Page 4 of Until She's Mine
“I didn’t see you.”
“You weren’t meant to.”
Evelyn’s eyelashes flutter—another detail instantly committed to memory—and she turns her attention back to the painting.
“I should go,” she says after a pause, though she makes no move to leave. “Management wants us to mingle with potential buyers to encourage bids.”
“Stay.” The word slips out before I can dress it in subtler language, rawer than I’d intended. “Sell me your favorite piece of the collection.”
“Are you serious?”
“I’m always serious.” My voice drops to a low murmur that only she can hear. “Tell me which one speaks to you the most.”
Her gaze flickers to the painting she’d restored, then back to me. “That one. It’s by an unknown artist from 16th-century Italy, depicting a mother and daughter. You can almost feel the tenderness in the way the mother’s hand cradles her daughter’s face. It’s like the artist captured a moment of pure love, frozen in time. It’s not the most valuable piece here, but it’s my favorite.”
The painting is a modest piece compared to the others in the room, its muted colors and unassuming frame easily overlooked by the glittering crowd.
My shoulder brushes against her as I study the painting. The mother’s hand on her daughter’s cheek is indeed tender, but there’s something else—a shadow in the background, a faint suggestion of something darker lurking beyond the frame.
“You see it too, don’t you?” Evelyn says, her breath warm against my ear. “The artist not only painted love. He painted the fear of losing it.”
Her words send a shiver down my spine. She sees what others miss, the layers beneath the surface. It’s why she’s so good at what she does—and why she’s so dangerous to me. She doesn’t just restore art; she uncovers its soul.
I turn to her. “Why this one?”
Her lips part, then close, as if weighing how much to reveal. “It reminds me of my mother,” she admits softly.
Evelyn’s mother passed away four years ago. A year before she met Tobias and me. I know that without her mother’s death, Evelyn would never have crossed paths with the Blackwoods. Sometimes I wonder if she would have been better off staying in her world, untouched by the shadows that cling to mine. But the thought is fleeting. I don’t dwell on what-ifs. I focus on what is and what will be.
“Consider it sold.”
Someday, everything I own will belong to her, too, including this painting.
She blinks, startled. “Lucian, you don’t have to do that.”
“I want to,” I say simply. “Now, I’ve heard rumors that you’ll be working on a new restoration project. The Caravaggio, isn’t it?”
Her eyes widen. “Who told you that?”
“I have my sources. It’s an ambitious project.”
“Of course, you do.” She smiles and tucks a curl behind her ear. “It’s true, though. The Caravaggio would be one of the most challenging pieces I’ve ever taken on. The damage is extensive, but the potential is huge. If I can restore it properly, it’ll be like giving it a second life.
“You’re more than capable of handling it.”
“You sound sure.”
“I am.”
The noise of the party fades into a dull hum. Evelyn’s fingers brush against my sleeve—accidental or intentional, I can’t tell—and the contact sends a shiver through me.
“Well, the piece is under dispute, so it might not happen. Even if it does, Marcus is my supervisor, and he might want to take the lead on it.”
I smile. “We’ll see.”
We continue to speak of art restorations and gallery politics—neutral topics turned intimate by proximity and unsaid words. Her laugh, soft and melodic, escapes as she recounts a mishap at the gallery last week. I savor the sound, storing it away like a priceless artifact. Her lips curve, and the faint dimple appears on her left cheek—these are details Tobias has never noticed, never cared to notice.
A server rushes past, nearly colliding with her, sending her stumbling into my arms.
