“There you are,” Ivan called up from the bottom of the stairs. “I wondered if you got lost, and now I can see you’ve found something to distract you.” He looked gorgeous smirking up at me in worn jeans and a cream linen shirt, and I couldn’t help imagining him as he’d been with me just an hour ago—without the expensive clothes that he wore so well. That was the thing about Ivan. He wore everything, or nothing, so very well.

“Mrs. Gravelle is here on your wall. This is a Mallerton in your house, Ivan, and nobody knows it exists except for me,” I told him as I continued to study the painting in awe.

“Ahh, you like that one, do you? Good, right?”

“I wouldn’t use ‘good’ to describe this discovery,” I answered sarcastically without looking at him. The horse was depicted mid-step with his front leg held high, while Mrs. Gravelle sat serenely in her ivory wedding dress looking beautiful and happy. I wanted so badly to know more about her. “Please tell me you know something about the woman in this painting,” I said pleadingly. “There’s a different version of this portrait in The National Gallery and it’s my favorite Mallerton out of all of them. The bride, the white horse, the romance of it all—everything about it…”

My words were utterly lost as I tried to explain. It was impossible to make anyone understand the significance of what I’d just discovered in his house if they didn’t already know fine art. Mallerton wasn’t even constrained in part to the realm of fine art. He surpassed it. His works were straight-up national treasures.

“A painting like this one is a conservator’s dream,” I finished lamely, still unable to drag my eyes away from the canvas. I knew I sounded like a lovesick fool just from hearing myself babbling on, but I couldn’t help it.

I could tell I amused him, and he liked having me interested in his paintings, though. I couldn’t blame him really. He’d gotten his way—and me—over to Donadea again to take a look at his artwork.

And hoped to have me in his bed doing… him.

I wasn’t completely sure if that was right, but it seemed pretty accurate from my perspective. I knew I liked being with him, and I did trust he was being honest when he shared with me what he wanted. I found his directness pleasing. We were both attracted to each other. I had to agree the sex was off the charts, and the arrangement would be private. He’d said nobody would have to know, to my great relief. And legally, I couldn’t talk about anything, which made it even easier. Explaining to Brynne and Ethan, not to mention my father, I was being kinked by Ivan Everley was not on my list of things to do. Ever.

“The bride was a relation of my great-great-grandmother. They were very close, almost like sisters I’ve been told. She’s in another painting hanging in the main gallery—of ladies playing cards.” He had come up the stairs and was now behind me, his hands finding their way easily onto my hips. I had to admit, his touch was nice—comfortable—not demanding at all. It made me feel as if he was genuinely glad to have me with him. Not the typical morning after “I’ll call you” right before heading out the door. I was coming to find out Ivan was nothing like what he appeared on the surface, and it only helped my trust to grow even further.