Page 38 of Silence and Surrender

“Get back to work?” But I smiled to take the sting from the words.

“I need a break.” He tucked a strand of hair behind my ear, the gesture surprisingly intimate. “And maybe we need to figure out what this is between us before we complicate everything.”

I straightened my blouse, trying to regain some composure. “And what is this, exactly?”

His eyes softened as he studied my face. “Something worth protecting. Worth fighting for.” He paused, then added, “Worth changing for.”

The admission made my breath catch. “When did you start saying things that make my heart stop?”

“When I met someone who made me want to find the right words.” He picked up my abandoned wine glass, offering it with a slight smile. “Stay? Just...talk with me for a while?”

I accepted the glass, letting my fingers brush his. “About the investigation? Or about this?”

“Both.” He led me out of the kitchen, but stayed close enough that our shoulders touched. “Everything. Anything.”

We moved to his living room, needing distance from the kitchen and its lingering heat. The city lights sparkled beyond his windows, creating an intimate backdrop as we settled on opposite ends of his leather sofa. Even the space between us felt charged, like electricity waiting to spark dry tinder and engulf it in flame.

The wine loosened something in both of us, making the conversation flow easier. He told me about growing up with Cooper—stories of twin boys finding trouble in Paris’s shadowy corners, of a father who worked too much and a mother lost too soon. I watched his hands as he spoke, remembering how they’d felt in my hair just minutes ago.

“Your turn,” he said, refilling our glasses. “Tell me something real.”

I told him about my childhood in Provence, authentication lessons disguised as games, my father teaching me to spot forgeries before I could read. How we’d speak in code about paintings, developing our own secret language. Colton’s eyes softened when I mentioned my father, understanding the weight of that loss.

The night deepened around us as we talked. He’d rolled his sleeves higher at some point, and I found myself distracted by the play of muscles in his forearms as he gestured. The remaining buttons of his shirt had come undone, revealing a glimpse of his throat, tanned from his recent trip to Italy, that made my mouth go dry.

“You’re staring,” he murmured.

“You’re worth staring at.” The wine made me bold. His eyes smoldered at my words, that raw energy pulsing between us again.

We shared more stories, his first case at the bank, my first authenticated masterpiece. But underneath the words lay deeper currents. Each smile felt like a secret. Each accidental touch when reaching for wine sparked fresh heat. Even our silences held meaning, heavy with everything we weren’t quite ready to say.

“We should be more careful,” he breathed at one point, his fingers tracing patterns on the sofa near my hand. “This thing between us...”

“Would you change it?” I asked. “If you could?”

“No.” The immediacy of his answer made my heart race. “God help me, but no.”

The confession hung between us as the last of the wine disappeared. Outside, London’s lights shimmered beyond the glass windows, creating a world that felt separate from reality. A world where we were just a man and a woman, drawn together by something bigger than both of us.

What remained wasn’t just attraction, though that simmered underneath every look. It was understanding. Connection. The certainty that whatever was building between us was worth any risk, any consequence.

Chapter Seventeen

Colton

Steele met me at one of his private galleries in Chelsea, another legal front he’d established after retiring from his more colorful enterprises. The evening rain cast wavering shadows through the skylights, making the collected artwork seem alive.

“These private auction records,” Steele said in his Franco-British accent, studying the documents we’d brought. “Isabella’s work, I assume?” He moved with the easy confidence of someone who’d spent years avoiding security systems, though he wore his wealth openly—a Brioni suit and a vintage Rolex.

“She found her father’s cipher,” I confirmed, watching him examine the files. “Found a pattern of collectors who always bid on specific acquisitions. The same names keep appearing, but we can’t trace them beyond shell companies.”

“Of course not.” He traced a line of figures with one finger. “They aren’t just any collectors, these are the ones who only appear at private viewings. Very exclusive. Very...particular in their tastes.” The way he said it made my jaw clench. “When I was working less legitimate ventures, we heard whispers about them. The kind of people who collect things that shouldn’t be collected.”

“We know about the trafficking. What we need is a way in. These auctions—”

“Are extremely well-guarded.” Steele moved to a cabinet, producing an aged Bordeaux. “But not impenetrable. Not if you know the right pressure points.” He poured two glasses, handing me one. “The interesting thing about collectors—they’re creatures of habit. They have patterns, preferences. Weaknesses.”

“Like what?”

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