Page 41 of Silence and Surrender

“They make it look effortless,” I managed, fighting the urge to slide my hands down his back. “Like they were born to this world.”

He turned slightly, and suddenly we were far too close. “Is that what you see when you look at me? Someone who doesn’t belong?”

“I see...” I swallowed hard. “I see someone who needs to learn the difference between Martinez and Rodriguez.”

The trace of a smile touched his lips. “Then teach me.”

For the next hour, I walked him through the basics—brush techniques, color theory, and the signatures of different artists. He was a quick study, but I couldn’t help noticing how often we found ourselves standing too close, touching too long, looking too intently.

I moved across the table, spreading out the auction catalog. “These are the pieces that will be featured tomorrow night. You need to be familiar with all of them.”

He leaned over my shoulder to see better, his chest brushing my back. “Walk me through them.”

“This is a Hargrove,” I said, fighting to keep my voice steady as his breath warmed my neck. “Note the distinctive use of negative space. And here,” I turned the page, his proximity making it hard to focus, “early Klein. The composition is characteristic of his pre-war period.”

“You really know your stuff,” he murmured, still too close.

“It’s my job to know.” I turned another page, aware of how his arm brushed mine. “These pieces especially, they’re exactly the kind of art perfect for money laundering. High value, subjective pricing, easy to move across borders...”

“That’s why we’re really there.” His hand settled on my lower back, steady and warm. “The art is just our cover.”

I turned to face him, realizing too late how close that would bring us. “Which means you need to be convincing. One mistake and—”

The sharp ring of his phone cut through the tension. His shoulders tensed as he checked the screen. “It’s Steele.”

He answered the call, turning to face the window. “What is it?”

I tried to focus on reorganizing the scattered auction documents, but found myself watching his reflection instead. The way tension radiated through his shoulders, how his free hand clenched at his side.

“Send it to me now,” he said sharply. “No, tell them to wait.” He ended the call, shoulders rigid. “They’ve moved up the private viewings. Next week. We’ve lost an entire week. And they’ve cut the guest list. Steele barely managed to keep me on it. More favors.”

“That changes things.” I moved to his side. “We won’t have the crowd for cover.”

“No.” His voice was rough. “But we might have something better.” He turned to face me, and the intensity in his eyes made my breath catch. “The preview is invitation only. Very exclusive. Very intimate.”

I caught his meaning. “Just serious buyers and their advisors. More private.”

“Exactly.” His palm rested between my shoulder blades as we returned to the desk, the touch sending jolts of electricity up my spine. “Which means fewer eyes on us, fewer people to convince.”

We bent over the blueprints again, his chest brushing my shoulder as he traced paths through the building. “The records room will be here. During previews, they’ll be focused on the main gallery. If we time it right...”

“We can slip away without anyone noticing. If we play it right, they might even think that we’re leaving to…” I gulped, hyper-aware of how close we stood. I couldn’t finish my thought. Couldn’t say the words “sex” or “fuck” in front of him. Not when it was taking everything in my power to stop myself from kissing him.

“These men know me,” he said quietly. “Executives and CEOs…they know I never bring anyone to events. Never get...distracted.” His fingers flexed against my back. “So when I do...”

The implications hung heavy between us. We’d have to sell it—the powerful executive and his art advisor, their professional relationship cracking under obvious attraction. It wouldn’t take much acting.

We both knew it.

“It’s a solid plan,” I said, trying to sound more confident than I felt. “Simple. Clean.”

“Simple.” He echoed with a harsh laugh. One of his hands was still at my back, burning through the silk of my blouse. “Nothing about this is simple.”

The double meaning wasn’t lost on me. I turned to face him, closer than I’d intended. “Colton...”

His phone pinged again—Steele’s data coming through. The moment fractured. We stepped apart, resuming our business personas without missing a beat.

“We should both go to the Ashworth event this weekend. I wasn’t planning on it, but…we can use the evening to sell us as a couple to the right people,” he said, his voice carefully controlled. “And tomorrow, we need to finally get into the art vault and confirm it’s empty.”

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