Page 16 of The Collector's Temptation

I was just finishing my makeup when there was a loud rap of knuckles against the front door. Still barefoot, I hurried through the living room to let Aston into the apartment.

His gray eyes skimmed the length of my body, heating with masculine appreciation. “Tu es magnifique.”

Luckily, I didn’t need to speak French to understand the compliment, although he’d taught me a few more phrases. Mostly dirty ones that I was hoping to hear him whisper in my ear when we were in bed together at some point. “Merci.”

I stepped aside to let him pass by me, then turned to grab a pair of strappy heels in the shoe rack to the left of the door. When I bent at the waist to slide them onto my feet, he took them from me and crouched down, his hand wrapping around my ankle. “Allow me,petite miette.”

I felt like a fairy-tale princess as he buckled the straps at the back of my feet, goose bumps spreading up my calf at his gentle touch.

“Thank you.”

He straightened and flashed me a sexy smile. “My pleasure.”

I grabbed my purse, and he locked my door before leading me to the black car waiting at the curb in front of my building.After helping me into the passenger seat, he circled the vehicle and climbed into the driver’s side. The engine hummed quietly as we wound through the streets of Atlanta, Aston’s fingers laced through mine. I didn’t ask where we were going since I wanted to enjoy the surprise.

Ten minutes into our drive, he tugged on a lock of my hair. “Trust me?”

Despite the whispers of his shadowy affiliations, I felt safe with Aston. “Absolutely.”

Masculine satisfaction shone from his gray eyes as his lips curved into a pleased smirk. “Bien.”

He pulled off to the side of the road and removed his tie, lifting it to my eyes.

Quirking a brow, I asked, “You’re going to blindfold me?”

He nodded. “Oui, the location of our date is a well-kept secret that very few know.”

I’d meant it when I said that I trusted him, so I turned my head so he could slip the tie over my eyes and knot it in the back. Losing that sense only heightened my others, making me even more aware of Aston’s expensive and darkly masculine scent.

After another five minutes, the car slowed, and I heard the creaking of a gate. When we rolled to a stop, Aston carefully helped me out of the vehicle. Then he tugged on the knot in his tie to undo it, and my blindfold fell from my eyes.

I craned my neck, my gaze scanning our surroundings as I wondered where he’d taken me. The place looked forgotten—the gates were slightly rusted, and ivy curled up the aged stone walls. But when Aston opened the front door, the interior told a different story.

Light pooled from chandeliers that looked original to the house, casting a golden glow over polished floors and high ceilings. Every wall bore something breathtaking—portraits thathadn’t been seen in decades, sculptures nestled in alcoves, tapestries that shimmered faintly with age.

“Welcome to the Ambrose House.” Aston guided me inside. “Once a private home, now a secret repository for some of the world’s most overlooked masterpieces.”

“How do you even get access to something like this?”

“I have...friends in curious places,” he answered cryptically. “The estate’s trust keeps it quiet. No public tours, no photo ops. Just preservation and appreciation. Those of us who know about it are sworn to discretion.”

I turned in a slow circle, awe seeping into my bones. “This place is incredible.”

“Only one thing could make it more beautiful,” he said, voice lower now. “And she’s standing right in front of me.”

A deep blush swept up my neck. “Do all Frenchmen flirt like they’re quoting poetry?”

“I’ve only ever been like this with you,ma petite miette.”

My heart stuttered, butterflies swirling in my belly yet again.

He offered me his arm once more, and I took it. Room by room, he guided me through centuries of forgotten beauty. There were minor works by major artists, unsigned sketches likely drawn by the hands of masters, and relics that glowed with mystery. I’d been to more museums than I could count, but I’d never experienced anything like the tour he gave me.

In one of the upper galleries, I stopped to study a Baroque sculpture by Gian Lorenzo Bernini. “I’ve been meaning to ask, since you’re so familiar with Saraceni’s work, did you happen to pay particular attention to the Caravaggio painting that was auctioned at the gala where we met?”

“There’s only one thing of beauty from that night that stands out in my mind.” He brushed a lock of my hair over my shoulder. “You.”

I was dazed by his compliment as he led me to another gallery, where I paused in front of a triptych that seemed to shimmer with gold leaf and decay.

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