Page 35

THIRTY-FIVE

Possession

Vivianne

On the surface, it seems a simple thing. Stand up and assert my independence.

It should be so easy.

Except my father controls everything. I might be shy of thirty by a few years, but I’m every bit the dependent child of a domineering man.

Sure, I have more money than I could ever spend.

But assert myself?

My father would freeze my accounts, cancel my credit cards, and perhaps write me out of the will. The only thing that assures my continued value is the future heir I will one day provide.

Not a daughter.

I know all too well how disappointing a daughter can be. Plus, there’s the contract with Prescott. It will take an army of lawyers to negate that mess of paper.

Power and the trappings of wealth create a most effective cage.

It’s comfortable.

Secure.

Safe.

Suffocating.

Paul offers a dream come true, a tenuous reality. Should I divest myself of my father’s influence and pursue my passions with him?

Is that possible?

Not likely.

I would love to do nothing other than break the chains of my familial bonds, but I don’t have the strength or resolve. Coming to Paris and working as an attaché stretches the limits of the fragile freedom allowed by my father. He allows it to pacify the wild spirit of a headstrong daughter before trapping me in the misery of matrimony.

He must be out of his mind and worried about my whereabouts. Although there’s no requirement to call and check in, a tacit agreement exists.

I need to let him know where I am.

By now, Jacques will have reported me missing—checked out of my hotel room with all my belongings packed and secured inside some courier’s vehicle. If I don’t send a message soon, all hell will break out.

The only question lingering in my mind is whether to reveal what I’ve discovered about The Lovers to my father when I speak to him.

I sent my father a warning text back in New York, fully aware there could be only one reason to parade a fake to the world, and Paul confirmed he is trying to flush someone out.

How close has he come to uncovering my family secrets?

I should tell my father but find a reluctance to do so because I’m a complete and utter fool.

The truth is, I like Paul, and I might even be falling for him. As silly as that sounds, I want to pursue whatever this is that’s happening between us. Not that I understand what that might be.

Our attraction draws us together while secrets rip us apart. Perhaps I’m a hopeless romantic. Perhaps my father is right, and love is for the foolish.

Quickly, I wash up.

I take stock of my reflection in the mirror, finger-comb my hair free of tangles, and pronounce myself as ready as possible. With a deep breath, I push romantic thoughts aside.

There are more pressing concerns, and I need to focus on what matters. By tomorrow I will be surrounded by those rich and powerful enough to purchase stolen artwork and those brave enough to use that artwork as vehicles to launder vast amounts of cash.

I exit my room and head down the stairs. Anthony waits at the bottom of the sweeping staircase and directs me to the grand salon, where Paul sits before a roaring fire.

He holds a brandy snifter in one hand and reclines in a thick leather armchair, one ankle kicked over his opposite knee. He stands and places his drink on the side table when he sees me.

“You look amazing,” he says, coming to greet me. His hands envelop my fingers, lifting them to press his full lips against the backs of my knuckles. “You light a room on fire.”

My cheeks heat at his compliment. His honest reaction has my heart fluttering and my stomach flipping. The power of his presence does wonderful things to my insides. Dangerous things, and for a moment, I forget all about my father, my future, or the secrets between us.

“Honestly,” I say, “it hasn’t been more than ten minutes.”

“And yet I missed you terribly.” He settles me into an oversized wingback leather chair beside his. “What can I get you? Wine? Whiskey? Brandy perhaps?”

I can’t help but stare at him, soaking in every detail. Paul’s presence is magnetic, his masculinity radiating from every inch of him. There’s something raw and untamed about the way he moves, like he’s barely holding back a primal power beneath that tailored suit.

My body remembers him—intimately.

Every muscle, every commanding touch, and the way he took control like it was his birthright. He’s not just sexy; he’s devastating. The kind of man whose virility is undeniable, whose dominance leaves a mark on your soul as much as your skin.

My gaze drifts over his broad shoulders, the tension in his jaw, the slight curve of his lips as he watches me, and I want to melt all over again.

God, this man. He exudes confidence like he knows exactly what he does to me. And I know it too—the way his strength presses into me, leaving me breathless and craving more.

I shift in my seat, the heat in my cheeks spreading lower. “Wine,” I manage, voice softer than I intended, betraying the way he affects me. “Just wine.”

Paul glances over his shoulder to Anthony, who waits silently by the arched entry.

“The lady wants wine.”

“I will bring it presently,” Anthony says with a slight bow.

“This fire is amazing.” The flames leap and crackle in the hearth, the wood hissing as it succumbs to the heat, sending a warm, smoky scent through the air. The logs shift, popping and snapping, casting amber sparks that dance upward before disappearing.

The heat radiates in waves, chasing away the lingering chill and settling a comfortable warmth into my skin.

I sink back into the leather chair. The material, cool at first but soft and worn with age, molds perfectly to my body. The faint creak of the leather, as I move, fills the quiet space, and I can’t help but run my fingers over the armrest, feeling the smooth, slightly textured grain beneath my fingertips.

The room smells of rich, polished wood and aged leather, mingling with the earthy scent of the fire, grounding me in its cozy embrace.

I glance around the study, taking in the shelves lined with old books, their musty, paper-and-ink scent faint in the air. The faintest crackle of the fire persists like a living heartbeat in the quiet.

It’s peaceful here, but not silent—the fire provides a soothing background hum, its steady warmth wrapping around me, making it easy to forget the cold world outside.

“These old places can be drafty.” Paul points to the floor. “I renovated years ago. Installed heating pipes and circulation vents beneath all the floors.”

“I should have noticed earlier.”

The Faulks mansion, despite two steam furnaces and dozens of fireplaces, fails to hold back winter’s chill.

I usually spend early fall to late spring with extra fuzzy socks, thick-soled shoes, and layers of clothing to stay somewhat comfortable. My father refuses to let me populate the home with space heaters, although I snuck one into my bedroom and fiercely guarded it once he discovered it.

It’s one of the few arguments I ever won against my father.

I tuck my feet beneath me, enjoying the warmth of the fire and the crackling of natural wood. The rich scent of burning timber has me closing my eyes and breathing deeply. When I open my eyes, I enjoy the ruddy shadows cast around the room.

“This room is breathtaking,” I say. “I could spend hours in here, curled up with a good book.”

“You’re welcome anytime, ma chère. ”

“If only it were that easy.”

“True. Life can be complicated.”

I breathe out, forcing out my frustration. “Can we talk about tomorrow? About what we’re going to do? What’s expected of me?”

“How much did Larson brief you?”

“He didn’t have much time. I have the case files on some of the attendees.” I think of poor Willy and the Ice Queen. A smile fills my face with how many details I remember, and I make a note to thank Belinda for teaching me that trick of making up stories.

“That will be helpful but not necessary.”

“Other than that, all I know is what you’ve told me, but honestly, I don’t see how any real or imagined relationship between us is anyone’s business.”

“Let me explain the sequence of events.”

Anthony returns with my wine and then retreats, a respectable distance away. He’s close enough if we require anything but far enough away not to intrude on our conversation.

“We arrive for the meet and greet fashionably late to avoid too much interaction.”

“Makes sense.”

“To Larson,” he says, “but he doesn’t understand how these events play out. You will be introduced as an expert in detecting forgeries. Our closeness will lead all in attendance to question what type of relationship we share. We want rumors to spread.”

“Okay…” I have to trust him, but I understand the power of rumors. “Why is that?”

“Wild speculation will keep those in attendance embroiled in the best gossip.”

“That only means more eyes on us.” If Paul needs a distraction, it’s not the best plan. “I thought we wanted to blend in.”

“The auction,” he continues, “is the excuse for the gathering. All the important dealings will happen afterward.”

“After?”

“We’ll make our rounds during the social hour. View the pieces for auction and discuss them together where we can be overheard. This will demonstrate your expertise and will be your turn to shine. But we will also continue with the facade of our relationship…” He chuckles softly. “Guess it’s not much of a facade after the cave.”

His words stir memories of the cave, and I can’t help the flush that rises in my chest, spreading upward.

I’m right back there, pressed against the cool, damp stone. His hands, firm yet tender, tracing the curves of my body with an urgency that made my pulse race. The way he claimed me, powerful and unapologetic. His touch igniting every nerve as if he could feel the need simmering just beneath my skin. His body against mine, all taut muscle and raw masculine energy, left no space between us—only fire and desire.

Paul isn’t just a man; he’s a force. The way he moves, the way he owns every moment, it’s intoxicating. I clear my throat, trying to shake the lingering sensation of his hands on my skin, his taste still vivid in my mind.

Just thinking about it sends heat coursing through me, pooling low in my belly. I shift in the leather chair, the cool material brushing against the bare skin of my legs, heightening the sensation already simmering beneath the surface.

The air stills, suspended in my lungs as the memory of his touch floods back—the way his hands gripped me, firm yet tender, the warmth of his mouth on mine, and the way he claimed me in that cave with a hunger that felt endless.

My thighs press together involuntarily, trying to quell the need rising inside me. The way his eyes flick to mine like he knows exactly what I’m feeling, makes it worse. I squirm in my seat, my body betraying me, heat creeping up my neck and spreading to my cheeks.

“I have a concern.”

“Yes?”

“I know nothing about which pieces will be present.”

“You know enough. We’ll make the rounds and discuss the offerings,” he repeats. “I don’t intend to bid on anything, although I have in the past. They’ll assume I’m there to buy and sell, but we’ll pay attention to who purchases Dr. Gachet and report that back to Larson’s team.”

“Sounds fair. I’m assuming they will pick it up later?”

“Yes. René is eager to get his hands back on the painting, but that is not the end of our night.”

“Urakov?” I shift in my seat. “How does he factor in?”

“He will be offering up The Concert for sale. It gives him a reason to be at the auction and an opportunity to bid on Dr. Gachet .”

“And you think he should take the painting.”

Paul gives a nod.

“I get everything you’re saying. I’ve been to charity auctions before. I know this drill. As you said, I’m the perfect partner because of my background and education. I get all of that. But why flaunt our relationship? I’m worried about repercussions.”

“From your father?”

“Him, and Prescott.” I lift my shoulders and blow out a breath. “I don’t know what’s real, pretend, or just a fling, but I do know I have a life to return to after all this.”

Paul’s eyes darken, his jaw set as he watches me, and the air between us crackles with tension. He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t flinch, just leans in until there’s nothing but him—his scent, his heat, his raw power.

“You’re mine,” he says, voice low and rough. “I told you that in the cave and meant every word.” The confidence in his words sends a shiver down my spine, and I shift in my seat, unable to look away. “There’s nothing pretend here. I want you. All of you. This isn’t a fling. It’s not something that ends when this auction is over or when you return to your life. You’re mine, and I won’t let you pretend otherwise.” He states it as fact, as solid and unshakable as the ground beneath us.

His words hit me like a wave, pulling me under. My pulse races, skin tingling with the undeniable truth in his voice. You’re mine. The certainty in his claim, the way he owns it, sends heat rushing through me.

My heart pounds, a mix of desire and something deeper I’m too afraid to name. My throat tightens, but I hold his gaze, trying to steady my breath even as my body betrays me, wanting more of him—more of this.

Paul’s expression softens briefly before he shifts back, slipping seamlessly into that commanding, calculated demeanor I’ve seen so many times. His eyes remain locked on mine, but his voice shifts, a new edge of cool precision.

“This crowd is composed of the bored aristocratic elite. Both very old and very new money,” he begins, the tension between us morphing into something else—strategy. “They like to play games and pretend to be what they aren’t. The ones who pay attention to us and spread gossip about our relationship are not the ones we need to worry about.”

“Ah, I’m following now.”

He’s using our relationship to weed out those who don’t matter. It makes sense.

Anthony clears his throat, getting our attention as he enters the room. When he left, I couldn’t say. But then, any good servant is trained to be invisible.

“Dinner is served.”

Paul rises from his chair, his hand extending toward me, fingers brushing mine with an electric charge that pulls me out of the softness of the chair and straight into him. The way he holds my gaze—steady, burning—sends a fresh wave of heat curling through me. He doesn’t let go, his grip firm, possessive, like he’s reminding me to whom I belong.

The fire crackles behind us, but the real heat is here, between our bodies, in the way his gaze locks onto mine—burning, intent. His thumb strokes over my knuckles, slow and deliberate.

“This,” he murmurs, voice low enough that only I can hear, “isn’t over. Not by a long shot.” He leans in, his lips brushing the shell of my ear, his breath warm, sending shivers down my spine. “If it weren’t for Anthony and the dinner he spent hours preparing,” his voice drops, low and dangerous, like a promise, “I’d take you right here, in front of the fire.”

His words steal my breath, and heat rushes through my veins. His hand tightens around mine, the tension between us crackling like the flames in the hearth. He’s not playing games, and the look in his eyes tells me he means every word.

My mouth goes dry, my body betraying me as desire coils low in my belly. The memory of his hands on me in the cave—strong, unrelenting—comes flooding back, and I shift on my feet, suddenly too aware of the space between us.

“Dinner first…” Paul’s voice is smooth, but there’s an edge now, a barely restrained hunger in his tone. His hand tightens around mine, pulling me just a fraction closer, the heat between us palpable. “Because for now, I’m still trying to be a gentleman.”

His eyes darken, and I feel my breath catch, the promise of what’s coming heavy in the air between us.

“And once dinner’s done?”

He leans in, his lips brushing my ear, sending a shiver racing down my spine. “I won’t be a gentleman. I’ll take what I want.”

My heart stutters, the raw intensity of his words sinking into me.

He holds me there, close enough to feel the heat of him; his dominance wrapping around me like a vise.

“And what I want,” he murmurs, voice rough, dripping with possession, “is you. Every. Single. Part.”

The heat of his words hits me like a spark, igniting something deep within. His fingers linger against mine, and I feel it—what he’s holding back, what’s waiting for me when the last course is cleared.

I can’t speak, can barely breathe, my skin tingling from the weight of his words. His thumb brushes over the back of my hand, slow and deliberate, a promise of what’s to come. When dinner is over, the fire won’t be the only thing burning.

Paul’s lips twitch into the faintest smile, a look that’s all dominance, all control, but it’s the glint in his eyes that tells me exactly where this is headed.