Page 130 of Brushed By Moonlight

I couldn’t say if it happened in super-fast or super-slow motion, because most of it blurred and I only caught a few details. Huge chest plates compacted before me, and his claws slowly morphed to feet and toes that curled into the gravel driveway at a similar angle.

I found myself patting his shoulders, then touching his face.

“See?” he said gruffly, as if his vocal cords were still transforming. “Nose.”

I chuckled, stroking it. “Nose. Cheeks…lips…”

His eyes glowed in a softer hue, and his lips moved. My focus zoomed there, and everything else in my mind blurred. And blurred and blurred, until nothing existed except my lips and his, and nothing waited to be done except meeting them in a kiss. And another and another…

I was barely aware of walking to the cottage, stripping out of my clothes, or sliding into bed with Marius. But I was blissfully aware of every kiss, every caress, every perfectly timed move as our bodies meshed.

“Oh… Yes…” I moaned, clutching the sheets as he moved over me. In me. With me.

His eyes shone, and his glistening skin rippled with muscle. When I clenched around him, his breath caught. Then he regained his rhythm with a vengeance, sweeping us both higher, higher…

I shuddered and cried out, hitting the zenith of a very steep curve with him. We hung on as long as we could, then slowly sank into each other’s arms.

I shut my eyes, holding him close. God, what a night. What a couple of weeks. Weeks that had turned my life upside down in ways both thrilling and terrifying.

So, yikes. What would the coming weeks bring?

Throughout the summer, my life had been driven by one theme —repairs and renewal— of the château and, in some ways, of myself. Since Marius had entered my life, the theme had shifted totruth versus lies— in art, in love, in life — and all the gray zones in between.

Like our art heist. My father would be proud of the end, but not the means.

Like the passion that blazed between Marius and me, too. He was a good man, and he was very, very good to me. But was he goodforme? Were we really meant to be?

Then there was Gordon, who had always looked out for me and my family. But his business dealings weren’t as legit as we’d always assumed them to be.

Each of those issues was a boulder perched on the edge of a cliff that loomed over me. It was only a question of time until one — or all — of them came crashing down.

“Get some sleep,” Marius whispered, snuggling closer.

I tried, but my eyes kept wandering over the room. There was just enough moonlight to make out the lumps of our clothing and the three shapes beyond them. Henrik’s short, squat box, perched on the windowsill, and the two frames I’d propped against the wall earlier.

One was Monet’sThaw, though it was a forgery. The other wasThe Painter on the Road to Tarascon,and I was damn sure that was the real thing.

Marius curled his thick arm around me, and I stroked his skin gently, thinking. The Van Gogh was the real thing… What about what I felt for Marius?

“Good night,” he murmured, kissing my shoulder.

I kissed his hand. “Good night.”

It didn’t take long for his breath to settle into the slow, peaceful rhythm of sleep. But as for me…

Tired as I was, I didn’t close my eyes for a long time. I just lay there, thinking.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

MARIUS

Steam followed me out of the shower the next morning. I wrapped a towel around my waist and wandered out to the bedroom, where I found Mina perched on the edge of the bed, staring at the paintings propped against the wall.

“Are you worried they’ll walk off?” I joked.

She shook her head, too deep in thought to laugh. “Just amazed at what I’m looking at.” She gestured toward the painting on the right. “I can’t get over the idea that that was in Vincent van Gogh’s hands, and now it’s in mine. Well, in a manner of speaking.”

I strode over, picked up the painting, and thrust it at her. “Nowit’s in your hands.”