Page 11 of The Collector's Temptation

His mouth twitched—basically a full grin for Rafa. “So I hear.”

My eyes cut to Domenico, sprawled on the couch as though he didn’t have a care in the world, thumbs tapping at his phone. It didn’t look like he was listening. Which meant he was absolutely listening.

Domenico absorbed everything. If he wasn’t watching, he was still processing—voices, movements, exits, threats. Probablytexting Gabbi while mapping out the fastest route to kill a man with a stapler. He could most likely tell you how many times I’d shifted in this damn chair since I sat down.

I narrowed my eyes at him anyway.

He didn’t look up—just raised one hand in mock surrender. “Gabriella.”

Putain de merde.

Of course, Gabbi. His wife and Rafa’s sister.

He didn’t need to say more. Domenico rarely did. The man treated words like a precious commodity. Unless it was about Gabbi—then he had plenty to say. Usually in the form of guttural warnings to any man who dared look at her too long.

Which was mildly inconvenient since she worked for me.

I huffed out a breath. “I figured Gabbi was the source. But since you two are—how do we say—attachés comme des chiens… and gossip like your wives, I’m assuming it was Domenico who told you, Rafa.”

Domenico just grunted while Rafa smirked like a man who’d earned the insult and didn’t give a fuck.

Then Rafa asked casually, “Who is she?”

The question was anything but casual, and I stiffened. “No one, right now. But if that changes, you’ll be the first to know.”

He would have to know about Kerrigan eventually since I wouldn’t be letting her go anytime soon. However, as long as I kept her ignorant of The Family and our operations, Rafa wouldn’t interfere. Still, I wasn’t ready to share her yet.

Rafa rubbed the scruff on his jaw, his enigmatic brown eyes once again studying me. Then he nodded. “Va bene.”

“Let me know when you have a solid date for the next shipment,” I requested. “There have been some rumblings on the art scene about a couple of the paintings. The paperwork will have to be spotless before we can add them to the next showing at Belladonna.”

“Certo.”

“Merci,” I said as I pushed to my feet.

The mishmash of Italian and French in our conversation would probably seem comical to most. But Rafa and I spoke both languages, so we barely noticed it anymore.

We’d met in Rafa’s downtown office, located in a high-rise next door to Vellum & Vine. So I headed back to the museum to change my clothes.

Since we’d met at the gala and then I’d taken her on a date after work, Kerrigan had only seen me in a suit and tuxedo. Our plans for this evening were more relaxed, so I dressed in jeans and a dark gray, button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up just above my elbows.

We’d both been swamped the past couple of days, forcing us to wait until mid-week before seeing each other again, although we’d texted every day. While I’d hated not seeing her, it gave me time to plan a special night. One that would definitely include more time spent tasting that sweet mouth of hers. I’d fucking dreamed of her lips every night, waking up a sweaty mess and forced to take an ice-cold shower.

I arrived at Kerrigan’s apartment at four o’clock on the dot. The Peachtree was closed for a private event, so she’d been given the afternoon off.

It pleased me to see that her building was in a decent area and had moderate security, though I would be changing that to fucking Fort Knox soon enough. I hadn’t yet decided whether she would be aware of the amped-up security, though.

The door opened while my hand was still in the air, poised to knock. A woman who looked to be around the same age as Kerrigan stood across the threshold, grinning at me.

“You must be Mr. Tall, Dark, and French,” she chirped.

“I suppose that is an apt description,” I replied with a half smile.

“Come on in. I’m Melanie. Kerrigan should be ready any minute.”

“Merci.”

“I can see what she means about the accent, but personally, I go for tall, dark, and Italian.”

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