“Why haven’t I heard of this before? An art heist of that magnitude should’ve made the papers.”
Charley’s cheeks heated, and she took another sip of Cognac, unable to hold his gaze. “The theft was never reported. I suspect the collector wanted to keep his name out of the spotlight.”
“Which brings me back to my question. How did you find out about it?”
“I—”
“Dorian,” a voice from the doorway called. “Ms. D’amico.”
Dorian sighed. “Good afternoon, Gabriel. Is there something we can assist you with?”
“Found this at the bottom of the hill. Thought you might want it back.” He crossed the room and handed Charley her cell phone, scuffed up but still functional.
“Thank you,” she said, not sure if she was more grateful for the recovery of her phone or the break from Dorian’s scrutiny.
“Anything else?” Dorian asked his brother.
“Malcolm and I are heading back out now—I just wanted to return the phone.”
Dorian nodded. “Keep me—”
“Informed,” Gabriel said, already turning his back. “Of course, your highness.”
He was almost to the doorway when Charley spoke up again. “Gabriel, wait.”
He stilled, one hand on the doorframe, but didn’t turn around.
“I wanted to thank you,” she said.
“You’ve already done so.”
“Not for the phone. For last night. You and Dorian… You saved my life. I know you took a big risk. So… thank you. Again.”
He let out a sigh, then turned his head, glancing at her over his shoulder. It was the first time she’d seen even a flicker of warmth in his eyes. “You didn’t deserve what they did to you.”
And then he was gone, leaving a chill in his wake.
Charley pulled the blanket tighter over her shoulders.
“No one ever accused my brother of being a gracious host,” Dorian said. “Be grateful you’ve only got a sister, love. Brothers are more trouble than they’re worth.”
Charley smiled, but beneath the irritation, Dorian’s tone held a note of softness. Sadness too, but it was clear to her that whatever their shared resentments, the brothers cared deeply for one another.
She thought of what Dorian had said earlier, about how his brothers and his vampire house were one in the same. He hadn’t wanted to talk about how he’d become a vampire, but Charley suspected whatever had happened that fateful day was at the root of their fractured relationships.
Tragedy cast long shadows. She could only imagine what that meant for immortals.
“Sasha’s the best,” she said, trying to inject some lightness into the conversation, hoping to avoid any more questions about her so-called career.
“Sasha, the erotic vegetable photographer?” Dorian finally smiled, his eyes regaining some of their sparkle. “Older or younger?”
“Younger. She’s nineteen. We didn’t grow up together, though—different dads. I’ve only known her about five years. My mother kept us apart until she just… didn’t want her anymore.”
“What?”
“Yeah, she basically loaded her onto a bus and shipped her off to New York with nothing but some old clothes and my address.” Charley told him the story, the familiar disappointment and disgust churning inside. “It all worked out, though. Sasha’s the best thing my mother ever gave me. The best person I know. I used to wish…” She trailed off, catching the look of pity on Dorian’s face. “Oh, God. Please don’t look at me like that.”
“Like what, love?”
“Like that.” She reached over and traced her fingers across his forehead, then down to his jaw. “You feel sorry for me.”
“No.” He grabbed her wrist, turning her hand over to press a kiss to her palm. “I just wish I could take away your pain. No one should have to endure—”
“But we do, right? Endure?” Charley pulled her hand back, unable to take the sweet, tender touch of his kiss. “Anyway, regrets are pretty useless. Everything that happened in my life… It all brought me to this point.”
“What point is that?”
She flashed a grin. “Oh, you know. Sipping antique Cognac. Hanging out in a gorgeous Elizabethan manor. Hobnobbing with elite supernatural art collectors.”
Dorian returned her smile, his eyes turning curious again. “You never told me how you got involved in the art world.”
“My father,” she said. It was instant and automatic, one of the few truths she could still admit. “He was in the business. He’s gone now, but after my mom split, it was just the two of us. I used to go with him to auctions and parties, tagging along and… well, snooping, I guess.”
“Ah.” He shot her a wink. “Some things never change.”
“I’ve always loved looking at other people’s art collections. My father recognized that early on and taught me everything he could. Paintings, statues, sculptures, tapestries… I wanted to know absolutely everything, and he always indulged my curiosities.”
“When did he pass?”
“Five years ago. I still think about him every day, though.” She tipped back the last of her drink, then sighed. As screwed up as it was, this part was all true too. Messy and complicated, colored with more than a few shades of gray, but real. “I guess that’s why I still love looking at people’s collections. Sometimes I run across a piece he loved, or one he taught me about, and I just… I don’t know. Maybe I’m looking for a connection. A sign that he’s still with me.”
“Adrift,” Dorian said softly.
Charley’s eyes widened.
“Last weekend,” he continued. “At the auction. It was the painting in the study, where—”
“I remember. I’m just surprised you do.”
“How could I not? It was in that room that…” Dorian shifted in the chair, trying unsuccessfully to hide the sudden bulge in his pants. “Suffice it to say, the painting made quite a lasting impression.”
“No kidding. Thanks to you, I’ll never be able to look at it again without…”
…recalling the time a stranger cornered you in the study at the Salvatore penthouse and forced you to come for him, again… and again… and again…
The memory of Dorian’s words echoed, and Charley closed her eyes, slipping back under the spell of those stolen moments…
“Fathers,” Dorian said suddenly, scattering her thoughts. “Whether we spent our lives loving them or loathing them, even in death, they never quite leave us.”
“No, I guess not.” She opened her eyes, a knot of emotion tightening her throat.
Her feelings about her dad were so thorny, and it’d been a long time since she’d really talked about him with anyone.
Yes, her father was responsible for recognizing and nurturing her love of art—a love that had quickly become a deep, inextricable part of her being. In that way, he’d always be with her.
But he was also responsible for turning her into a criminal with no foreseeable way out. In his image, she’d become a phantom, a woman who’d seduced a stranger to distract him from her crimes, and now found herself hopelessly tangled in an impossible, no-win situation that could only end in ruin.