eyes widened disbelievingly. ‘What the hell?’
‘Palitov wanting his own security is understandable.’ His brother gave a brief shrug. ‘Allowing his daughter to design the display cabinets and her continued presence at the gallery before and during the exhibition were also conditions for Palitov agreeing to there being an exhibition at all.’
Rafe was as aware as Michael that it was a coup for the Archangel gallery that the reclusive Russian billionaire had agreed to allow his private collection to be exhibited at all. No one but Dmitri Palitov had seen the majority of that jewellery for decades, some of it reputed to have belonged to the Tsarina herself, after it had disappeared from Russia last century.
‘I’m relying on you to keep the daughter sweet for the next few weeks,’ Michael added.
‘What exactly does that mean?’ Rafe frowned incredulously. ‘Palitov is pushing eighty, so how old is his daughter?’
‘Does it matter how old she is?’ Michael dismissed uninterestedly. ‘I’m not asking you to sleep with her, just use some of that lethal Raphael D’Angelo charm on her,’ his brother drawled mockingly before giving Rafe a patronising pat on the back and strolling away to join their parents.
Rafe gave a disgusted huff, not at all happy at being expected to use his charm on the middle-aged daughter of a reclusive Russian billionaire.
CHAPTER ONE
Three days later. The Archangel gallery, New York.
‘WOULD YOU MIND moving? I’m afraid you’re in the way.’
Rafe straightened in the doorway of the east gallery of Archangel, where he had been standing for the past few minutes observing the installation of the glass and bronze cabinets being brought in for the displaying of the Palitov jewellery collection. He turned now to look at the young lad who had just spoken to him so abruptly.
He seemed to be in his teens, and a couple of inches under six feet tall, dressed in the same faded denims and bulky black sweatshirt as the other workers, and wearing a baseball cap pulled low over his face.
A face that was a little too pretty for a boy, Rafe realised: arched dark brows above eyes the green of fresh moss, and surrounded by long and thick dark lashes, a pert nose with a light smattering of freckles, high cheekbones above hollow cheeks, with full and lush lips above a pointed and determined chin.
Yes, he was a bit too pretty, Rafe acknowledged ruefully, although he didn’t seem to be having any trouble helping to wheel the display cases into place.
Rafe had arrived at the gallery at eight-thirty as usual, only to learn from his assistant manager that the Palitov crew had been here since eight o’clock. ‘I was just looking for—’
‘If you wouldn’t mind moving now?’ the boy repeated huskily. ‘We really need to bring in the rest of the display cabinets.’ Two of the more burly workmen had moved to stand beside and slightly behind the younger man, as if to emphasise the point.
Rafe frowned his irritation with that muscled presence; where the hell was Dmitri Palitov’s daughter?
Those green eyes widened as Rafe still made no effort to shift out of the doorway. ‘I don’t believe your employer would approve of your lack of cooperation.’
‘It so happens I’m only here because I’m looking for your employer,’ Rafe replied in frustration.
A wary expression now entered those long-lashed dark green eyes. ‘You are?’
‘I am,’ Rafe confirmed with a hard smile. ‘It was my understanding that Miss Palitov would be here herself this morning to oversee the installation of the display cabinets.’ He raised mocking and pointed brows.
The boy looked even less certain of himself now. ‘And you are?’
His mouth thinned with satisfaction. ‘Raphael D’Angelo.’
The boy winced. ‘I had a feeling you might be.’ The youth straightened. ‘Good morning, Mr D’Angelo. I’m Nina Palitov,’ she added as he made no effort to take her outstretched hand.
Nina had the satisfaction of seeing the man she now knew to be Raphael D’Angelo, one of the three brothers who owned the prestigious Archangel galleries, briefly lose some of his obviously inborn arrogance as those golden eyes widened with disbelief, the sculptured lips parting in surprise.
It gave Nina the chance to study the man standing in front of her. He was probably in his mid-thirties, or possibly a little younger, with long and silky ebony-dark hair styled rakishly to just below his shoulders, and with the face of a fallen angel. He had predatory golden eyes, sharp blades for cheekbones beneath that olive-toned skin, his nose long and aristocratic, sensuous lips that looked as if they had been lovingly chiselled by a sculptor, his jaw square—and at the moment tilted at an arrogantly challenging angle.
The perfectly tailored charcoal-grey suit and snowy white shirt did nothing to hide the muscled perfection of his taller than average frame—rather, it had no doubt been tailored to emphasise that masculinity! A suit that Nina belatedly realised had probably cost as much as a month’s rent on any number of exclusive Manhattan penthouse apartments. The white shirt was of the finest silk, as was the pale silver tie knotted so meticulously at his throat, and his black leather shoes were obviously of the finest Italian leather.
As if all of that weren’t enough of an indication of who he was, that softly modulated and educated English accent should have been the giveaway, added to which this man’s olive complexion showed he was obviously of Italian descent.
Nina’s gaze swept back up to that arrogant—and breathtakingly handsome—face. ‘I’m guessing from your expression that I’m not quite what you were expecting, Mr D’Angelo?’ she murmured ruefully.
Not what Rafe was expecting?
That had to be the understatement of the decade; it was bad enough that he had thought he was talking to a too-pretty boy, but discovering that boy was in fact a beautiful young woman, and Dmitri Palitov’s daughter, was a little hard to accept. Palitov was almost eighty years old, and the woman now claiming to be Nina Palitov could only be in her mid-twenties at the most.
Or maybe Nina was Palitov’s granddaughter, and for some reason was here in place of her mother?
Rafe forced the tension to ease from his shoulders.
‘Not what, who,’ he excused lightly, deciding to keep the ‘pretty boy’ mistake to himself as he finally briefly shook the hand she held out to him. A warm and artistically slender hand, the fingers long and delicately tapered, the nails kept short.
She looked up at him quizzically with those moss-green eyes. ‘And exactly who were you expecting, Mr D’Angelo?’
‘Your mother, probably,’ Rafe dismissed dryly. ‘Or possibly your aunt?’
She gave a rueful smile. ‘My mother is dead, and I don’t have an aunt. Or an uncle, either,’ she added dryly as Rafe would have spoken again. ‘Or any other family apart from my father,’ she said softly.
Rafe blinked, eyes narrowing as he attempted to process the information this woman had just given him. No mother, no aunts or
