Page 20 of City Of Thieves

In two steps, I have her backed against the nearest white wall, my palm silencing those sinfully full lips and wicked tongue. Exhaling slowly against my skin, Tatiana stares up at me through thick, dark lashes, daring me to take this further.

What the hell am I doing?

Stay focused.

I’m here for penance, not pussy.

Sliding my palm off her face, I slip my hands in my pockets and resume my prowl. “Since you seem to know so much about me, then you know my family conducts business in New Jersey, not New York. Besides, you’re not the only one with a portfolio,Tatiana.”

“And what the hell is that supposed to mean?” She runs her fingers lightly across her chin, as if scrubbing the last traces of me away.As if my touch disgusts her.

My fists clench in my pockets. “Your family is just as stained as mine, however, yours hide their sins beneath a patriotic pin. I know all about you,dolcezza, and I know whoyour daddyis…” For the first time, she flinches, so I drive the knife in a little deeper. “It seems the Senator’s princess likes to play both sides of the moral line.”

“I amnotmy family, Mr. Marchesi.”

Another direct hit.

“My apologies,” I offer, sweeping my arm out in an over-the-top snide gesture. “Here I was under the impression the branches of our family trees were up for discussion.”

There’s a beat of silence.

“Whatever you think you’re going to extort from my father by darkening my doorstep, you’re wrong,” she warns.

“I’m rarely wrong.”

“Well, there’s a first time for everything.” Her lips form a tight line, and I assume the subject has met an untimely death. But then she turns her head and lets out a rough breath. “I haven’t spoken to my father in years, so congratulations again, Mr. Marchesi. You’ve cornered the black sheep instead of the cash cow. How unfortunate for you to have wasted your time.” With that, she starts walking toward the double doors leading back into the main gallery. “You can see yourself out.”

“I’m not here for a handout, Tatiana,” I call after her.

She stops and turns. “Then whatareyou here for?”

“A business proposition.”

“Not interested.”

“Not even for that portrait I outbid you for this morning?”

She freezes, her green eyes flickering over my face, searching for the truth from a habitual liar, or whatever the hell she thinks I am.

“What do I need to do?”

“Spend forty-eight hours in my company, plus overtime.”

She scoffs. “Is that an indecent proposal?”

“Don’t get your hopes up,dolcezza. I want to undress your knowledge, not your wardrobe. There’s a painting up for auction in London in two days. I’m in need of an agent to procure it for me, plus a front row seat for the sale.”

Another half-truth. I’m more interested in the seller and the competition than the prize, but what she doesn’t know won’t hurt her.

There’s a long pause. “Which painting?”

“Some abstract expressionism piece of crap,” I say dismissively to rile her up. “Your area of expertise, I believe.”

“What’s the reserve?” she says, her eyes flashing.

“Five million.”

There’s a flare of recognition on her face. “You’re talking about the ‘Atonement.’”