Page 5 of The Collector's Temptation

“Mr. TDH who’s staring at you as though he’s never seen a more gorgeous woman in his entire life?”

It wasn’t difficult for me to decipher what she meant since tall, dark, and handsome was spot-on for the man getting closerby the second. I’d been trying to steady my nerves when I first noticed him.

In a sea of polished collectors and high-powered art insiders, he stood out in the crowd. His tall, athletic frame moved with an ease that suggested both confidence and mystery. His light gray eyes, cool and perceptive, scanned the room, and when his gaze briefly met mine, I felt a magnetic pull that left me momentarily breathless. His brown hair was long enough to brush the collar of his bespoke tuxedo, and my fingers itched to brush back the lock that fell onto his forehead before they stroked his dark beard.

With his chiseled features and debonair aura, he caught the attention of nearly every woman he passed as he crossed the room. But he didn’t seem to notice any of them. “There is zero chance he noticed me like that when we’re surrounded by beautiful women who actually fit in with this crowd. He’s definitely coming over here because he knows I don’t belong.”

“You’re not giving yourself enough credit.” Melanie snorted. “You should’ve spent more time looking in the mirror after you got ready because that dress does all the right things for your curves.”

She didn’t give me the chance to respond before walking away, leaving me to face Mr. TDH by myself.

My heart pounded erratically as I watched him approach, each step deliberate, his gaze fixed with an intensity that made me feel exposed. I had never experienced anything like this before, but there was no controlling my reaction to him. And it only intensified when he greeted me in a smooth, velvety tone that sent a shiver down my spine. “Bonsoir, chéri. I’m Aston Couillens. And you are?”

The alluring lilt of his French accent made every word he uttered sound like an invitation to something sensual. One I was very tempted to accept even though I had virtually no experiencewith men. Which left me uncertain if he’d come over here because he’d been drawn to me like Melanie suggested…or he was going to have me tossed out of the gala for crashing it.

With his intense gaze locked on mine, I had no choice but to answer and find out. “Kerrigan Vale.”

It wasn’t until he reached for my hand to brush a kiss against my knuckles that his name registered in my brain. I’d heard whispers about him at work. Rumors of a man who walked a fine line between high society and hidden dealings. One who was supposedly connected to the darker corridors of the art world. Yet no one seemed to know exactly where that speculation originated from when the art museum and gallery he ran both had impeccable reputations.

I barely had time to process my thoughts before Aston flashed me a panty-melting smile and asked, “Would you care to dance?”

For a fleeting moment, the noisy ballroom faded into the background, leaving the two of us in a bubble where nobody else existed. “I’d love to.”

I tried to sound confident despite the flutter in my stomach, but the knowing gleam in his eyes left me feeling as though I didn’t succeed. My cheeks heated as he used his hold on my hand to tug me toward an open space near a quieter corner of the room, away from the chatter of affluent patrons and clinking champagne glasses.

As we swayed to the soft background music—a melody that seemed to belong solely to us—I couldn’t help but steal glances at Aston. He was so much bigger than me but moved gracefully. We somehow fit together perfectly, as though we’d been made to dance with each other just like this. I wondered if our bodies would mold so flawlessly in other activities.

Gathering my courage, I broke the delicate intimacy that our silent dance had woven around us. “Are you here to bid on one of the auction items on behalf of Vellum & Vine?”

Moving slightly back, he bent his head to look down at me with a quirked brow and a seductive curve to his lips. “You’ve heard of me?”

His deep voice sent a feminine thrill of awareness down my spine, and my cheeks heated. “Atlanta’s art scene might have grown large enough to gain international attention, but it’s still a small world.”

“And one you’re obviously a part of,” he countered.

“I’m very new to it since I just moved here a few months ago.” My blush deepened as I wondered how to navigate this conversation without making a fool of myself in front of this suave man. Focusing on him seemed my safest bet. “But that’s long enough to know that you also manage the Belladonna Gallery.”

“You’re very well informed.”

His reply gave nothing away. If the rumors about Aston were true, he might be the lead I needed to prove my suspicions about the supposed discovery ofNativity with Saint Francis and Saint Lawrence.

I pressed a little further, hoping to get a glimpse behind the polished mask. “It’s hard not to pick up snippets about the mysterious Frenchman who runs not only a successful gallery but also one of the most respected art museums in Atlanta.”

“Je ne suis pas d'accord.”

I didn’t speak French beyond a handful of common phrases, but that last word was close enough to Italian for me to understand the gist of what he’d said. “Which part do you disagree with? That Belladonna Gallery is successful or that Vellum & Vine is one of the most respected art museums in town?”

“You were so close to being correct, with the expectation of two little words. Vellum & Vine isn’t justone ofthe most respected art museums in Atlanta.”

I quickly caught on to the point he so smoothly made. “I can’t help but wonder if the success of Vellum & Vine is due to the quality of art you have access to through Belladonna Gallery. Do you ever handle art acquisitions for other museums?”

“Rarely. Unless I have a strong relationship with them. But I make sure that art finds its way to those who truly appreciate it.” His gaze had an amused, cunning sparkle as he added, “Even if that requires placing a piece in an inferior museum.”

I narrowed my eyes at him, wondering if that was a verbal jab at my museum not being as exclusive as his. But that could only be true if he somehow knew who I was before he approached me since I hadn’t told him where I worked. Which was doubtful since I was a new—and very minor—player in the Atlanta art scene. “I suppose this is where we’ll have to agree to disagree since I would argue that The Peachtree Museum of Fine Arts is the most respected in Atlanta.”

He quirked a brow. “Would that be because you have a connection there?”

“I’m their newest junior curator,” I confessed, mentally bracing myself for him to realize that my low-level job wouldn’t have netted me an invite to the gala.

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