I felt safer.
“Oh yes.” I moaned into his mouth, shocked at his stunning show of power, my core alight, my body trembling with his unbidden heat, nipples erect against his chest. This was how I’d always yearned to be kissed, as though loved, this initial burst of control easing into a leisurely snog.
Tobias pulled away and his fierce glare held mine, his mask making him look so damn sexy. My lips reached for his again, unable to resist his fiery eyes that stared into mine, that green ablaze with desire.
This lure of need rising below—
He turned his head slightly and smiled toward the doorway, his grip still firm, my body still crushed against his.
“Warming her up,” he said darkly.
My gaze snapped to the door.
Two tall men wearing masks and tuxedos stood just inside.
