Page 40 of Silence and Surrender

“Better.” His smile was wide. “Much better.”

We spent the next hour going over details—security rotations, camera blind spots, the elaborate dance of a high-end auction where the merchandise wasn’t meant to exist. Every detail and every contingency planned.

Just like he used to do, back when he and Cooper moved art across borders and then later when I handled the financial side for Cooper’s operations. “She’ll want to be there,” I said finally. “At the auction.”

“Of course she will.” Steele’s voice held understanding. “She’s her father’s daughter.”

“I can’t lose her.” The admission felt raw. “Not to them. Not to any of this.”

“Then we make sure you don’t.” He gathered the files. “We keep her safe. We get the proof. We end them.”

“Just like that?”

“Just like that.” He squeezed my shoulder. “Get some rest. I’ll have more information tomorrow—guest lists, security assignments, everything we need.”

I nodded, gathering my coat.

“Colton.” Steele’s voice stopped me at the door. “For what it’s worth...I’ve never seen you like this. Not even back before Catherine.”

“Like what?”

“Willing to burn everything down for someone.” Awareness lightened his eyes. “It suits you.”

I stepped out into the night, letting his words settle. He was right, I’d never felt like this before. Never been willing to risk it all.

But Isabella was worth breaking every rule I’d ever lived by.

Chapter Eighteen

Isabella

I paced circles in the client show room, trying to focus on the task at hand rather than the memories of us at his penthouse. The faint brush of his hands. How close we’d—

“The auction is in two weeks,” Colton said, interrupting my dangerous train of thought. He was leaning against the conference room table, jacket discarded and sleeves rolled up again. It was unfairly distracting. “The Mayfair’s winter showcase. Do you think you can get me ready in time?”

I paused my pacing, studying him. Despite his carefully cultivated image as a sophisticated collector, we both knew his knowledge was surface level at best. “That depends. How much do you actually know about post-war European artists?”

His slight grimace told me everything. “I know enough to bid on the right pieces when needed.”

“But not enough to convince serious collectors you know what you’re talking about.” I moved to the bank’s impressive art collection, gesturing at a piece on the wall. “Who’s this by?”

He straightened his shoulders, eyes narrowing at the canvas. “Alejandro Martinez. 2018.”

“Wrong. It’s Carmen Rodriguez. You can tell by the brushwork in the lower left corner. This is her signature style from her blue period.” I turned to face him. “If you make mistakes like that at the Mayfair, we’re done before we start. These people are serious, serious collectors. You’ll risk Steele if they figure out that you’re not there for art.”

The muscle in his jaw tightened. “Then teach me.”

“Fourteen days to turn corporate law’s most famous bachelor into a convincing art connoisseur?” I couldn’t help my slight smile. “I’ve had tougher challenges. Though not many.”

His phone buzzed, another email from Rodger. We both ignored it. He moved closer, studying the painting with intensity. “What else am I missing?”

“Look at the composition.” I stepped beside him, the proximity sending a cascade of goosebumps across my skin. “See how the lines draw your eye inward? That’s deliberate. Rodriguez always creates this sense of movement, like the painting is pulling you in.”

“Show me.” That famous Moreau phrase again. His voice had dropped lower, sending shivers down my spine.

I moved behind him, trying to ignore how his body filled my vision. “You’re still looking with your eyes. Art collectors look with their whole body. They lean in,” I placed my hands lightly on his shoulders, guiding him forward, “they shift their weight, they...” My voice trailed off as he followed my guidance, his body moving with surprising grace.

“They what?” The roughness in his voice made my pulse quicken.

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