Page 17 of Stolen Temptation (Irish Kings #3)

Rory

Whoever Kiara is, she’s nothing like I expected.

The woman is a complete contradiction. Sometimes she seems almost timid and fearful, while on other occasions, she kicks hardened mafiosos in the face.

She gives off an innocent vibe while simultaneously being the sexiest woman I’ve ever met.

I wonder how much of her personality she’s faking and how much is authentically her.

Over the past hour, the gloves have come off, so to speak.

We’re not facing each other head-to-head the way we did in the beginning. She’s seated again, cross-legged on the bed, and I’m back in my chair, tracing her face with my eyes. Analyzing every detail about her I possibly can.

Truthfully, I’m seeing a completely different side of this girl. Maybe it’s just because I’ve fooled her once, but she’s not giving me an inch worth of information now that she knows who I am and where she is.

I’ll need to put more effort into tricking her into giving up her identity. She seems dead set on hiding it from me, and as little as I want to admit it, she throws me off my game.

It’s been many years since a woman managed that.

Despite that sweet expression, she’s a pro at dodging my questions, especially when they’re about her relationship with Leo.

However, I can confirm she’s true to her word.

After I answered her low-stakes queries, she began to answer some of mine.

She seemed to relax even more once the food I ordered up for her arrived. I’ve never seen a woman attack a breakfast spread like that, but those pancakes and eggs didn’t stand a chance .

If I’m going to get anything more meaningful out of her, I need to change tactics, but I’m stuck.

My interrogation skills only get bloody and painful from here on out.

And I’ve already given her my word that no harm will come to her while she’s with us, provided she behaves.

And even if I did feel comfortable physically forcing the truth out of a woman, I don’t have the stomach for it with her .

Just seeing her blood under my fingernails caused me to crash the van. Although that suicidal deer helped too.

Interrogation , as I’m used to it, is off the table. At least for me.

The problem is, I’m not sure that will remain the case for Shane or Finn. In the past, I’d be certain of Finn, too, but with all the pressure lately, I’m not sure what he’d do.

Since the thought of someone harming her—even one of my best friends—fills me with instant rage, I need to engage in a different strategy. One that will gain me answers before Finn or Shane loses patience and decides to twist the screws.

The extent of my relationships with women in recent years involves a couple drinks at a club or bar before heading back to a hotel room to get dirty between the sheets. Good thing a recent long-term girlfriend isn’t a requirement for understanding how to apply charm.

And unless I figure out how to extract info from her quickly, Finn may very well chop my dick off and serve it to me on a platter.

Fuck. If she would just tell me why she was at the auction, I could puzzle out the rest.

Between the two of us, Darren and I obtained bodycam footage of just about everyone in attendance.

We’re already running facial recognition to connect the dots between Leo and his allies—past, present, and future.

If Kiara attended the auction as someone’s guest—though that’s doubtful—learning that person’s identity would help fill in the missing blanks.

But she only offers silence.

“It’s obvious you didn’t want to be there.”

“What gave it away?” she deadpans. “The fact that I ran into you while trying to flee the scene and all but begged for your help?”

“To be fair, I think you actually did beg for my help.” I offset the statement with a smile to let her know I’m joking and lean back, deciding to shift tactics. “How do you prefer to spend a Friday night?”

A spark flares in Kiara’s eyes.

“Out late reading,” she shares.

Kiara likes to spend her Friday nights reading in the city? That…is not what I was expecting to hear. For one, reading is a solitary pursuit, and Kiara seems like the type of woman who’d have lots of friends.

Wouldn’t she rather spend time with them? Head to a dance club or a movie or dinner at a nice restaurant?

At least she didn’t say she liked hanging out with Leo.

My fingers curl. I shake that last thought away before it can destroy my mood. “Any place in particular you like to go?”

“Yes…my favorite bookstore in the city.”

“Why’s it your favorite?”

Warmth glows in her eyes, and her expression grows animated. The combination flattens my lungs. She’s always pretty, but lit up like this? The woman steals my breath.

“Well, it’s an indie bookstore to start, because duh.

The shelves are tall and mazelike in spots, and the tallest ones have those ladders like in the Beast’s library.

Plus, the owner scattered comfortable and colorful loveseats and chairs all throughout the store, so shoppers can curl up and start reading.

The place always smells like cinnamon, too, and they have a huge selection of romances. ”

She pauses and spears me with a suspicious glare.

“What?” I raise my palms and laugh.

“No hazing me about the romances?”

My brow wrinkles. “Why would I haze you about that? My mom used to love reading those.”

Sympathy softens her expression. “Oh, I’m sorry. Did she pass away recently?”

My throat tightens, and I avert my gaze. “No, she’s still alive. She just doesn’t read much anymore. Alzheimer’s.”

Her hand flies out to squeeze my arm. “Oh, Rory. That must be very difficult for you.”

“Yeah.” I clear my throat as the familiar guilt picks at me.

“My mother died years ago.” Her voice is hesitant. Sad.

“I’m sorry to hear that. Were the two of you close?”

“Yes. Very. She was my best friend. When she passed, I felt like she took some of the light with her. My life definitely changed for the worse.”

“What about your dad?”

Her mouth tightens, and a dark shadow flits through her eyes. “He’s gone, too, but we were never close. He wasn’t a nice man.”

Is that when she hooked up with Leo? Maybe her parents’ deaths left her financially unstable, and she got desperate.

“That still sucks about your mother.”

“Yeah. It really does.”

I fight the temptation to pry. If I push too much, she’ll clam up. “So, that bookstore you mentioned sounds relaxing. What else do you like to do?”

Her slight shoulders tip up toward the ceiling. “I used to love painting.”

“Painting?” Unbidden, my mother’s face flashes in my mind.

Scenes from my adolescence, of wandering through labyrinthine art exhibits with my mom at the Met, play on a screen behind my eyes.

I clear my throat. “You used to love it?”

She nods a little, somber and shy.

“What happened?”

Silence.

When Kiara glances down, her dark brown mahogany hair falls in a curtain around her face. The urge to brush her hair back behind her ears thunders through me, probably because I’m also fighting the urge to climb onto that bed with her and get a good view of the expression she’s trying to hide.

Is she the most frustrating woman in the world? No. But she’s definitely in the top five.

Part of what unsettles me about her is her infectious personality. The more she loosens up around me, the lighter I feel.

Which annoys the fuck out of me.

She’s just a job. Nothing more.

I like the tension between us exactly where it is. When it starts to soften into something else, my paranoia spikes.

“Nothing happened. Nothing earth-shattering, anyway.” Her belated answer comes with a story, that much is clear. The question is whether she can be coaxed into divulging it.

“Oh?”

I lean forward in my chair in a way I hope seems interested and not menacing .

Her tone becomes wistful. “What’s that old saying about how, when you make something you love into your job, you stop loving it?” She shakes her head. “Forget it.”

“You must be really talented.”

Her eyes snap to mine. There’s some pink in her cheeks.

Wow. Flattery? Really? That was the ticket all along?

When she doesn’t reply, I lean in harder. “It’s not everyone who can turn something they love into a job.”

“I wasn’t trying to,” she admits. “But I used to love the pictures in these old illustrated editions they have at Midnight.”

“Midnight?”

“Midnight Books. That’s my favorite bookstore.”

Something about the image of little Kiara reading storybooks at some magical hidden gem in New York City fascinates me. “And what were you saying about these books?”

“They’re amazing.” The light returns to her eyes. “They have all the classic fairy tales, tons of different editions. I’d read them all the time as I was growing up, and they inspired me a lot. I used to trace the pictures in the books, and when I got good at painting, I’d recreate them.”

A symphony of ringing bells deafens my mind.

I’d recreate them.

Her words ricochet in my ears as details, facts, and fiction coalesce into clarity.

Old illustrated editions of classic fairy tales.

Paintings.

Leonardo De Luca was auctioning off a painting by the reclusive artist Libertas. And, more importantly, he planned to sell said artist that very same evening. Libertas, their paintings…

Snatching my phone from the bed, I stop the recording and toggle over to a web browser. I search for Libertas’s work, and that’s when I see it.

The throughline I was missing.

Libertas’s work usually depicts surreal illustrations based on classic fairy tales. And Kiara just told me that she recreates the art of others.

When that realization hits me, I almost crush my own phone.

Leonardo wasn’t selling a real Libertas painting at that auction.

He was selling a forgery.

And he wasn’t selling the real Libertas either.

That bastard was trying to sell off Kiara…a young, talented art forger . Someone unknown and easily controlled. Someone who could “produce” the art of a reclusive genius.

It never made sense to me how the De Lucas could have amassed a fortune selling rare artworks. Takes a lot of money and a prestigious collection to get into the business, neither of which they had when they first got started a few decades ago.

But now it’s all becoming clear.

Back in the old days, the De Lucas used to work as hired muscle for private companies smuggling real masterpieces out of Italy.

I’m sure once they realized how lucrative art dealing is on the black market, Matteo wanted a cut.

They’ve probably been stealing, forging, and quadrupling their profits ever since.

“What is it?” Kiara’s voice startles me.

I’m hunched over my phone, the shockwaves of my revelations still running their course.

This is the motherload. Enough to get Finn off my case.

Enough to keep him from hounding Kiara too.

“I have one last question for you.” Typing fast, I pull up an image of a recently sold Libertas painting and hand the phone to Kiara. “Did you paint this?”

Kiara takes the phone from my hand.

Her face goes white as printer paper. She glances up at me, fear alight on her features.

Got her.

The buzz of deep satisfaction spreads through me.

Damn, I love to be right.

The blood rushes back to her face, and she lifts her hand like she wants to chuck my phone across the room.

All I can do is smile. There’s nothing she can do to kill my triumphant mood.

I’m on my feet, leaning over her on the bed.

“Get away from me, or I’ll—” Her hissed threat cuts off when I capture her wrist in my hand. Without warning, I pull her to my body.

I bite back a groan. Her sweet aroma envelops me, and damn, those curves. The feel of her tits pressing into my chest strikes a match that ignites my body. I can’t stop myself from grinding my pelvis into her belly.

She gasps, and her eyes pop open wide.

I bring my face closer to hers as the heat builds between us. “Know what’s gonna happen next, pretty painter?”

Her gaze falls to my mouth. “Wh-what?”

I lean in until my breaths ghost her lips and drag my knuckles down her cheek.

“You’re going to tell me everything you know, and maybe I’ll convince Finn not to kill you.”