Page 48 of Silence and Surrender

Isabella

“That Matisse isn’t real.”

I murmured the observation into my champagne, watching people circle the painting like elegant sharks. The Ashworth Estate sprawled around us in all its Tudor glory, centuries of wealth and power carved into every oak beam and limestone wall. The great hall alone could have housed a small museum, its soaring hammer-beam ceiling and stained-glass windows providing the perfect backdrop for tonight’s private exhibition.

The event had drawn exactly the crowd I’d expected. Old money in conservative suits discussed market trends while pretending to understand brushwork. Tech billionaires tried too hard to belong, their new wealth practically screaming against the estate’s ancient tapestries. Banking executives, far too many from Devereux for my liking, moved through the crowd with societal grace, while art dealers watched everything with hungry eyes.

A pity half the pieces were forgeries.

The great hall had been transformed into a temporary gallery, paintings worth millions (or appearing to be worth millions) arranged with careful order. Security cameras tracked every movement, more of them than strictly necessary for an art exhibit, I noted. Armed guards at every exit, too many for a simple private showing.

But then, nothing about tonight was simple.

“His grandfather bought it in 1962.” Charlotte Ashworth, our hostess, sipped her champagne. Her ostentatious diamond necklace caught the light as she gestured toward the Matisse. Confidence radiated from every polished inch of her. “It’s quite well-documented.”

“Of course.” I smiled, letting my gaze drift over the gathered wealth. Through the French doors, I could see more guests arriving—black tie and evening gowns gliding up the gravel drive like preening birds. Reznikov stood by the window, discussing something in low tones with Lord Rutherford. Colton and I knew both men were deeply involved in our bank’s phantom art purchases. Both watched me when they thought I wasn’t looking. “The documentation would be perfect.”

Like everything else about this evening—the sprawling estate with its manicured gardens, the carefully curated guest list, the security that was just a bit too heavy for a simple art exhibition.

A waiter offered me another flute of champagne. I took a glass, using the movement to study the room’s layout. Three main exits, all guarded. A service corridor that probably led to the kitchens. The grand staircase rising to the gallery above, where more security lurked in the shadows.

“The Beckmann is drawing interest.” Charlotte nodded towards a cluster of collectors gathered before a particularly dark piece. “Though personally, I find it a bit...intense.”

I studied the painting—another forgery, though a masterful one. The brushwork was flawless, the aging precise. Only someone who’d spent their life studying such things would notice the nuanced wrongness of the canvas preparation, the too-perfect craquelure. Like everything else here tonight, it was a beautiful deception.

A few couples moved past us, discussing price points and provenance with carefully casual voices. I recognized two of them from bank documents, clients whose art collections existed only on paper. Their wine-flushed faces showed no concern about spending millions on paintings that never moved.

“Lord Rutherford outdid himself with the curation,” I said, matching Charlotte’s practiced tone. “Though I’m surprised he included the Vermeer. Last I heard, it was still in a private collection in Geneva.”

“Oh?” Her eyebrows rose. “I thought the bank had acquired it last month. Your department handled the authentication, didn’t you?”

Before I could respond, I felt him. Colton had that effect lately, like his presence changed the gravity in any room he entered. When I turned, I saw him watching me from across the gallery, devastatingly handsome in black tie.

I could still taste him on my lips.

“The Moreau brothers have always cleaned up well,” Charlotte observed, following my gaze. “Though I hear the reformed criminal is a lot more fun than the lawyer.”

If she only knew what the lawyer was capable of. How his hands had felt on my skin in that vault. How his kiss had burned through every defense I’d built. How he moved now through the crowd with contained power, nodding to the right people, playing his role while watching everything.

Watching me.

He paused to speak with a board member, and I took the moment to study him. His tall form commanded attention without effort—long legs and a narrow waist. When he turned slightly, I caught the flex of muscle beneath fine fabric, the subtle movement of his back as he gestured with those elegant hands. No one looking at him would guess the unleashed power concealed beneath his composed exterior. That underneath those impeccable manners lay something dangerous. Something that made my pulse quicken and heat pool in my abdomen.

“Miss Delacroix.” His voice was smooth as he joined us, slightly aloof. But his eyes… “Admiring the Matisse?”

“Among other things.” I let my eyes drift over his tuxedo, remembering how his shoulders had felt under my hands. “Though some pieces here are more authentic than others.”

Something heated flashed in his expression before he masked it. That lawyer persona sliding back in place. But I’d seen behind that now. I’d seen what hid beneath his careful control.

“Perhaps you could give me your expert opinion on the Degas in the library?” He gestured toward the far wing. “There are some...authentication questions.”

“Of course.” I handed Charlotte my empty glass, ignoring her knowing smile. “Duty calls.”

“Speaking of acquisitions...” Charlotte’s voice took on a particular tone that made me pay attention. “Catherine O’Conner just arrived. Haven’t seen her at one of these since her rather dramatic split from…well, you know.”

I followed her line of sight to a striking blonde in a low-cut ebony dress. She moved through the crowd with easy grace, drawing attention without seeming to try.

Colton tensed beside me, his hand tightening fractionally on his glass. Almost imperceptible, but I’d learned to read his posture.

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