“That’s it, baby,” he growled. “I’m all bad and you’ve only had a taste of me.”
Chapter 16
Wes’s eyes were like the waters of Atlantis. They captivated and bewitched her with impossible dreams. Everything he did was for her, every smile, every kiss, every gift. All for her. A woman could fall in love with a man who courted with such perfection.
He was perfection. Each circle of his hips, striking that deep secret spot inside her that blacked out everything except the feel of him. His dark red hair was a crimson halo about his face. It was as if the goddess Diana gave him the ability to hunt down and seduce any woman into his bed.
Wes Thorne was a sex god. A god who at that moment was focused solely on her pleasure. He doubled his speed and the sensation of him fully merged with her was all it took to send her careening off the edge into bliss. The man could fuck her into unconsciousness.
Her lashes fluttered closed, and she lay limp and exhausted, letting him disentangle their bodies. He left the bed and she heard the faint sound of water running. She curled up in a ball on her side and started to drift to sleep. He joined her, pulling her body flush to his and he kissed her mouth, a slow, soft kiss with a surprising bit of tenderness. A lover exploring his love’s mouth and tasting her like fine wine, sampling, drinking in. It was soft and full of emotions that were subtle and made her heart sing.
This was how she’d envisioned her first kiss. That kiss in the tack room had been an inferno. Was that how all great loves started? With a lightning strike upon the body followed by the tender warmth of a kiss tamed by sweetness and true affection? Both were perfect and exciting in their own ways and just as fulfilling. She’d never dreamed she’d ever experience both, and certainly not with a man like Wes.
“Darling, I’m sorry I scared you.” He nuzzled her cheek and hugged her closer.
Callie felt so close to him that she surrendered to her desires and wrapped her arms about him, further connecting them. Invisible threads seemed to bind her to him and him to her. What was happening between them was past casual. They were beyond the point of no return.
Callie refused to let that scare her, not tonight. Everything felt right, felt wonderful. How often had she been this lucky? Never.
“Wes, in the morning I want you to tell me more about the art thief,” she said when their mouths finally broke apart.
“Not tonight?” he said and chuckled, stroking a fingertip down the top of her nose.
“Just kiss me, damn it.” She giggled and curled her fingers around his neck, urging his head back down to hers.
“As you wish,” he murmured and stole her breath with a kiss of fire and passion. A kiss to defy all others in its perfection.
* * *
A black wraith crept along the property line of the Thorne estate on Long Island. Security guards and closed-circuit cameras had been played like fiddles to the shadow’s tune.
“While the cat’s away, the mice will play.” The shadow laughed silently as it picked the lock on the balcony door of a first-floor bedroom.
Thorne was not in residence and his servants were lax in their duties, which was just the way the Illusionist liked it. Padding like a large jungle cat down the steps, he searched room by room.
No Monet, no Renoir…none of the most expensive pieces the shadow sought. He could steal the less expensive pieces, but that would spoil the plan, and Thorne would realize his defenses had been breached. Better to wait and find a means of getting access to wherever the real pieces were hidden away. He could wait. Thorne wouldn’t get any warning. There would be no fun if he got wise and moved the priceless art off the island.
The Morton job had been perfectly executed right down to allowing a cracked frame to give away the fact that he’d stolen the painting. Just as he planned. Wes would rush to the rescue and offer one of his paintings as bait. It was only a matter of time. No one would ever suspect the shadow was so close to Wes. No one.
He passed in front of a handsome painting depicting the view of the Seine River. The colors used were lovely, the composition almost perfect. The artist’s name was an unfamiliar scrawl of black paint in one corner. Why did Thorne have so many pieces created by unknown artists? It made little sense. Art only held value if the creator had value. A person who painted just like Monet was irrelevant if he wasn’t actually Monet. So why did Thorne stock his collection with such items? The man touched the tip of the frame with one gloved fingertip, nudging a painting into a level-hanging position.
His eye for precision was what made him a master. He could replicate any painting to perfection and, therefore, if the opportunity arose, steal original works and replace them with his forgeries, undetected. He’d stolen half a dozen pieces from the rich fat cats on Long Island already, and only the Mortons had realized their Goya was missing. That had sold quite well to one of his connections in France. A Brit named Giennes owned a back-door gallery close to Montmartre and buyers always paid well to get whatever Giennes had hanging on his walls. A Goya was easier to sell but less satisfying financially. A Monet or Renoir though…those would line his pockets for the next decade.
The Illusionist flashed a cocky little smile up at the security camera that had been wirelessly hacked. It was playing a looped feed of an empty hall while he took a look around. For all intents and purposes, he was a ghost, flitting unseen through Thorne’s estate.
Uncatchable.
Unstoppable.
An illusion.
* * *
The sketchpad and its thick paper were crisp and white. A blank slate for Callie to create her dreams. Tucked up in a large armchair by Wes’s bed, she sifted through the set of newly sharpened graphite pencils and picked a medium HB. Then she concentrated on her subject, a sexy, deliciously naked man in the king bed. Wes was asleep, sprawled out on his stomach, his face turned in her direction, one arm dangling off the bed. The blankets pooled at his lower back and exposed one muscled leg. He had the most amusing tendency to kick free of the sheets during the night so it was a good thing his large body was warm and it kept her from freezing.
She used the HB pencil to lightly sketch the bed frame, then the contours of his body. Tracing the way his arms bulged in places and the slopes of his shoulders down to his trim waist, she used shadows and patches of white to give his body definition and life. Using one of her lighter H pencils, she sketched the relaxed line of his brows, straight nose, strong chin, and the fall of his thick lashes against his cheeks. She sketched the slight upward curve of his lips and the sleepy look of satisfaction on his face.
What did a man like Wes Thorne dream about? Art? Women? Treasures from the basement of the Louvre?
The morning sun was that singular shade of buttery warm yellow as it slowly progressed across the room and climbed the bed frame to illuminate Wes. The sun, like a lover, caressed his lightly tanned skin, touching upon the tousled crown of red hair, revealing honey and bronze streaks amid the dark ruby strands. She’d had her hands buried in that hair, tugging on it as he’d tortured her with ecstasy last night. Nibbling her bottom lip, she sighed, a dreamy sense of contentment filling her to overflowing. Why couldn’t every day be like this? Days full of art, adventure, and lovemaking.
Callie continued to sketch the rumpled bed scene, smiling more than once. She’d have to hide this one from him. He could never see it. He’d make fun of her. A few feet away, the lovebirds sat in their cage, puffing up their feathers and blinking sleepily. The female tucked her head close to her body, settling onto the bar closest to Callie. Her green-and-peach feathers were warm and seemed to glow with a faint glint on their tips as though they’d been dipped in liquid sunlight. The male lovebird jumped from the nest down to his mate and chirped excitedly. Callie shot a glance at Wes, but he didn’t stir.