I’d talked to Christian three times in my life: once when I signed my lease, once in passing at Bridget’s wedding, and once when we discussed my sans-Jules rent situation.
All three times, I’d left more unsettled than before.
What were we talking about again?
It’d been less than a minute since Christian’s response, but that minute had stretched so slow it might as well have been an eternity.
“Christian.”
A deep, slightly accented voice slashed the thread holding our suspended moment aloft.
Time snapped back to its usual cadence, and my breath expelled in one sharp rush before I turned my head.
Tall. Dark hair. Olive skin.
The newcomer wasn’t as classically good-looking as Christian, but he filled out the lines of his Delamonte suit with so much raw masculinity it was difficult to look away.
“I hope I’m not interrupting.” Delamonte Suit flicked a glance in my direction.
I’d never been super attracted to older men, and he had to be in his mid to late thirties, but wow.
“Not at all. You’re right on time.” A hint of irritation hardened Christian’s otherwise smooth reply. He stepped in front of me, blocking me from Delamonte Suit’s view and vice versa.
The other man raised an eyebrow before his mask of indifference fell away to reveal a smirk.
He stepped around Christian, so deliberately it was almost like he was taunting him, and held out his hand. “Dante Russo.”
“Stella Alonso.”
I expected him to shake my hand, but to my surprise, he raised it and brushed his mouth across my knuckles instead.
Coming from anyone else, it would’ve been cheesy, but a tingle of pleasure erupted instead.
Maybe it was the accent. I had a weakness for all things Italian.
“Dante.” Beneath the calm surface of Christian’s voice lay a razored edge that was sharp enough to cut through bone. “We’re late for our meeting.”
Dante appeared unfazed. His hand lingered on mine for an extra second before he released it.
“It was lovely to meet you, Stella. I’m sure I’ll see you around again.” His rich drawl contained a hint of laughter.
I suspected his amusement was directed not at me but toward the man watching us with ice in his eyes.
“Thank you. It was nice meeting you too.” I almost smiled at Dante, but something told me that wouldn’t be a smart move right now. “Have a good night.”
I glanced at Christian. “Good night, Mr. Harper. Thank you for the ride.”
I injected a playful lilt into my voice, hoping the callback to our absurd formality earlier would crack his granite expression.
But it didn’t so much as flicker as he inclined his head. “Good night, Ms. Alonso.”
Okay, then.
I left Christian and Dante in the lobby, the subjects of more than a few admiring stares from passersby, and took the elevator up to my apartment.
I didn’t know what had caused Christian’s sudden mood shift, but I had enough worries of my own without adding his to the mix.
I rifled through the bag, trying to locate my keys among the jumble of makeup, receipts, and hair ties.
I really needed a better way of organizing my bag.
After several minutes of searching, my hand closed around the metal key.
I’d just inserted it into the lock when a familiar chill swept over my skin and raised the hairs on the back of my neck.
My head jerked up.
There was no other sign of life in the hall, but the quiet hum of the heating system suddenly took on an ominous tone.
Memories of typed notes and candid photos turned my breaths shallow before I blinked them away.
Stop being paranoid.
I wasn’t living in an old, unsecured house near campus anymore. I was at the Mirage, one of the most well-guarded residential buildings in D.C., and I hadn’t heard from him in two years.
The chances of him showing up here, of all places, were slim to none.
Nevertheless, urgency broke the spell freezing my limbs in place. I quickly unlocked the front door and shut it behind me. The lights blazed on as I slid the deadbolt in place.
It was only after I checked every room in my apartment and confirmed there was no intruder lurking in my closet or underneath my bed that I was able to relax.
Everything was fine. He wasn’t back, and I was safe.
But despite my self-reassurance, a small part of me couldn’t shake the sense that my gut had been right and that someone had been watching me in the hall.
2
CHRISTIAN
The library door shut with a quiet click behind me.
I crossed the room, my steps slow and deliberate, until I reached the sitting area where Dante had made himself comfortable with a glass of scotch.
A muscle pulsed in my jaw.
If we didn’t have such a long history together, and if I didn’t owe him for the favor he did me, his head would already be shattered on the bar cart near him.
Not only for helping himself to my liquor, but for his less than amusing show in the lobby.
I didn’t like people touching what was mine.
“Lighten that scowl, Harper.” Dante took a lazy sip of his drink. “Otherwise, it’ll freeze that way, and women won’t like your face as much anymore.”
My cold smile told him how little I cared. “Perhaps if you took your own advice, you wouldn’t be sleeping in a different room than your fiancée.”
Satisfaction filled my chest at his narrowed eyes. If Stella was my weakness, Vivian was his.
I wasn’t interested in the ins and outs of their relationship, but it amused me to see him snarl every time I brought up the fiancée he claimed to hate.
I thought I had problems. Dante had two billion dollars worth of them.
“Point taken,” he said in a clipped voice. All humor vanished, bringing back the unsmiling asshole I was used to dealing with. “But I didn’t come here to discuss Vivian or Stella, so let’s get to the real issue at hand. When the fuck can I get rid of the painting? The thing’s an eyesore.”
I forced thoughts of dark curls and green eyes aside at the mention of the other enigmatic woman in my life.
Magda, the painting that had been the bane of my existence for decades. Not because of what it was but because of what it represented.
“No one told you to hang it in your gallery.” I walked to the bar and poured myself a drink. Dante, that bastard, hadn’t recapped the bottle of my finest scotch. “You can shove it in the back of your closet for all I care.”
“I pay all that money for Magda only to shove it in the back of my closet? That wouldn’t be suspicious at all.” Sarcasm weighed heavy on his voice.
“You have a problem; I provided a solution.” I gave a careless shrug. “Not my fault you don’t want to take it. And for the record…” I settled on the seat opposite his. “I paid for the painting.”
Secretly, anyway. As far as the public knew, Dante Russo was the proud owner of one of the ugliest pieces of artwork in existence. Then again, people also thought said hideous piece was a priceless painting worth killing and stealing over thanks to a simple set of forged documents.
I hadn’t wanted people going after it, but I’d needed an excuse for why I’d spent so many resources guarding it.