by Sarah Piper
Sasha may have gotten a scholarship to college, but when it came to everything else? Charley knew damn well who was taking care of them, and it wasn’t some rainy-day insurance policy her father had set up.
Rudy didn’t mind the elephant in the room, though, so long as it was his elephant. It gave him power over her, a fundamental control that guaranteed she’d never leave or betray him. Never mind what she wanted, what she thought was right. Charley didn’t even know how to do anything else.
Worse, she didn’t have the courage to try.
She’d helped plan complicated, dangerous heists, evaded the FBI… Hell, she’d even been stabbed once. But none of that mattered, because when push came to shove, Charley was a fucking coward. Afraid to look in the mirror. Afraid to live.
Without the life her father had built for her, the person he’d molded her into, what did she have? What did she know?
The waiter returned with their appetizers and another martini for Rudy.
Now, watching him shove bread and hummus into his greasy mouth, Charley swallowed the bitter truth: without Rudy and the crew, Charlotte D'Amico didn’t exist.
“Talk to me about the Whitfield,” he said suddenly, a glob of hummus stuck on the corner of his mouth. “Dorian Redthorne has already made arrangements to donate it to the Jewish Historical Society.”
Charley nearly choked on her water. “What? How do you know that?”
He smiled without showing his teeth, which meant he wouldn’t reveal his source. After Charley and Rudy, there were three guys officially on the crew, but Rudy had an entire network of seedy freelance associates, every one of them jockeying for higher positions. Charley wasn’t surprised he’d already heard about the painting. In this city, even the rats had ears.
“He must’ve mentioned his plans last night,” he said. “You two seemed to be getting along quite famously when I saw you.”
Charley’s thighs clenched beneath the table as she tried in vain to stave off the memories, the ghost of Dorian’s passionate touch still burning her skin.
“Charlotte.” Rudy reached across the table, caging her hand in an icy grip. Then, in a tone as cold as his touch, “If this job isn’t a priority for you anymore, maybe we need to have a different sort of conversation.”
Charley tried not to squirm as shame and anger waged war in her chest.
Fuck you and your fucked-up priorities.
“It’s my only priority, I swear.” Charley’s vision blurred with unshed tears, but she refused to cry in front of him. Crying wouldn’t get the job done, and it certainly wouldn’t win her any favors with Rudy. “It’s just a run of bad luck. I’ll break it—I know I will. Whatever you need from me, I’m here.”
“Good.” He finally released her hand, adjusting the hideous gold watch on his wrist. “I needed to hear that.”
They finished their meal in silence, Charley picking at her food while Rudy shoveled it in by the forkful, pausing occasionally to leer at women passing on the sidewalk. After his third martini, Rudy finally wiped his mouth, and then tossed the blue cloth napkin over his empty plate. “I want you to head over to the JHS. Nose around, see if you can uncover anything about Redthorne’s situation.”
“Right now?”
“Unless you have something better to do?” Rudy narrowed his eyes, a slow smile spreading across his face. “Hey, how’s Sasha? It’s been so long since we’ve all had dinner together. Maybe I’ll pay her a visit. I bet she’d like that.”
Charley trembled inside. That’s all it took. The barest hint of a threat, a subtle reminder that Rudy knew exactly what mattered most to Charley—and exactly how to leverage it.
“JHS. Thirty-Fourth Street, right? Already on my way.” Charley rose from her chair and leaned in to kiss his cheek. “Thanks for lunch, Uncle Rudy. I’ll call with an update later.”
“Do that.” He waited until she’d reached the corner before speaking again, calling out so loudly that everyone else on the sidewalk turned to look. “Charlotte?”
She spun to face him, forcing a smile despite the bile rising in her throat.
“You forgot Sasha’s baklava.” Rudy held up a to-go container, his smirk making her skin crawl. “Should I deliver it myself?”
Chapter Seventeen
A hard-on was the last thing Dorian expected to get from his meeting at the JHS, but when he saw the woman standing at the information desk, all bets were off.
Impossible.
He’d been obsessing about her all day, and suddenly there she was, leaning against the desk with her beautiful ass calling to him like a beacon. She was dressed casually today—a V-neck blouse that showed off her neck and throat and dark jeans that hugged every delicious curve—but it was definitely Charlotte. The auburn hair, the delicate features, that confident, take-no-prisoners stance.
The scent.
He’d recognize his woman anywhere.
But what the bloody hell is she doing here?
Dorian never found out why she’d been snooping around the Salvatore penthouse last night, and now she was here, snooping around the museum moments after his meeting with the curator about the Whitfield.
It couldn’t have been a coincidence.
Without making his presence known, Dorian crept up behind her, eavesdropping on her conversation with the desk attendant.
“Let me check,” the attendant said, tabbing through files on his computer. “Desolate Rains. Okay, here it is. Acquisition is still pending, but yes, it’s slated to be displayed in our permanent collection later this winter.”
“Is there any other information you can give me?” Charlotte asked.
“It says here that the painting was one of a series looted during the Second World War,” he said. “From—”
“Poland’s National Art Institute,” Charlotte said. “Yes, I’m familiar with the painting’s history.”
So was Dorian. The Whitfield was long thought destroyed. Since he’d heard a rumor of its reappearance in the States several years ago, Dorian had been working closely with the museum to locate it, the promise of his donation years in the making. He doubted the family he’d bought it from had any clue about its history, but the museum’s curator certainly did.
To Dorian, he was the one who mattered.
“I’m afraid that’s all the information I have right now,” the attendant said. “But you’re welcome to check back again next month. The curator should have more details about the exhibit by then.”
“What about the donor? Did he say why he purchased the painting for you?”
“I’m sorry, ma’am. That’s confidential. The donor has asked to remain anonymous.”
“I might be able to answer your questions,” Dorian said, finally revealing himself. “The donor and I have quite a history.”
The smile on Charlotte’s face as she turned toward him was worthy of its own painting, a work of art he tried desperately to memorize. She hid it quickly, masking her surprise, but the damage was done, and the verdict was in.
She was as happy to see him as he’d been to see her.
“Hello, Charlotte,” he said warmly.
“Hi to you, too, Mr. Redthorne.”
The sound of his name on her lips stirred his cock, and something inside his chest lurched sideways. The momentary confusion must have shown on his face, because Charlotte offered a smile and said, “Apparently my boss recognized you last night. I didn’t know you were famous.”
“Not quite. But I am curious.”
“About?”
“Come with me.” He led her into a secluded alcove behind the membership desk, desperate to get her alone. It wasn’t exactly private, but Dorian didn’t hesitate to pull her close, dragging his nose up the elegant slope of her neck, inhaling her scent.
“Are you following me, love?” He teased her skin with his lips, leaving a trail of light, fluttery kisses up to her ear. She was so warm and soft, every inch of her begging for his touch.
She smells so fucking
good…
“This is…” She trailed off, her eyelids fluttering closed.
“One hell of a coincidence? Also, not too terrible for a Monday.”
She sighed in his arms, but the momentary excitement of their reunion was already fading. He could feel it in the tension of her muscles, see it in the determined set of her jaw as she pulled away from his kisses.
Charlotte cleared her throat and put a hand on his chest, holding him at arm’s length. “This is really not a good idea.”
Liar.
Dorian, who never backed down from a conquest, took a step backward to give her space.
“Why didn’t you tell me you’d planned on donating the Whitfield?” she asked.
“It was supposed to be anonymous. And as I recall, you didn’t even want to know my name.”
“I was just surprised to hear about the donation, especially after what you paid for it. It seemed like you really wanted the painting.”
“I did.”
“Just to give it away?”
He shrugged. “That painting never should’ve ended up on the private market. It’s a cultural treasure, and it needed to be returned.”
She considered his words, her brow furrowed.
“You don’t believe me,” he said, the taste of his own lies burning his throat.
She was right to distrust him. Dorian had his reasons for doing what he did, but altruism certainly wasn’t one of them. Atonement came close, but even that word couldn’t encompass the true depth of his motives, nor illuminate the darkness that lived within them.
She adjusted the handbag draped over her shoulder, catching the neckline of her blouse and revealing the pink, lacy edge of her bra. “Most guys wouldn’t give up a trophy like that. Especially without taking credit for it.”
“Is it so hard to believe I’m a nice chap?”
Charlotte laughed—a sound Dorian wasn’t ready to walk away from again. He wanted to hear it in the morning, coming from his shower. In the evening, coming from his bed. At all hours of the night, echoing off the walls of his game room and study and kitchen…
“I don’t know any chaps that nice,” she said.
He took a step toward her, closing the distance between them again. “That doesn’t mean we don’t exist.”
“Even though you’re totally staring at my tits?”
“What can I say? I’m a nice chap who happens to love your tits. Especially with that pink lace number you’ve got going on here.” He traced a line down the center of her breast, her nipple hardening in the wake of his touch.
Charlotte smiled again, a look that felt more like an invitation than a goodbye, but then her eyes darkened, and she pulled her blouse back into place. “I… I should go. It was lovely seeing you again, Mr. Redthorne.”
“Dorian. And just a moment, little prowler.” He grabbed her hand, hoping it was enough to keep her here, at least for a few more seconds. “Is that really why you’re here? To find out what I did with my painting?”
“I’d heard a rumor it was being donated. So yes, I came down to confirm.”
“You came all the way down here,” he said, running his thumb along the palm of her hand, “for something that could’ve been confirmed with a phone call? I don’t think so.”
A blush crept across the woman’s exposed neck and cheeks, setting her copper eyes in sharp contrast. “Enlighten me with your theory, then.”
“I think,” he said, bringing his lips to her ear again and lowering his voice, “you were hoping to run into me.”
“Why would I want to run into you?”
“Unfinished business.”
When she didn’t deny it, Dorian released her hand and moved to her curves, skimming the sides of her firm, beautiful breasts. She let out a soft sigh as his thumbs grazed her nipples, diamond-hard points that rose again at his touch.
Devil’s balls, what he’d give for a closet right now, a stolen moment to finish what they’d started last night.
“You sure about that?” Charlotte tried to sound flirty and stern, but her voice trembled, her heartbeat turning ragged behind that thin pink bra.
“Oh, yes. I’m betting it kept you up all night,” he whispered, gently nipping her ear, her neck. “Wondering what might’ve been. What it would’ve felt like with my cock sliding between your thighs, teasing you all night long, making you beg for more.”
Charlotte swallowed hard, her pulse throbbing. “Is that what kept you up all night?”
He pressed his lips to her temple, considering the question. The same dirty, delicious thoughts had been on his mind all night, but it was so much more than that. Sure, he’d tried valiantly to convince himself it was just the interrupted sex—that maybe if he would’ve fucked her properly, he wouldn’t be obsessing about her today.
But seeing her in the daylight, her bright smile, the heady way she looked at him after he’d whispered those dark, sexy promises in her ear… It was more than physical. There was something about Charlotte that had ensnared him from that first moment in the lobby of the Salvatore, and now, Dorian wanted to know her. All of her.
“Since I met you?” he asked. “Absolutely.”
“We met less than twenty-four hours ago,” she said.
“And I haven’t slept a wink. You?”
She looked up at Dorian through thick lashes, eyes full of a desire so unchecked it sent an electric jolt straight to his cock.
“I… I really should go,” she said, breaking their intense eye contact and reaching for her phone, as if she might be saved by the buzz or the bell. “I have to meet—”
“I’m going to ask you a question.” Dorian encircled her wrist with his fingers. “Your answer will determine how the rest of this plays out.”
Goosebumps rose along her arms, and when she spoke, her voice was tentative, her gaze dreamy and faraway. “Okay.”
“Do you want me to let you go?”
She stared at the fingers wrapped around her wrist, no idea what the soft pulse beneath her skin was doing to him, no idea what he could do to her if he let his true desires take hold.
Silence descended, the only sounds her sharp intake of breath and the steady thrum of that pulse, beckoning him closer. Teasing him. Tormenting him.
“It’s a simple question, Charlotte.” He released her wrist and took her face between his hands, her silky hair tickling his fingers. It was impossible not to imagine pulling on that hair while he fucked her mouth, sliding into the back of her throat as she sucked him in deep, a fantasy he’d lived out a hundred times since last night. He’d still tasted her on his skin this morning, on his lips, on his fingers, and all he could think about was stripping her bare and plundering her until they both collapsed from exhausted pleasure.
He thought he’d never see her again.
And now, standing so close to the woman of his fantasies he could almost taste her, he looked deep into her eyes, whispering one last time against those luscious, rose-colored lips. “Yes, or no?”
Chapter Eighteen
Yes, or no?
After a picnic dinner of cheese fries and vanilla shakes, Charley lounged on a blanket in Bryant Park with Sasha, alternately watching the movie and wondering if she’d done the right thing.
In the hours since she’d run into Dorian at the museum, she’d gone from yes, to no, to hell no, and was currently hovering around “worst mistake of her life” territory. But the moment her phone lit up with a text from her newest contact, that “hell no” turned into a “holy orgasmic yes” in a heartbeat.
Miss me, love?
I’ve been keeping myself occupied, she replied.
Literally or figuratively?
Use your imagination.
I’m sitting at home doing just that. Where are you?
On a date. Go away.
You’re on a date, but you’re texting me?
YOU’RE texting ME.
And yet…
Charley bit back a smile. You’re impossible!
I must’ve made quite a second impression if you’re still ignoring your date for me.
I’m not ignoring her! But for the record, my sister would think you’re a total creep.
What kind of creep buys a girl a jumbo hot dog on their first date?
Hot dogs are the creepy man’s trademark. And that wasn’t our first date. More like #4.
I see you’ve given our relationship a lot of thought.
You’re the one who called me your wife.
Married within an hour of meeting. Yet, sadly, a relationship unconsummated.
Charley could practically hear the teasing sigh in his voice.
Pro tip, hot stuff, she replied. If you want your wife to put out, take her to a hotel. Or on a cruise. I hear the ladies love that shit.
You’re dreadful!
Sooo not what you said last night.
You’re lucky I couldn’t find any closets in the museum. Today might’ve turned out differently for both of us.
The idea made her stomach flip. Charley couldn’t decide whether she was relieved about the lack of closets or disappointed.
Pretty cocky for a man sitting home alone while his wife’s out on a date, she replied.
At least tell me what you’re wearing.
You already know. You saw me earlier, remember?
How could I forget? Seeing your ass in those tight jeans distracted me so much I missed my 2:30 meeting. So tell me again.
Charley sent him the shrugging emoji.
Well, he replied. You’re not very fun.
Really? Even though I’m not wearing underwear? I bet the rest of the guys here think a girl who goes commando to a movie in a public park is LOTS of fun. Maybe I should take a poll?
Just so we’re clear, I’ll kill the first man who answers that question. Wait… does this mean you weren’t wearing panties at the museum?
BRB—just got to my favorite part in the movie.
Which movie?
Sleepless in Seattle. Empire State Building scene.
I knew it! You’re a hopeless romantic. A sexy-as-hell, hopeless, panty-less romantic who drives me—