Page 36 of The Thief

“Then, chicken and a salad it is.” He pulls lettuce, tomatoes, and a cucumber out of the crisper and begins his prep. I watch in bemusement as he starts chopping. He wasn’t lying; he does know how to use a knife. “Can I do anything to help?”

“You can set the table. The plates are in the cabinet above the sink.”

We sit down to eat. This meal is a perfect opportunity to pump Antonio for information, but the chicken is delicious, as is the salad. The dressing, lemony and tart, turns me into a complete glutton. Planning my next attempt at the Titian is going to have to wait.

“Help me understand,” Antonio says, cutting into a piece of chicken. “Why did you want the fake Titian?”

“I don’t,” I reply. “But Dottore Garzolo remembered the painting and wanted to exhibit it. The fake Titian is going to buy me time until I get my hands on the real one.” I give him a pleasant smile. “I hope that doesn’t bother you.”

His eyes laugh at me. “I look forward to your next attempt,” he says, sipping his own water. “More chicken?”

“Yes, please.”

The conversation turns to art. As I found out when I showed him around the Palazzo Ducale, Antonio knows quite a bit about Italian art. Most of the rich art collectors I’ve met buy paintings because they’re good financial investments or a place to hide ill-gotten profits, but Antonio is a connoisseur, and it shows.

Our conversation flows effortlessly and moves from art to travel, books, and more. I barely notice the passage of time. It’s not until Antonio offers me dessert that I glance at my phone and realize with shock that over two hours have elapsed.

I wipe up the last bit of sauce with a piece of bread. “I can’t,” I say regretfully. “I really should be getting back.” Even though I don’t want to leave. “Can I get the tour now? I’d like to see the rest of the house.” I smile up at him. “Especially the room with the Madonna.”

He gives me a half-smile. “Still planning on stealing it?”

His words echo through my mind.If you steal my painting, I’m going to assume you’re sending me a message that you want me to fuck you.

A wave of desire crashes into me. My insides tighten, and I discreetly clench my thighs together. “Do you really think I’m going to warn you before I make another attempt at it?” I scoff. “Why would I do that? So that you can tell your security team to be on high alert?”

He shakes his head, laughter dancing in his eyes. “I wouldn’t warn them, Lucia. That wouldn’t be in keeping with the spirit of this game.”

I should be annoyed that he’s thinking about the Titian as a game, but when I reach for irritation, it’s not there. “It’s almost as if you want me to steal it.”

“It does seem that way, doesn’t it? Think about it.” He gives me another maddeningly inscrutable smile, gets to his feet, and holds out his hand to me. “Come, let me show you around.”

Antonio’s house is a bohemian symphony of color and texture. Collections are everywhere. Bronze masks from Benin, ceramics from Mexico, black-and-white rattan baskets—everything co-exists in a riotous harmony. The furniture is sturdy, the rugs are antique, and the overall impression is warm and welcoming. I have to push back my envy as he shows me around. I’ve always thought that being able to live out of a suitcase is a good thing, but for the first time, my life looks bare and empty.

Then he opens the door to his bedroom, and I stop thinking.

His bed is unmade, his duvet rumpled. My imagination throws up an image of him sleeping, naked, and a shiver runs through me.

“The Titian,” he says, gesturing me in.

Walk into my parlor, said the spider to the fly.I swallow the lump in my throat and enter Antonio’s bedroom. As much as I want to see it, it takes all my willpower to focus on the small, invaluable painting. “A Titian in your bedroom,” I murmur. “A bit excessive, don’t you think?”

“Does art only belong in a museum?”

“This one does,” I reply, but there’s no real bite in my voice. It might be because of the excellent lunch, or maybe it’s the company. It’s hard to get riled up on behalf of the Palazzo Ducale when I’m inches away from Antonio’s massive bed. Both the headboard and footboard are slatted, and my brain is throwing up image after image of me tied up and naked, spread open for Antonia’s pleasure.

His to touch, his to possess. . .

Underneath my shirt, my nipples tighten, and my skin breaks out into goosebumps.

Stop it, Lucia.

“So you say,” he replies. There’s a dark, seductive glint in his eyes. “And what are you going to do about it?”

Stop pretending you don’t want to sleep with him,the devil inside me whispers.The bed is right there.

With great difficulty, I ignore that voice. “I should go,” I say, keeping my eyes averted from the mattress. “Thank you for lunch and for the tour.”

I lean forward to brush my lips against his cheek, a polite kiss between acquaintances, but when I get near, the smell of him fills my nostrils, spice and smoke and man. I breathe it—him—in, and he turns his head toward me. His lips are less than an inch from mine, and I am more tempted than I’ve ever been in my life, tempted beyond reason and good sense.

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