again as his jade gaze returned to hold mine and he broke into a heart-stopping smile.
The seductive dazzling kind that threatened to melt my panties. I left in a rush—
Shaken with just how this man had affected me merely with a smile, my heart racing, I reconsidered risking the lift to take me as far away from him as possible. Embarrassment scorched my cheeks and made me glad I’d not worn a coat.
Taking a second, I leaned against the wall and stared back.
That alluring inked-up vision had taken my mind off the reason I was here. I felt an inexplicable need to run back in and continue to bathe in the aura of the most enigmatic man I’d ever met.
“You all right?” Clara rested her palm on my forehead.
“The stairs took it out of me,” I fibbed and gestured to get the attention of a waitress.
She came over, and with a nod of thanks I lifted a flute of champagne off her silver tray and took several sips to quench my thirst.
My thoughts drifted to the basement and my run-in with Tobias Wilder. These were the kind of moments I cherished—me dipping my toe in the dangerous side of life—but I knew the moment I saw reason, I’d pull it right out.
The only romance I would ever indulge in again was the fantasy where everyone lived happily ever after.
Oh no, I’d really embarrassed myself down there.
Clara narrowed her gaze and it made me smile. It was the kind of smile you give when you doubt yourself beyond all reason.
“Happiness is the best revenge,” she offered brightly. “I’m happy you’re here.”
It was still difficult to accept Zach wasn’t coming back. He should have been here tonight and it hurt so bad that I’d had to tear up my invitation because it had his name on it.
I tried not to think of the way his copper locks flopped over his deep blue eyes, or how his refined nose made him look so cultivated and that endearing way he emanated his free-thinking spirit.
A month or so after my father’s funeral, Zach Montgomery, the man I had been destined to marry, complained my grief was causing him too much stress. With our finals looming he couldn’t be “distracted.” He needed a break from us, just for a little while. I’d lovingly given it to him.
I’d seen my understanding nature pay off when he’d graduated with an MA in art curating.
Afterward, when the intensity of our studies was over and I could see the strain lifted from his handsome face, I’d met him for dinner at our favorite pub, The Old Ship, and reassured him I’d pull back on all this unnecessary drama of grief. I’d truly believed he’d realize his mistake after our exams were over. Even with Clara’s disapproval I couldn’t have refused him had he changed his mind and asked to come back to me.
Until the dreadful truth came out.
That stark memory returning along with that knot in my stomach, and I felt like I was there again—
Tucked away in my favorite corner of the Witt Library, with my head buried in a book. I’d been reading about Vermeer and how he’d painstakingly chose his expensive pigments. Colors I’d once run my fingertip over, acutely aware of the privilege of such intimacy that came with ownership. One of the few from my secret stash that not even Zach knew of.
Snug in my oversize jumper to ward off the chill of the Witt, I’d been happily reading away until those familiar voices of my classmates had caught my attention. I’d placed my fingertip on the page to keep my place...
Their hushed gossiping the catalyst that sent my life into a tailspin: Zachary Montgomery was now living it up all the way across the world in a little town called Tivoli, where he’d taken a job in an art gallery.
The news came as a blow, not least because I’d had no idea he’d even left London.
The whispers went on to reveal a few of the other students had received their invitations to the wedding of Italian beauty and fellow student Natalia Donate to Zachary Montgomery.
Those late evenings Natalia had spent hours with us studying at my flat had provided her with access to more than just my art acumen. She’d made a play for my boyfriend and come out the resounding winner.
If paintings taught me anything with their endless portrayals of human suffering, it was that heartbreak is inevitable and we are fools to be surprised by it. Trust is an ill-fated pursuit.
Although Clara believed in true love and had no doubt found it, I questioned whether I was ever going to experience it again.
Clara tutted. “He doesn’t deserve one more second of you.”
I leaned in and hugged her. I’d tell Clara about my risqué adventure once I’d gotten control over this flush that threatened to rise each time I thought of him. I imagined over the course of the evening one of the many artists here or even sculptors would spot the infamous Mr. Wilder and try to persuade him to pose for them.
Naked. Preferably.
I treated myself to that thought.
“So what do you think?”
My attention snapped to Clara.
“They’ve gone all out, haven’t they?” she added as she looked around.
“This is more than I expected.” Using a pillar for a shield, I looked for Tobias in the crowd. “Can’t get over it.”
“They’re wooing you for the other paintings.” She turned to look at me.
“It does look like it, doesn’t it?”
“You never talk about them?” she said.
“They’re all I have left of Dad.”
She rubbed my back, knowing well enough not to push me. “He’d be so proud of you.”
The black marble tile almost clashed with the pink marbled pillars lining the room either side. Along those pristine cream-colored walls hung the finest eighteenth-century Italian paintings, which were apparently on loan from the Vatican.
Suppressing my melancholy, I vowed to enjoy tonight.
The Otillie was one of my favorite places to visit and easily one of the most prestigious galleries in the world, with a unique collection of both modern and ancient art.
Despite such grandeur, it was also famed for showcasing new and up-and-coming artists before anyone else had discovered them. Like the young painter Liza Blake, who stood alone in a corner looking a little forlorn. She’d been easy to spot with her blue hair, and her boho chic dress looked cute on her, those round rimmed glasses perched on the end of her nose. Artists were always so interesting, their perspectives so profound, and I admired their tenacity for following their hearts and sharing their emotional power. Perhaps it was the only way to find ours, through
