Page 11 of The Prize

He shrugged. “They can’t track us but I can them.”

“Care to elaborate?”

“I have a mechanism that allows me to track their movements—”

“Where is it?”

Tobias gave a nod of reluctance. “Go on, Beasley. Lead the way.”

Beasley’s little legs carried him over the Persian rug toward the far wall and he stared up at the life-size panel of Henry the III of France. An innocuous 1570 portrait of the young king by artist François Clouet. The artist captured the image of a young man with a black cap and feather curling to the right and a high ruffled collar, his majesty’s insightful expression fused with his suspicious gaze carrying the weight of retrospect.

Beasley disappeared as he walked into the wall and my attention rose to the painting. Henry had been mistaken for his younger brother Francis of Alençon in the past—though on further inspection the inscription on the back of the paintings usually rectified this. I knew the positioning of such a canvas in here was no coincidence.

“Welcome to my man cave.” Tobias strolled over and tapped the corner of King Henry’s frame and it popped away from the wall. His fingers folded around the edge and he pulled it the rest of the way to reveal a doorway. “No more secrets.”

I walked forward and peered through at the dimly lit hallway; this secrecy reminded me of the last few weeks where our interactions had unfolded like a wild affair played out in an elaborate game. He was clearly analyzing my reaction to what he was showing me. With him there were always layers of truths and it made me wonder if I’d ever get to the center of his authentic self. Perhaps I was destined to peel away and never actually findhim.The way his stare assessed mine reminded me of his analytical nature and his brilliant mind that was always one step ahead.

A trap within a trap?

Two enemies were fighting it out with me caught in the middle like a shuttlecock, because I was the true owner of one of the greatest collections of art. My worth was my provenance stashed away in London and there was a treasure trove of paperwork to prove the authentication of those priceless pieces. I’d placed those papers in a safety-deposit box before leaving for Los Angeles. When those papers were handed over to Tobias what would my worth be then?

“If this is going to work—” his fingers curled around the frame “—there can be no more secrets between us.” He let the quiet settle. “We need to prove our allegiance to each other.”

“I’m still here, aren’t I?”

“I feel you pulling away—”

“What do you want?” My words were razor sharp.

“Tell me they haven’t stolen you from me, as well?” He reached up to cup my face with his palm and I closed my eyes as a part of me craved for his touch to linger.

He’d suffered terribly too and maybe he wasn’t showing me how all this was affecting him so he could be strong for me. Still, he was Icon and my greatest weakness. I couldn’t get those paintings back without him. He was the only one with the resources, the technology and the seeming death wish, willing to see through the maze between me and getting them back. These masterpieces deserved to be appreciated and adored and they belonged to the people.

They belonged to my father’s memory.

Yet the sacrifice to get them back was asking so very much of us.

His thumb brushed over my bottom lip as though getting my attention back on him, and I let out a soft sigh of appeasement and his pupils dilated and his jaw tensed. I could see the fire alighting in his eyes as the rawest passion sparked between us. This danger stirred my intuition, warning that beyond this clandestine hallway lurked an endless array of Icon’s possessions I wasn’t ready to be shown.

Pivoting away from him, moving swiftly across the room toward the door as this dread of the unknown took hold. His footfalls hurried behind me but I kept going, unsteady on high heels that were leading me toward the fresh air I needed even if the sting of the cold night was inevitable.

Tobias intercepted me and I ran right into his chest. His back slammed against the front door he was guarding. He reached up and gripped my shoulders.

“Let go.”

He freed me and his arms rose in surrender. “You want into my world but you won’t even let me into your thoughts.” He narrowed his gaze. “Talk to me.”

“I’m leaving.”

“They’ll find you.”

This was the cruelest truth of all because just weeks ago it would have been Tobias I’d have run to when my heart fractured into a thousand pieces, and yet there came the haunting sense he could be tricking me and his end game was still to be realized. Wisps of my naivety remained and yet I’d seen too much. The veil had lifted and I’d glimpsed a formidable facet of Wilder, the side of him that knowingly broke the law and yet did it for all the right reasons.

Or had I merely believed what I’d wanted to see?

Even as his lips brushed over my shoulder blade and followed the curve of my throat I yearned to feel how I once did when he’d soothed me with his affection.

Fighting this, fighting me, I needed him to remember my insistence back in Central Park that he never kiss me again. If his mouth met mine he’d persuade me to stay. Once, back when my life was simpler, I’d believed in our dazzling passion and had fallen for the promise that being love-struck equaled being safe.