Page 2 of Passion and Revenge

And just when it seemed he was untouchable, I caught wind of a daughter. A daughter more closely guarded than the cure for cancer. According to my sources, she’ll be at the Santiago House art gallery tonight.

My hands clench into fists at my sides.

“Fine,” I tell Dakota. “Let Maurizio know.”

“Already done, sir. I’ve had him go through the gallery with a fine comb and station men at strategic points. We have also gotten access to a live feed and a list of all the attending guests.”

If there is a finer assistant in the whole damn world than Dakota, I haven’t met them. With my mouth drawn into a small smile, I hang up and march to the bathroom, where I find the women doing the opposite of cleaning up.

I kick my briefs off and stalk into the bathroom. One more round never hurt anyone.

Thirty minutes later, I’m standing before a beady-eyed businessman who is trying to convince me that investing in his sorry excuse of a company will be in my favor.

I flick my gaze over his shoulder and around the room in a feigned casual look.

My plan to be here tonight has far too many holes in it. Less-than-foolproof moves have never been my MO, but I also have almost nothing to work with. I have just a name and a last name that’s supposedly her mother’s last name. Other than that, Ivan’s daughter remains as much of a mystery as ever.

At that moment, my eye catches something, and I still. I turn on my heels abruptly, cutting the man off as I approach the paintings lining the far wall. All five of the paintings look like they belong in a series, with the brush strokes getting more violent as the series progresses.

“Whoever put these paintings at the back is a moron,” I mutter.

“Really?” a voice says.

I jerk, only just noticing the woman standing there. And then, for the first time in my life, I do a double take.

I’ve met gorgeous women from all over the world, taken many to bed, and gone out with a few, but there is something about the woman gnawing at her lower lip and staring at the middle painting with utmost concentration that is so striking.

She turns her head, and her eyes—big, almond-shaped, hazel eyes—meet mine. I take in the rest of her features. She has a button nose, full lips, a jaw that ends in a stubborn point, and a mass of onyx coils falling all over her face, down to a tight waist.

Exquisite.

That’s the only word that comes to mind.

“Would you rather they put them up at the windows facing the street?” she asks.

I tear my eyes away from her with effort. “They would not be able to stop the hoard that would have flocked in if they had.”

She chuckles—a light, airy sound that unfurls something inside me.

“That’s a glowing review if I’ve ever heard one.”

“It’s an excellent series.”

Her head snaps up. “Series? What makes you say that? I don’t see the similarity.”

“Walk with me,” I tell her, nodding to the first one.

She gives me an accessing look before preceding me to the first one. My eyes drop down to her ass in the tan pants she has on. All I can think is there’s enough of her to grab in bed.

“So?” She waves her hand at the first one, her brow hooked up in challenge. “Educate me.”

“To an untrained eye, it looks like there are only two colors in this piece: blue and lilac.” I point out the predominant colors. “But if you look closer, you can see the spots of orange peeking through. The artist has done it with such a light hand that it fades into the background.”

I step to the second painting, and she follows. “The orange is more visible here, so it looks like this is orange, lilac, and grey.”

She nods as I lead her to each one until we are at the last one.

“Here, there is an explosion of colors, all the hidden elements from the other ones roaring out at the viewer while the more apparent ones recede into the background,” I explain. “If I’m to guess, I’ll say this artist painted them all in a row with different brushes that they never cleaned out.”

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