Page 1 of Painted in Sin

1

ISABELLA

Champagne bubbles dance on my tongue as I take a long, slow sip, letting the taste linger as my eyes make a pass around the gallery. I'd prefer wine, but it takes the edge off at least. The large open room hums with the chatter of Rome's elite, visitors gathered to see the collection of paintings on exhibit here this week, all of them real, most of them worth hundreds of thousands. One in particular, authenticated by me earlier this week, is valued at over thirteen million dollars—the focal point for many of tonight's guests.

"Huge turnout again," Paolo says, strolling up to me. He carries his stemware by the base, clutching it like it's a beer bottle. Unrefined and slightly eccentric, Paolo is the closest thing I have to a close friend here in Rome.

"Yes, it is." We've had thousands of people filter through the gallery this week, each of them with a penchant for some sort of art, most of them fascinated by Raphael's brilliance with a paintbrush. He was a genius on canvas. In my opinion, the pinnacle of career and life consists of these fourteen paintings juxtaposed with artists others may consider far superior. But hehad a way of telling a story with each brush stroke. Something I aspire to.

"Shame yours can't be out here," Paolo says softly, and warmth tinges my cheeks.

A passing guest smiles and nods, a way for me to distract myself from Paolo's comment. He's seen my art, in the late hours, when my work cleaning and restoring art and authenticating pieces like these in front of us is over. To me, it's nothing special. To him, it should be framed and mounted alongside the greats. I'm humbled that he believes that to be fact, but I differ in opinion.

"Well," I say, sighing, "beauty is in the eye…" My absentminded reply trails off as my eyes take another glance at the viewers. They cycle in and out, funneling through the gallery past the collection and on to other things. I must've seen a million people in my life in this place, but one man in particular on this night catches my eye.

He's tall with broad shoulders, an expensive suit jacket taut over his chest and back. His warm chocolate hair is loose in waves that almost steal the view of his eyes and stubble that darkens his jaw. He's attractive, and he seems to intimidate those around him with his presence. They give him a wide berth, maybe due to his serious demeanor.

"Who's he?" I ask Paolo, nodding at the charming devil of a man. There's no woman on his arm, no ring on his finger, and yet he captivates the attention of people around as he speaks, as if he's unveiling secrets each listener craves.

"Victor Costa," Paolo says under his breath. "He's an art collector, maybe a dealer. I don't know much about him, butrumor has it he owns a Raphael too. Might be here to size up the rest of the collection."

The interesting snatch of information piques my curiosity and satisfies one of the questions I have about this charming art connoisseur. He's here because he owns one, which means he understands the value and esteem of these pieces. The sort of man I like to entertain, whose mind isn't only on simple things of this world, but the ethereal things too—creativity and transcendence beyond what is. It feels like gravity pulling me closer to him, intrigue beckoning me to float in his direction.

"You're not thinking of talking to him." Paolo's tone is discouraging. We're here to supervise, answer questions, and alert security if things seem out of place. Nico, our boss and the gallery owner, expects the utmost professionalism when it comes to events like this, and no fraternization. He says it distracts us from our job.

"I don't see the harm." My lips cling to the glass as I draw the final sip from it, then I hand it to my assistant and smooth my hands down my sequined black dress. "What if Mr. Costa has a few questions about the paintings?"

I shoot a sly look in his direction as he takes my empty glass, and I walk away, venturing closer to the alluring Mr. Costa. The soft music humming from the speakers feels like a soundtrack for this moment—moving, emotional, building tension for the first interaction I'll have with him. I study his body language and posture. He seems calm and relaxed, but ever so serious as he examines the painting and speaks softly to a man standing close to him.

As I approach, he looks up and his expression softens. He's still serious but more welcoming now. The pinch of his crow's feet relaxes. His eyebrows lower.

"Ms. Isabella De Luca," he says, offering me his hand, which I drape my fingers over as I nod. He's better looking up close than from across the gallery. I find myself unconsciously licking my lip as he brings my hand to his mouth and presses a kiss to the backs of my fingers. "So nice to finally meet you. I've heard incredible things about your work. I didn't realize you'd be here this evening."

So he knows me, and he's heard of my work, probably from authenticating these paintings. It's been my passion since college, something I've traveled the world over a dozen times to learn and hone my skills for. I smile softly as I pull my hand away from his grasp but make a mental note of how soft his hands are—the hands of a man who hasn't ever seen a day of hard work in his life.

"Mr. Costa, I presume?" My eyebrows rise as he nods once.

"This collection is exquisite, but nothing compared to the ravenous beauty in front of me." Costa's eyes sweep over my body from head to feet and back up. "The woman who proves art is art herself." My cheeks burn hotter, my core swarming with warmth as he bats his eyelashes at me. "Rocco, a drink, please," he says, waving his hand, and the man next to him vanishes.

"You're enjoying the artwork this evening?" I ask, suddenly feeling less confident without his friend here as a buffer. The Patek Phillipe on his arm, the Kiton he wears—Mr. Costa isn't just wealthy. He is the embodiment of wealth, something I most definitely am not. The suit alone has got to be thirty grand.

"Suddenly, I'm enjoying something else much more." Costa steps toward me, and though his expression remains stoic, there is a shift in his eyes, the way he devours me, watching my tongue flick over my bottom lip again.

"Do you have any questions?" My gaze shifts, searching for Paolo, but he's gone, off to cater to some needy visitor, I assume. I'm unsupervised with Costa now, at least in body. Cameras cover almost one hundred percent of the gallery floor. The security team may see me, but Paolo's prying eyes aren't here to judge my actions.

"I have but one," he says, and like magic, his friend appears with two glasses of champagne. Victor takes them and hands one to me casually. "Drink with me?" he asks.

A smile curls my lips upward as I accept the invitation and the glass. Mr. Costa moves toward me, sliding his palm onto my lower back as he begins to walk, and I fall into step next to him as I drink the glass of champagne.

"So, you're the one responsible for authenticating all of these works?" The warmth of his hand sinks through the fabric of my gown to my skin. It's not uncomfortable, and I'm not turned off by it at all. He has this way of taking charge of me, maneuvering me past one painting after another.

"I am. I've spent my entire career thus far studying the works of Raphael, traveling to various galleries and his childhood home in Urbino, saw his works at the Vatican. According to many, I'm the world's foremost authority on his life and works." My confidence on this topic has never wavered. I know Raphael better than he knew himself, I think. I'd be able to spot a forgery from a mile away.

"Good, good…" His chin tips up, and he brings his drink to his lips to swallow it in one gulp, then sets it on the tray of a passing waiter. "I must admit, I've never met an art authenticator quite as lovely as you." He leads me deeper into the gallery, through the winding maze of exhibits and walls. I walk with him without hesitation. This is my home, where I spend seventy percent of my time and nearly all of my waking hours.

"Are you interested in the paintings, or me?" I ask jokingly. Mr. Costa breaks into the first grin I've seen, a hint that he's not all business.

"You caught me." His eyes meet mine as he guides me around a corner to see a sculpture believed to be from the first century in Greece. It's a one of a kind that I admire, and I adore the location too, tucked in one of the only blind spots in this museum. I find solace here during my work hours when I want a place to think without Nico or Paolo's eyes watching me.

---