Page 53 of Silence and Surrender

“Remember our cover,” Isabella murmured as we approached the documentation room. Her fingers brushed mine deliberately, her eyes conveying a message that had nothing to do with art and everything to do with our plan.

I nodded, playing my part as she leaned closer, one hand resting on my chest. To anyone watching, we were simply a couple struggling to keep our hands off each other during an event.

And it was fucking true. If I could, I’d abandon this damn investigation in a heartbeat and take her against the wall of that closet, her legs wrapped around my waist, my name on her lips. I’d had her once, and the memory of it consumed me—I wanted her again. And again. My mind surged with all the ways I wanted to explore her body, all the positions I needed to have her in, all the places I’d make her come apart under my touch. The investigation felt like torture when all I really wanted was to be buried deep inside her, watching her face as she lost control.

I tried to focus, to remember we were playing roles. Except the heat in my voice wasn’t entirely fabricated.

“Perhaps you’d like to see some of the more...private pieces in the collection?” I suggested, loud enough for the guard to overhear as we drifted toward the hallway. My hand settled at the small of her back, proprietary and suggestive.

Isabella’s laugh was perfect, breathless and a touch embarrassed. “We really shouldn’t,” she said, even as she pressed closer to me.

The guard smirked knowingly as we slipped down the hallway, clearly assuming we were looking for somewhere private. The moment we rounded the corner, Isabella’s demeanor shifted, analytical instincts replacing her flirty performance.

“Documentation room should be the third door,” she whispered, her hand already pulling the small thumb drive from her clutch. “We have four minutes now.”

She kept watch while I worked the door lock, then followed me inside, heading straight to the computers.

Her fingers flew across the keyboard, though I caught the slight tension in her shoulders.

Then I saw her freeze, just for a moment. Something was wrong.

“Colton,” she breathed, her voice carrying an edge I’d never heard before. “The routing numbers...”

I moved closer, maintaining my cover while studying the screen. The breath left my lungs. These weren’t just Devereux records. Deutsche Bank. Credit Suisse. Goldman Sachs. Every major financial institution had art authentication documents that didn’t match their holdings.

“Security protocol initiated,” a computerized voice suddenly announced from the terminal. “Verification level three required. Temporary access granted: two minutes.”

Isabella’s fingers flew across the keyboard as a countdown appeared in the corner of the screen.

“Damn it,” she hissed. “Half the files are encrypted. I can only access shipping manifests and routing codes, not the full documentation.”

“That’s enough,” I said, memorizing key details as they flashed across the screen. Account numbers. Routing codes. Names that didn’t match any legitimate art dealers I knew. “We just need enough to prove the connection.”

“Investment firms, insurance companies, private galleries...” Her voice caught, and I fought the urge to pull her close. “They’re all part of it. The entire financial system is compromised.”

I shifted closer, trying to offer what protection I could while maintaining our cover. The magnitude of what we’d discovered made my legal training scream warnings. Every bank. Every major institution. All of them using art to hide their real cargo.

Isabella’s father must have seen this. Must have started to understand the scope before they killed him. I watched the timer tick down—sixty seconds remaining—knowing this changed everything.

We weren’t just fighting one bank anymore. We were taking on the entire financial system.

And if they’d killed Antoine Delacroix for discovering just a piece of this...

I’d never let them touch Isabella. No matter what it cost.

The sound of approaching footsteps made us both freeze.

“Time to go,” I said, already reaching for her.

“Almost done.” Her hands never stopped moving across the keys, transferring what she could to a thumb drive as the timer counted down. “Thirty seconds.”

The footsteps grew closer. Twenty feet. Fifteen.

“Isabella.”

“Done.” She quickly closed the files as the timer hit zero, the system automatically logging her out just as the door handle turned.

I moved on instinct, backing her into an alcove formed by filing cabinets. My body covered hers completely as the door opened, hiding her smaller frame from view. The position pressed us together from chest to thigh, her curves fitting against me dangerously.

---