“Who is she? Where is she from?” Antoine braced his hands on the windowsill.
“Just a girl from a small town in Colorado. A true innocent.” Wes checked his watch and then he and Antoine left the hidden room to join Callie.
“Wes!” She beamed at him. “I’ve almost got this imitation work down.” She pointed proudly at a Degas ballerina she’d painted. It was perfect. He peered closely at the original piece next to hers, then back at hers. Brushstroke for brushstroke it was perfect. He couldn’t tell them apart.
Antoine grinned. “She’s a master. You want to know why?”
Wes nodded. He couldn’t believe she’d come so far so fast.
“Most artists have egos. They refuse to mimic someone else’s style. They always leave some little stylistic trait that gives them away under close scrutiny. Ms. Taylor doesn’t do that.”
A little chuckle escaped Callie as she set her brushes and palette down. “I think I’m supposed to take that as a compliment.”
“You should,” Antoine said, flashing her a winning smile that set Wes’s teeth on edge.
“Hungry?” Wes said, forcing himself to swallow the rising tide of jealousy.
“Yeah.” Callie kissed Antoine on the cheek before she left to see to the artwork and clean up her work station.
After she and Wes had said their good-byes to Antoine, they exited the Louvre’s private artwork rooms. They were halfway out of the Louvre when his cell phone buzzed. Callie stopped walking when he did as he answered.
“Thorne here.”
“Mr. Thorne, this is Agent Kostova from the FBI. The Mortons called to let me know the Goya had turned up on their doorstep via a private courier service this morning. They said it had a note from you explaining that you’d come across it in Paris. We’re glad to see it returned.”
“Good.” Relief swept through Wes. He had trusted the courier service, but it was good to hear the Goya was officially back in its owners’ protective hands. He hadn’t wanted to let the painting out of his sight, but he’d had to in order to return it.
“Mr. Thorne, the reason I’m calling is that there has been another theft.”
Wes’s fingers tightened around his phone. “Another one?”
“Yes, during a party as well. We’re keeping our men scarce on the ground to keep the thief feeling comfortable. The Mortons say you’re still in Paris. We’d like for you to return to the Weston to give us a hand.”
Another theft? He clenched his phone hard enough that the case creaked in his hand. He knew without a doubt who was behind this. The Illusionist.
“And what would you like me to do?” Wes asked Agent Kostova.
Callie moved closer as if sensing his tension, and she curled her fingers around his arm, leaning into him.
“I want you to help us arrange a sting. The last theft occurred at the private residence of Mr. Jaxon Barrington. He says you’re friends.”
“Jax?”
Jaxon Barrington was the owner of the exclusive BDSM club the Gilded Cuff, in Weston. Emery, Royce, and Wes were among the charter members.
Kostova laughed. “He said you’d be surprised. He was having an exclusive party and one of his smaller pieces went missing. He thought you might want to help him get the thief by using his club as a place to lure the thief. I can relay more details as soon as you return and we can meet in person.”
Wes contemplated this. He wanted to stay in Paris with Callie, but this man had to be stopped. Art theft was the one thing he couldn’t tolerate, especially when his friends were victims. This was exactly why he had a black room and kept it secret and undetectable. None of his valuable pieces could be found. To risk one of them so openly…it made every muscle in his body tense like coiled springs. But if it meant finding out who this thieving bastard was, he’d do it.
“I’ll arrange a flight back tomorrow.”
“Thank you, Mr. Thorne. We’ll be in touch then.” Kostova hung up.
“We’re leaving Paris?” Callie’s voice was soft but it echoed in the quiet, closed Renaissance gallery.
He glanced around, taking in the gazes of more than one Madonna clutching her infant Jesus to her bosom. Fuck, he didn’t want to leave this place. Taking Callie back to Long Island meant she’d see Fenn again, and the very idea of that knotted Wes’s stomach. She was finally surrendering to him. He could lose her if he brought her back too soon. One look at that damn cowboy and she’d be broken up inside again. It was the last thing he wanted.
“There’s been another burglary of art. The FBI wants me to return and help them with a sting.”
“Another one?” Her eyes widened as they started walking again.
“Yes. I’ll get the details when we return to the island. I’m sorry, Callie.” There was so much more he’d wanted to show her, but he wouldn’t have the chance to do so.
She pulled on his arm, stopping him. Then she stood on tiptoe in front of the silent watchers, those Renaissance faces on cracked oil canvases, and she kissed him. Her little mouth was sweet and open, her tongue soft but exploring against his own. There was nothing in that moment he wanted except her. Only her. He’d give everything not to end this. A kiss had never felt so good before, so all-consuming that he didn’t care to live a breath beyond that kiss.
He was a little foggy-headed when she broke the kiss and gazed up at him with those soulful, ancient eyes.
“You’ve given me something wonderful, Wes, something I can’t ever repay. You’ve opened my eyes.” Her long lashes fanned up as she blinked rapidly, eyes shining.
“Callie—”
She shook her head. “I was dying inside and you’ve rescued me. Thank you.” When she kissed him again, he tasted a hint of salt and felt the wetness of tears upon her cheeks, and it crushed him. He never wanted to be the source of another tear for her, or let anything else make her cry for that matter.
“Name anything and I’ll do it for you,” he promised. Even if she demanded the moon, he’d get it for her. The need to make her happy filled him with a quiet desperation that he couldn’t shake until he could make her smile again.
“We leave tomorrow?”
He nodded.
“Then dinner at home tonight.” She grinned and that single smile hit him hard behind the knees. “Dessert in bed, too.”
“Absolutely,” he vowed. He would make this a night to remember. One he would never forget himself.
* * *
Callie finished her glass of merlot and followed Wes into the living room. The night was a little chilly, so he’d collected the softest blankets and put them on the couch by the TV. A night in with movies. Perfect. When she came fully into the room, she smiled in delighted surprise. Half a dozen candles littered the tables around them, their flames dancing in the breeze from the half-cracked window. Candlelight shimmered off the bottle of expensive cognac that sat on the coffee table along with a small dainty crimson box about the size of her hand. Wes stood by the couch, two glasses of cognac already poured.
“Take a seat.” He inclined his head toward the sofa.
“What is all this?”
“The first part of dessert.” His playful, devilish grin made her laugh. The sofa looked so cozy, all those blankets and the warmth of the nearby candles. How could a girl resist? Once she was settled on the couch, he joined her, sitting close enough that his body heat enveloped her in a delicious way. He pressed one of the glasses into her hand.
“Have you ever had a ‘tasting’ experience?”
“Tasting?” She’d never heard of that.
Wes lifted his glass in demonstration. “Tasting is when you sample drinks and food in a particular order and manner to show a contrast or an enhancement of flavors.” He leaned forward and drew a fingertip down her nose. The touch made her tingle in secret places. “Our olfactory senses sometimes adjust too quickly to tastes and smells so we miss subtle, yet rich flavors. Tasting brings these flavors out.” He stroked her lips. “It’s about the aroma and the taste.”