Page 83 of Marked By Moonlight

She had a picture of that, too, and of her father in his Red Army uniform. Even I leaned in for a peek at that one.

“Oh yes. Very handsome,” I murmured, indulging her.

Marius stared off into the distance in a master class in feigning disinterest.

I smiled faintly, thinking of how he’d done the same in his first days at the château, when he, Bene, Roux, and Henrik had just moved in. But that mask had cracked, and I’d caught glimpses of the real him — and his interest in me.

My body warmed. We were a true love story.

Then I frowned, because even true love needed honesty and open lines of communication.

He must have read my mind, because his eyes caught mine and swore,I’m working on it.

I gulped, sympathizing for once. Our circumstances didn’t exactly allow for openness and honesty. Not as long as we were submerged in Gordon’s world of intrigue and shady business deals. But the moment we were free…

I flashed him a smile, but only a quick one, because again…those pesky circumstances.

Meanwhile, Bogdan continued charming Anastasia. He danced around his line of work, calling himself “an investor in post-Soviet surplus industries.” (Gordon’s file called itretrofitting Cold War weapons for modern mercenary use in developing countries, a business that had earned Bogdan billions.) He styled himself as a budding philanthropist rather than someone trying to sanitize his public image, and he was humble about his art knowledge, patiently allowing Anastasia to lecture him on that subject.

I looked at my watch, wondering if they would ever get to the painting. So far, this was more of a first date than an art deal.

“Well, I won’t brush around the bush any longer,” Bogdan chuckled in another of his mixed-up idioms. “May I see your painting?”

Anastasia gave Marius the go-ahead to unveil it, which he did in his usual straightforward manner. Anastasia, I guessed, would have preferred a little more flourish.

“Magnificent,” Bogdan immediately proclaimed.

Anastasia looked at it like a proud parent at a high school graduation, and it occurred to me that she probably loved that painting more than she’d ever loved a person. That sad thought went right to my heart, where it resonated in warning.

Anastasia waxed on poetically about all the details of the painting, and Bogdan listened attentively, interrupting only to butter her up.

“My goodness, you do know your art. I can only hope to sound as cultured one day,” he joked.

Which, I suspected, was his goal — to earn (or buy) a place in high-class society.

If Roux hadn’t popped his head in to point out the time, who knew how long Anastasia and Bogdan might have kept up their flirting. She even stood to see him out the door, and afterward, she gripped his business card like a winning lottery ticket.

“A very appealing candidate, don’t you think?” she murmured, stepping to the window to wave goodbye when he appeared in the street below.

I answered carefully. “I think his values align with yours.”

Anastasia smiled coyly. “Yes, they do. They certainly do.”

Marius’s lips twitched.

Even Roux’s knock on the door didn’t break her dreamy reverie.

“Your last appointment is here, ma’am,” he called softly.

She frowned, and I did too. “What appointment?”

“Mr. Jensen.” Roux admitted a tall, thin man, then disappeared back into the hallway.

I caught a glimpse of a svelte young woman holding a tablet. The tech billionaire’s personal assistant?

“Nils Øren Jensen,” the man corrected, folding his arms and staring at the painting.

Marius looked at me, then at the drop cloth, but it was too late for that now.