Her attention slides to him with the cool appraisal of someone evaluating a choice piece of steak. “And who is this delicious creature?”
“My companion for the evening,” I answer, vague because Lorenzo never explains his attachments.
“How lovely.” The Marquise’s expression turns brittle. “Perhaps you’ll both join me later? My suite at the Carillon has the most spectacular view of the harbor.”
Lorenzo would accept such an invitation with a knowing smirk, leaving possibilities open. But Ezra’s presence beside me changes the game.
“Perhaps another time, Marquise. I’m particularly focused on tonight’s offerings.”
She pouts, disappointed but not surprised. “You always were single-minded when it came to acquisition.” Her fingers dance down my lapel. “But my door remains open, should you change your mind.”
I extract myself with practiced grace, steering Ezra deeper into the crowded gallery.
His expression remains neutral, but tension radiates from his body. “You’ve been busy while I was searching for you.”
Before I can tell him it was years before we met, another figure materializes before us, a man with angular features and flinty eyes. His suit is tailored to meet the standards of high society, but it can’t mask the predatory nature that rolls off him.
“Lorenzo.” His accent places him somewhere in Eastern Europe. “I didn’t believe the rumors until now.”
“Viktor.” I extend my hand, which he grasps with unnecessary force. “Still acquiring for the private gallery in Prague?”
“Among other interests. I’ve diversified since our last meeting.” His attention lingers on Ezra’s body, and he licks teeth too perfect to be natural. “Your tastes remain exquisite.”
Viktor steps into my personal space. “Did you hear that there’s a private viewing after the main auction? Very exclusive. The type of rare merchandise that would interest a collector of your discerning nature.”
My stomach tightens. He must be talking about Jade.
“I’m intrigued.” I match his conspiratorial tone. “Though my interests tonight are primarily artistic.”
“Of course, but true art takes many forms, don’t you agree? Some breathe, some bleed.” He slips a small black card into my palm. “Should your interests expand beyond canvas and stone.”
He disappears into the crowd, leaving behind the scent of expensive cologne. I pocket the card, careful to keep my expression neutral.
“Charming friends you have,” Ezra comments, the words light, but the steel beneath unmistakable.
We continue our circuit of the room, Lorenzo’s presence drawing attention like gravity. A sommelier offers me a sample of rare port. A dealer in antiquities corners me to discuss a recent acquisition from a temple in Cambodia. Eachinteraction builds Lorenzo’s presence in the room, reinforcing his reputation.
Then a familiar figure separates from the group near the bar, a tall man with bronze skin and a scar bisecting his left eyebrow. Recognition hits me low in the stomach. Claude Renoir, an art restorer from Geneva who shared Lorenzo’s bed for three consecutive nights during the Basel Art Fair two years ago.
Before I can direct Ezra elsewhere, Claude beelines over to us. “Lorenzo, it’s been far too long.”
He doesn’t bother with handshakes, leaning in to kiss both my cheeks, lingering too close, his cologne surrounding me in an unpleasant cloud. His hand settles on my arm, fingers caressing my bicep through my sleeve.
“Claude,” I greet him, injecting enough warmth to acknowledge our past without inviting a repeat. “I didn’t expect you to attend this event.”
“I go where the interesting pieces are.” He turns his body to edge Ezra out. “And where interesting people might be found.”
Claude steps closer, his body almost flush with mine. “I’ve thought often of our time in Basel. The way you described the brushstrokes on that Caravaggio while your hands were busy elsewhere…” His lips curve into a private smile. “You gave me a new appreciation for chiaroscuro.”
I laugh, the sound belonging entirely to Lorenzo, rich, practiced, encouraging without promising. My hand rises to adjust Claude’s already perfect tie, a familiar gesture that speaks of past intimacy. Lorenzo would maintain these connections and nurture them for future use.
I let my fingers linger on his collar. “You haven’t changed.”
Claude captures my hand and kisses my palm with a fervor inappropriate for public display. “Neither have you. Still the most fascinating man in any room.” He nibbles on my fingertip.“Perhaps we can continue this conversation somewhere more private? For old time’s sake?”
Before I can answer, Ezra steps up to my side, a fresh glass of champagne in hand.
He offers it to me with a look that promises retribution later. “Your drink, Lorenzo.”
