Page 47 of Power and Possession

My mouth dropped. I didn’t realize how big his enterprises were. It was clear that his wealth was no doubt amassed by these ventures.

“What did my father do?” At this point, I was pretty sure that it was my father who had wronged Steele.

“Are you sure you want to know? He’s your father. As much as I loathe him, I understand that he’s your blood.”

“What did he do?” I whispered, eyes fixed on Steele. He hadn’t shaved that morning, and the bit of dark stubble around his chin made him look all the more handsome.

“My business has—expanded at a greater rate than I can currently keep up with. More and more European collectors have been setting their sights on pieces in North America. I don’t currently have the ability or connections to control the entire market there. Your father, on the other hand—”

“Sits on many philanthropic boards.”

“Correct. I actually acquired a Monet for him about six years ago. He got in contact with me about leading an American team.”

I remembered the day my dad brought home the Monet. He was so proud of it, telling me and my mother how he’d won it at auction. But it had been stolen. Tainted by corruption.

Steele continued. “His first job was at the Metropolitan. He was supposed to make the swap and send the real piece to me—but when I uncrated it, it became very obvious that he’d sent the replica.”

It honestly sounded like something my father would do.

“I’m sorry,” I said, truly meaning it. Not for Steele’s sake, but for my own. If my father hadn’t been such a bastard, I wouldn’t be in this situation, getting ready to betray this handsome man sitting next to me.

“It’s not your fault, Ashlynn. We can’t pick our family. If my parents hadn’t been my parents, I might have had a completely different life. A home with love. Warmth. Compassion. Joy.”

His hand crossed my lap and found mine, and he laced our fingers together before bringing our combined hands to his knee. He squeezed my fingers gently, and I squeezed his back, feeling the connection between us but dreading it just the same.

“I’m still sorry your life was so hard. No one deserves to be treated the way you were.”

“No, they don’t. Yet I had no problem mistreating you when you first came to me.”

His phrasing sounded like I was the one who found him, as if our meeting was somehow ordained, rather than a kidnapping.

“I’m sorry for it, Ashlynn. I shouldn’t have treated you that way. You’re a precious jewel—finer than any piece of art that’s come through my hands.”

It was a beautiful sentiment. Shit. I tried awkwardly to change the subject.

“So where first?”

“The Maison Européenne de la Photographie,” he said, the French rolling off his tongue beautifully. I wasn’t proud of it, but his flawless French was an instant turn-on. “And then I thought we’d visit the Henri Cartier Bresson Foundation.”

“That sounds amazing.” I couldn’t wait to spend all day surrounded by photography. I’d been working on improving my skills over the past year, and I hoped to be good enough in the next year to be able to make a side income off of it.

He parked on the roof of a garage again, and then we walked a block to the museum. His pace was casual, his eyes sharp and always on our surroundings. How many men did he have watching over us at this exact second? How did my father stand a chance?

The second we entered the museum, a guide met us at the door.

“Monsieur Steele,” she simpered, and I instantly disliked her. She was wearing a crisp black pencil skirt and a silk blouse that flaunted her perfect figure. She was elegant and had a kind of sophistication that instantly made me jealous.

Steele brushed her off. “We don’t need any assistance, Stacia. My fiancée is a talented photographer and I just wanted to show her around.”

I beamed at the compliment but stewed about the title again. The phrase fiancée escaped his mouth so easily, and with that big fat ring on my finger I was wondering if Steele had started to believe the ruse himself. But I didn’t have time to contemplate things—Steele put his arm around my waist and guided me farther into the museum.

As I immersed myself in the photos, I felt a sense of peace wash over me. This was why I’d stayed in Europe. I wanted to be inspired, to see the beauty in the world, to make my mark in the hopes that, someday, someone would see something I’d made, and they would feel joy.

Instead, I was a prisoner who enjoyed sex with her captor.

“What do you think, Ashlynn?”

He always took every chance he could to say my name. Itsounded so mellifluous coming from his throat, his deep voice drawing out every syllable.

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