Page 38 of Stroke of Shadows

“Once Angel hears my plan, he’ll understand why I’ve done what I’ve done. He’ll thank me.”

Everything Wyatt did was for his father’s attention. He craved acknowledgment and praise like a child rather than an adult. A sharp pain in Sythe’s chest, the realisation that he’d once been exactly the same.

“Until then,” Wyatt continued, “he’ll just have to forgive me for making a deal with the devil.”

Chapter 14

Harper

Harper tried to calm her temper, but it was more fear that was fuelling every stride. Charles escorted her through the tight alleys that surrounded the gallery, no longer waiting at the car like he used to. It confirmed something had changed.

Tightening around her chest, her lungs heavy with each breath.

Was it too late? Had she already ruined everything? She’d spent years gaining Angel’s trust for him to allow her out on her own without an escort. She needed that privacy, even if it was only in small doses. Otherwise, everything she’d worked on would be for nothing.

The gallery was busy, people coming from all over the world to look at a collection that rotated seasonally, the gallery designed like a labyrinth that forced the viewer to discover new art. There were twists and turns, as well as dead ends. It was an intriguing design, the walls movable and a type of art in itself.

Many pieces were owned by Angel himself, but others were loaned by different collectors. The large window looked out directly into the river, with Big Ben and other landmarks a silhouette in the distance. The room was stunning with its natural light, the art some she’d studied for hours when allowed.

Nivo Pilkinson’s paintings lined up along the centre wall, a collective that told a story from one canvas to the next. The last space was achingly empty, but if Angel had decided to display it as incomplete, he must have forgiven her for not procuring the last piece. Or, at least, wasn’t as irate.

Walking across the marble, she paused by his glass office, seeing no one inside.

“Miss Beauchamp.”

Harper turned, shoulders rigid as Ivan gestured for her to move. He made her uneasy, his eyes as sharp as an eagle’s as she looked back at him. She didn’t need to be told where to go, making her way behind the office to the lift cleverly hidden with mirrors. She waited for the doors to open, head held high as she stared at the image of her being flanked by the two men. Charles was to her left, only a head or so taller, and then Ivan to her right, dwarfing them both.

Not many had access to the lower levels, where everything not on display was stored in carefully constructed shelves. It looked like every other storage unit with crates full of collectables. Canvases, photographs, jewellery, tomes and even statues. Many were worth hundreds of thousands, but she knew the most valuable finds were back at the estate in Angel’s private collection.

Workers buzzed around quickly, preparing what looked like a new shipment.

“Through here,” Ivan growled, pulling open a metal grill to wrack his knuckles against the thick door hidden behind. After a heartbeat, he opened it before pushing her inside.

Harper froze, all eyes turning to her. “I’m… I’m sorry for interrupting,” she spluttered, adjusting the hem of her shirt. “Would you prefer I wait outside?”

Charles made a grunt behind her, but didn’t speak.

“It seems you have great timing. Come in.” Angel sat at the head of the large conference table, his face unreadable.

The guest in question appraised her from head to toe, his grey hair brushing along his shoulder. Harper waited, his lecherous gaze oily before he finally met her eyes.

“So this is the Harper you’ve been telling me about,” the man said when he stood. “She’s even more beautiful than you described.”

Angel’s lips quirked. “It’s the ancestry.”

Gentle laughter, at odds with the way his attention lingered on her like a viper ready to strike.

“Harper, you haven’t greeted my guest appropriately,” Angel said. “Say hello to Mr Halkins. We’re currently in talks to do business.”

Harper forced out the greeting. “Hello.”

“She’s very well trained.” Mr Halkin’s hair was white, and it should have aged him, but instead it made him more defined. Almost handsome. His features were typically masculine, his eyes a warm brown that assessed her with precision.

“Of course she is.” Angel puffed his chest out. “She’s been gifted to me by the Gods.”

“Sure she was,” the man said, laughter in his eyes. “I’m interested, but I’ll have to discuss it with my son.”

Angel stood, holding his hand out. “Of course, I wouldn’t expect anything less.”

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