Page 85 of Brushed By Moonlight

A mourning dove sang in the distance, almost in tribute, and a lump formed in my throat.

Marius held me a little tighter. “Those notes in the book you showed us… Were they his?”

I nodded, tempted to tell him everything. But I lost my nerve and pointed to a different artwork instead.

“That sketch of a horse by the window is a Toulouse-Lautrec.”

Marius did a double take at it. So, whew. Change of subject achieved.

“A real one or a forgery?”

I laughed. “Real. But it’s just a sketch, and it has some water damage, so it’s not super valuable.” I sighed, thinking of the blank walls of the lower hallway. “Apparently, my great-great grandparents had quite an art collection, but that’s all that’s left of it. Everything was sold over the years to pay for upkeep.”

I looked at a crack in the plaster ceiling, then thought about loose roof tiles. Was I fighting a losing battle?

“Hey.” Marius stroked my cheek.

I swallowed hard and looked at him.

“You’ll find a way,” he murmured.

I bit my lip. Who knew the cover boy forBikes, Booze & Tattoosmagazine would turn out to be such a sweetheart?

I took a deep breath, then faked a smile. “Yeah. As soon as I get back from Mallorca.”

His lips quirked, but then his mood grew somber. “About that. What are my chances of convincing you to stay here?”

I patted his chest. “Close to zero. But given that I’m in a fairly…er, agreeable mood…”

He cracked a grin. “Agreeable, huh?”

I nodded. Two mind-blowing orgasms would do that to a girl.

“…I would listen to what you had to say,” I finished. “That doesn’t mean I’ll change my mind, though.”

His eyes drifted over my body as he thought that over.

“What makes you so interested in the Van Gogh?”

My eyes drifted to the cluster of framed photos on the dresser. The one in the middle showed my family at the last Christmas we’d shared with my father, although we hadn’t known it at the time.

When Marius followed my gaze, I jerked my eyes to the window.

How much to tell him? Why make a secret of it at all?

Because memories of my father were too precious to share with just anyone, and even a man I trusted enough to sleep with didn’t automatically meet that bar.

“Let’s just say, I have a passion for art,” I said.

“Passion enough to risk your life?” His voice was flat. Dead flat, one might say.

“Maybe not that passionate,” I admitted a little weakly.

“So why not leave it to the experts?”

I made a face. “Sorry, but I doubt you guys are experts in post-Impressionist art.”

“No, but we’re experts in other things.”