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Expectations. Her core tightened at the word. Just what was he implying? "I don't have any expectations." He just ended a relationship with a woman, surely, he didn't mean for her to become his next 'arrangement'. The heat of his hand was suddenly warm on her leg.

"You should." He didn't elaborate any further.

"I'm not wearing the ring."

It was past midnight when they arrived at the cottage. The wind coming off the ocean was cold, stirring up recollections of her first time here. She was his captive then and while she was still bound to him now, at least she no longer completely feared him. It honestly seemed like a lifetime ago. Sin opened the trunk and removed their two small suitcases. William whined at his feet and barked before running off toward the cliffs. "Are you sure no one followed us?" she asked, looking around as if she expected Michael to appear at any moment.

"I'm sure." He unlocked the door and she followed him into the cottage. Sin put the suitcases in the bedroom, then went back out to fetch the print. They had stopped outside of Pitlochry for petrol and he moved the picture from its plastic bag to an inert, acid free box, for protection. This, he now brought inside and took immediately up to the loft.

"Would you like a drink or just bed?" he asked, coming back down.

"A drink would be good. I'm still rather wound up."

"There's wine and whiskey in the cupboard. You choose while I light a fire."

She found a bottle of Pinot Noir and opened it, pouring them each a glass. There was a chill in the air that made the hair on her skin rise or maybe it was memories from the last time she was here. Sinclair Stuart—art thief, assassin, kidnapper, now husband—was still a dangerous man. And while she was here under different circumstances, there was still a threat. The effects of his kiss lingered, the slight pressure of control and power manifesting itself deep in her as he slowly increased his dominion. She watched as he finished adding coal to the fledgling flame, his dress shirt tight across the breadth of his back and shoulders. He stood and wiped his hands on his slacks before sitting down beside her on the couch and unbuttoning the top two buttons of his collar. He was too close, she thought as she handed him his glass, wishing he had chosen to sit in the armchair.

He held up his wine, the light of the fire casting a clear glow through the translucent ruby color. "Mrs. Stuart. You did well today."

"Jesus Christ," she said, rubbing her forehead. "Don't call me that."

He smiled and took a sip of the wine, savoring the taste. "I'm teasing. You did do a fine job, though."

"I'll keep that in mind the next time I steal a piece of artwork." The wine was good, clean and sharp with a hint of pepper. His knee brushed hers. She slid her heels off and tucked her legs under herself protectively. "What happens now?"

"I have two days to reproduce the sketch, barring the light is good, and then we reconvene at the Tower."

"Just like that." She shook her head and the corner of her mouth turned down. "It's so easy for you."

"Easy for me?" he questioned. "No. Maybe when I was a lad, but not now. I'm not that boy anymore. He was arrogant and presumptuous. I've seen too much, experienced it, to underestimate what I've done."

"What we've done," she said sadly.

He reached over and tucked a piece of hair behind her ear. "We should never have involved you. If it wasn't for Imogen."

"I can't stop thinking of her suffering."

Sin set his glass down and put his arm around her, pulling her to his chest. She shouldn't accept his comfort, but she suddenly felt very far away and removed from the world. "We'll find her. I promise."

She laid her head against him, the beat of his heart a steady thump as he held her. The clean smell of his aftershave, rich and woody, filled her nose. But there was something else beneath the surface, something deep and musky and simmering with desire. She sat up, finishing her wine. "Forgeries are always detectable," she said, changing the subject.

"Aye, with science. I agree. It's a chance we take." Sin refilled their glasses.

"I'm not talking about science. There can be perfect replicas, but they will always be missing the soul of the artist. You can never reproduce what the artist was feeling or trying to convey from their hearts. Their art is love, it can't be faked. It's a rarity if it's done right."

"That's why one should know their artist," Sin agreed.

"Most forgers rarely take the time. They are more concerned about matching the age of the paper or canvas and replicating the paint or the medium used."

His eyes narrowed almost wickedly. "Then you must tell me about your Gustav Klimt and the Frau mit durchsichtigem Gewand before I begin."

She felt the heat rise in her cheeks. The wine was not helping. Frau mit durchsichtigem Gewand—Woman in Transparent Drapery. The stolen print.It was a sketch Klimt did as a study for the frieze he painted in the second hall of the Succession building in Vienna in 1902 entitled Beethoven's Ninth Symphony. The frieze stretched one hundred and twelve feet wide and seven feet tall and ran along the inside top of the room. The subject of Woman in Transparent Drapery was generally thought to be one of the women in the frieze. The theme, beauty. The drawing was done in black chalk and depicted a woman in a sheer covering, the outline of her naked body could be seen through it. She knew Sin already understood all this, he was testing her. "I guess in order to understand the woman in the study and what Klimt was thinking, you first have to understand the frieze."

"Then why don't you enlighten me?" He handed her the wine glass, relaxing back on the couch.

"Then I must first ask if you know Beethoven's Ninth Symphony?"

"Aye. Ode to Joy." He cocked an eyebrow at her.

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