Page 42 of The Collector's Temptation

EPILOGUE

KERRIGAN

So much had changed in the eight months since I met Aston. I no longer had to worry about impressing my boss or fighting for scraps of attention at the bottom of the curatorial food chain. I didn’t have to sneak into galas or chase whispers of forgeries in hopes of making a name for myself.

Because now,Iwas the name. The face. The rising star in the art world who had caught a dirty insurance investigator in the act.

And none of it would have happened without the man who stood across the room from me, one arm braced on the windowsill of his studio, phone to his ear, paint smudges on his forearm.

Aston Couillens. The only person who’d ever made me feel as though I was more than enough, exactly as I was.

My husband for the past seven months.

And undeniably the love of my life.

I sat on the chaise lounge in the corner, sketchbook balanced on my knees. Another change that I owed to Aston.

In high school, I sketched all the time. But when I went to college, I neglected my art to focus on my studies. Andthat hadn’t changed after I finished my master’s and moved to Atlanta. Not until Aston gave me room to breathe…to pursue the things I loved.

Absently shading in the background of a rough concept piece, I listened to the low, rhythmic cadence of his voice. He sounded amused. Maybe even a little incredulous.

When he finally hung up, he shook his head with a crooked smile.

“What?” I asked.

“That was Dario.” His smirk grew. “You’ll never guess who came to him asking for protection.”

“Melanie?” I wasn’t sure why her name popped into my head, except I didn’t know many people in Atlanta outside of those I’d met through Aston. My heart skipped when he nodded. I dropped my pencil. “Wait—what? Why would she go to Dario? That man is terrifying. Couldn’t you?—”

“I offered,” he said, holding up a hand. “He threatened to cut me into little pieces and feed me to the pigs.”

“That doesn’t make me feel any better about my best friend going to him for help,” I deadpanned.

Aston chuckled. “Relax. He’d never hurt her.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because,” he said, his voice dipping lower, “he’s already claimed her, whether he knows it or not.”

That left me blinking. “What does that mean?”

Aston only shrugged, too pleased with himself to answer. He crossed the studio and plucked the sketchbook off my knees, setting it aside before crouching between my legs.

“I’m changing the subject,” he announced, his eyes glinting with mischief.

“Oh, are you?” I asked, trying to look skeptical even as heat coiled low in my belly.

He reached behind him and pulled a cloth off a canvas I hadn’t realized he’d been working on. “I finally finished it.”

I leaned forward, curious—and then froze.

“Oh my gosh,” I breathed. “Aston.”

The painting was…beautiful. Bold. And unmistakably me.

It was a nude, like he’d originally wanted. There was no missing that I was the centerpiece of his obsession, captured in every rich stroke of color and shadow. And I wasn’t just naked—I was pregnant.

My figure was soft and glowing, belly full and round, my hands curved protectively over the swell. My hair tumbled down around my shoulders in wild waves. My face…

---