nd yet, that card burned a hole in her purse all night. She turned it over in her mind, wondering who

her inbox was stuffed with rejection emails, that she finally dialed the number.

efficient. "Mr. Moretti's expecting y

her name, but she didn't have time

idn't get in. Almost. But then she thought of her gallery's overdue rent, the leaky ceiling, and t

ates and security cameras. The estate looked like something out of a European dream-wh

mly lit room filled with art. No. Not art. Her art. Three pieces. All stolen from a show she'd done two years ago

whispered, her eyes scann

oice slid over her shoulder, sending shivers

kets, gaze unreadable. "You bought these?"

stepping closer. "They were

Her voice rose. "

hat's how I

s flattered, terrified, or both. "Who are yo

nd flat like deep water. "I'm

me?" she challenged, hea

want to fund your next gallery. I want to show your work to people who

e. But something behind his eyes... it wasn't just

en art," she whispered, her m

less," he said, his vo

lightly. Inside was a photo. Of her. From two weeks ago. On her fire esca

looked up at Lucien. "

ll keep watching you," he said

asn't the kind of man who knocked. He broke the door down, an