Page 4

It started off tentatively, a quick brush of his mouth on mine before Brand coaxed my lips apart. His tongue sought mine with an urgency—a possession—I’d spent many hours dreaming about.
I’d gone limp that day, wishing we were alone somewhere where we could strip each other from our clothing and I could feel his naked body against mine. Instead, we were standing near a busy Midtown Manhattan intersection while hundreds of cars, and more people, passed us by.
All too soon, he’d ended the kiss, dropped his hand, turned, and walked away without uttering another word. At the time, I’d told myself it was ridiculous to think I was in love with him. It was nothing more than lust. However, no one else had made my heart pound the way Brand did back then. Or now, if I was being honest.
I’d looked away, but met his gaze when he sighed and said, “I think about it all the time too, Butterfly.”
My spine stiffened, and I folded my hands in front of me on the desk, refusing to acknowledge how dead-on he was in reading my thoughts. “You said you’re here to help.”
His hooded eyes opened wider, and he sat up straighter, as if my doing so had jarred him out of the memory like he’d done to me minutes before. “That’s right. As you know, the Catarina Benedetto Gallery wasn’t the only one affected. There are several others in Midtown alone.”
“I see.” I shuffled papers around on my desk. “What is it you need from me?” When his gaze lingered but he didn’t speak, I regretted phrasing my question the way I had. “I’ve given my statement to the agents and forwarded the documentation they requested. Unfortunately, the pieces in question were secured through various brokers, not just one.”
“You aren’t alone in that. From the report I read, the other galleries I alluded to said much the same thing. However, the number of pieces in question is far greater.”
“I’m relieved to hear it,” I muttered under my breath.
“Sorry. I meant your gallery had the larger amount of forged art.”
“It isn’t mine alone. I mean, you know Tara, Aine, Ava, Quinn, and I are partners, not that it’s relevant.” I was rambling, once again stunned, so I took a deep breath. “How many more?”
“Twice as many.” Brand leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.
I was nauseated. When word eventually got out about this, we’d be out of business. In the meantime, I had to answer to Tara and our other three partners about what this would mean for us going forward. Short and long term. The only art I’d feel comfortable selling now was Tara’s, and that was because I’d watched her paint it. While she was good and her work was popular, it wouldn’t bring in enough revenue on its own to keep us in business.
My cell vibrated with a message, and out of habit, I glanced over at it.
“What is it?” Brand asked when my eyes scrunched.
I swiped the screen and read the message from my dad.
“Fuck,” I muttered, again under my breath, rubbing my eyes and rolling my shoulders.
“Penelope?”
“Yes?”
“What was the message?”
“It’s nothing.”
He raised a brow.
“It’s from my dad. He’s pestering me to meet his latest love interest—which I have zero interest in doing. The last one didn’t last a year once she got him to marry her. Or maybe it was vice versa. Either way, his relationships never last.”
Another message popped up. This one said he’d had a change of plans and wanted to talk to me about the property on Fire Island.
“That fucking asshole,” I muttered.
Brand got up, walked around the desk, and stood next to me.
As he got closer, I looked up at him. “What?”
He turned my chair, put a hand on each of the armrests, and bent at the waist, his face close enough that if I leaned forward, I could kiss him. And right now, I wanted to more than anything. “There’s more to this than you’re saying.”
“It’s just…” I shook my head.
“I’ve known you a long time, and rarely have I heard you curse.”