Page 1 of Passion and Deception

Chapter 1

"Why do the 'masters' always look like they got hit by a fugly stick?” Maggie Denault couldn't help but cringe at the sight of time-crackled portraits featuring bulbous noses, warts, and eyebrows hairier than a werewolf in a barber's nightmare. "I suppose, back then, they didn’t have Photoshop to smooth out the unattractive truths," she muttered, eyeing the questionable artistic choices. Tapping the folded museum guide against her outer thigh, she sighed with despair at the world’s ugly ancestors.

Moving on to the next masterpiece, Maggie found herself staring at a painting of a seemingly pretty young girl. With a head tilt that rivaled a confused puppy, she examined the artwork. Ignoring the girl in the foreground, she scrutinized the background, as if searching for answers to life's questions in the brushstrokes.

Then, it hit her like a Renaissance revelation: the proportions were all out of whack. The girl was rocking flawless symmetry, but the bizarre horse in the background looked like it attended the Picasso School of Equine Design. How did the same artist manage this odd artistic split personality?

Without getting too close, because triggering unseen security is a definite no-no, Maggie leaned in, captivated by the mysteries of the past, wondering if these painters had a secret pact to create the ugliest version of their subjects.

"Thank you, Your Highness! You're a true art angel!" Bill McGovern exclaimed, practically folding himself in half in order to perform an extravagant bow. Apparently, offering the guy rights to display a long forgotten Vermeer painting was like winning the lottery, but with more cultural sophistication.

Ramit al Quadar, Sheik of Ditar, graciously reciprocated, but with a significantly less enthusiastic bow. "It's my pleasure. I've always believed in spreading the joy of Vermeer,” he lied, bored with the subject already. “My office will contact yours to arrange the final details."

The museum director, still recovering from his bow-induced vertigo, managed a wide-eyed, "That would be wonderful, Your Highness.”

Ramit turned, fully prepared to head for the nearest exit. The museum visit, and offer to lend the paintings, was merely a diplomatic cover for the true reason for his visit to Philadelphia. As he turned, Ramit’s thoughts went through the next steps of his purpose; to hunt down the person who had threatened his sister!

Ignoring the director’s continued obsequiousness, the bowing and scraping becoming excessive, Ramit started to walk away. If Ramit had done his job correctly, the director would leak the news of the upcoming Vermeer donation to the public.

However, his momentum was abruptly halted, as if by a magnetic pull of profound allure. In the midst of the gallery's hushed elegance, Ramit's attention was hijacked by the shockingly lovely woman standing in front of a painting. Her gaze fixated on the Rembrandt, an intensity that transcended the ordinary reverence for art…and she was muttering to herself!

She seemed transfixed by the brilliant painting while Ramit’s attention was ruthlessly captivated by the woman herself, casually clad in jeans and a tee shirt. The denim, though not a second skin, seemed to embrace her figure in an affectionate dance, showcasing a posterior that could rival a masterpiece itself. Her legs, not reaching supermodel lengths, possessed an undeniable allure, each curve a siren's call.

As if obeying the laws of attraction, her waist cinched in, turning her hips into an alluring landscape. The strands of her long brown hair cascaded down her back, a waterfall of warmth with sparkling golden highlights. She was not just a woman; she was a dark-haired Venus, a living, breathing masterpiece in the gallery of his fascination.

“Your Highness?” his personal aide prompted.

Ramit ignored the man, unable to turn away from the woman who had just moved to the next painting, completely unaware of his rapt attention. Her legs were perfect. Everything about the woman was perfect! When she turned her head to look at the previous painting, he suspected he could see freckles on her nose. Yes, actual freckles! How adorable! And on such a sexually enticing woman, those freckles were even more tempting.

“Your next meeting is in…!”

Ramit raised a commanding hand, hushing his overeager aide. In the tumultuous storm that had recently become his life, this moment emerged as a rare haven of perfection, a sanctuary untainted by the chaos of what was to come next. This museum visit was merely concealing the true purpose behind his journey to Philadelphia but was a necessary cloak-and-dagger affair. He had scheduled several meetings over the next few hours. All of them more camouflage for his real purpose.

“Cancel my next few meetings,” Ramit declared quietly, without looking away from the vision before him.

Ignoring the startled glances from his guards and the horrified expression on his personal aide’s face, Ramit moved into the exhibit room.

“But, Your Highness,” his assistant started to argue.

Ramit turned to him, his eyes hard. “Not the one later. Just…,” he sighed and glanced at the woman again. “Just fix it. Make it so that I have a few hours free.”

The harsh, overhead florescent lights were a boon, allowing Ramit to more fully appreciate those adorable freckles, which didn’t just decorate her nose. Now that he was closer, Ramit could see that those freckles traveled over her cheeks, one even highlighting the fullness of her lips.

“He used mirrors and projections.”

Startled from her reverie of one of Rembrandt’s most famous paintings, Maggie turned, then jerked backwards at the sight of the tall, broad shouldered man.

Under different stars, Maggie might have felt an ominous shiver travel down her spine as the shockingly large man approached, an unsettling force invading her personal space without the courtesy of an introduction. In the shadow of alternative circumstances, the instinctual alarms from her past would have likely sounded, painting men as potential threats rather than benign entities. The very air crackled with the potential for tension, and the unspoken script of her past played out in the charged silence between them.

However, this man kept a respectful distance. Plus, he was studying the amazing painting, not her. That eased her concerns slightly, calming her instinctive alarm, and allowed her to offer a slight smile.

Turning back to the painting, she examined the images. "Mirrors and projections, huh?” she replied, examining the way that the artist had painted several unique images off in the distance. “I didn’t know that but,” Maggie angled her head slightly, examining each image on the canvas with a new lens. “It’s lovely. And the use of paint strokes and various colors in order to evoke light, intensity, and emotions is truly breathtaking.”

"I concur," the tall stranger replied, his voice carrying a tone of intelligence and power. "I revel in the masterful way he cloaked the main subjects of his paintings in shadows, forcing one to contemplate the very essence of good and evil,” the man lowered his voice as he continued, “navigating the realms of darkness and the sinister whispers of untold thoughts."

She smiled up at him. “I don’t know who the people in the portrait are, but if they were wealthy, I’m sure that they were unscrupulous bastards.”

The surprised amusement on the stranger’s face made her laugh. She shrugged, waving casually towards what most art lovers considered an ancient masterpiece. “You disagree?”

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