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The storm echoed on the canvas, just as fierce and full of wild movement.

The man at the easel painted the storm at sea, a brush in one hand, a palette knife in the other.

He wore jeans, a faded denim shirt rolled up at the elbows, both splattered with paint. His hair, the sun against the storm, fell messily over his collar.

How many times, she wondered as her heart wept, had she watched her father just like this? Legs spread, hair tumbled, his whole being focused on what he created?

She watched Collin Poole paint, and thought it a kind of magic how much his technique matched his brother’s. Even how his hand held the brush, how his body angled.

And the music. AC/DC’s “Heatseeker.”

Yes, her father would have gone with hard-pounding rock when painting a storm at sea.

But couldn’t Collin hear the heartbeat from the Gold Room? Couldn’t he feel the rage inside it? She wondered it didn’t swallow everything else up.

Then she heard something else—footsteps—just before Johanna came in.

She paused there a moment, just looking at Collin, and everything she felt for him shined in her eyes.

She had her auburn hair back in a tail and, like Collin, wore jeans and a shirt rolled to the elbow. Her feet were bare, and she carried a mug.

Sonya could smell the coffee, dark and rich.

“I’ll set this on your worktable.” Her voice, strong but quiet, held something else. Sonya heard the frisson of excitement in it. “I don’t want to interrupt.”

“You’re not.” He turned to her, turned down the music.

And what he felt for Johanna shined in his eyes.

Sonya saw her father’s face, heard her father’s voice. A tear slid down her cheek as he smiled.

“I got what I wanted, and I’ll always want you more.” He gestured toward the painting. “What do you think?”

Walking to him, Johanna tipped her head to his shoulder. “I think it’s glorious. Passionate, full of wild movement and drama. The way you have the lightning striking the sea, you can all but hear the snap of power.”

“You’re so good for me.” He gathered her in. “My whole world opened when you came into my life. I put color on canvas, but I didn’t know what color was until you. I didn’t really believe in love, until you.”

Tipping her face up, he kissed her. Then they stood together, looking out at the storm.

“Just a few more days, and we’ll be married.” He brought her hand to his lips. “We’ll be the Pooles of Poole Manor. Let’s hope this storm passes, and doesn’t decide to circle back on our wedding day.”

“If it does, we’ll weather it. Damned if some rain will stop me from being your wife.”

Like Collin, Johanna didn’t seem to hear the pounding that came, not from the storm, not from the music, but from Dobbs’s lair.

Instead, Johanna smiled and laid a hand on Collin’s cheek.

“I thought about waiting until I was—your wife—until we were the Pooles of Poole Manor, but I just can’t. And I know we’d planned to wait until after we were married to get started, but…”

She took his hand, pressed it against her stomach. “Close enough?”

It took him a moment, just a moment for puzzlement to turn into shock and shock to explode into joy.

“You’re—Are you sure? Of course you’re sure. You wouldn’t say unless. My God, Johanna.”

She laughed as he lifted her off her feet, spun her.

“Johanna, Johanna. Shit!” He set her down, ran his hands down her sides. “I shouldn’t do that. Are you all right? How do you feel? Did I hurt you? Him? Her?”