His tip went in first then he sank the rest of the way. A possessive moan escaped his lips as his eyes burned into my face. He paused as he dug his hand into my hair and kissed me, kissed me like that for the first time since I’d left. When he pulled his lips away, he started to rock hard and deep. “Tu es la plus belle femme du monde.” You’re the most beautiful woman in the world. Between his hard thrusts, he spoke to me. “Toi.” You. He kept going. “Et tu es à moi.” And you’re mine.

The next day, he was still in a bad mood.

A night of sleep hadn’t dulled the offense from the night before. He’d taken that painting personally, even though he didn’t know the artist or the woman in the portrait, even though it didn’t matter who was more beautiful.

But it mattered to him.

I sat in the office with my book open on my lap, the dried-out petal on my knee so I could insert it once I was finished.

He didn’t acknowledge me as he worked, talking on the phone to people in French, typing on his laptop, eating his lunch in silence. Based on the way he’d made love to me all night long, he wasn’t angry at me.

He was just angry.

I watched him from my position on the couch, noting the black fire in his eyes as he stared at his computer screen, the hardness in his jawline, the deep level of masculinity that I’d never seen displayed in another man. He thought I was the most beautiful woman in the world—but he was the most beautiful man.

Gilbert stepped inside. “Sir, the crew has delivered your paintings. They’re approaching in the roundabout.”

Fender was immediately on his feet and across the study.

“I’m very excited to see the pieces you’ve picked out.” Gilbert followed him out of the office and into the foyer. “Once we’ve decided where to hang them, I’ll get them up right away.”

I inserted the petal into the book and stepped into the foyer. Maybe I knew Fender better than Gilbert did, because I could tell Fender was not himself right now. When I looked toward the rest of the house, I saw Fender return, carrying a gas can.

Gilbert was right behind him. “Sir, what are you doing with that?”

They walked out the front doors, and I followed them.

The small paintings were already lowered out of the truck, wrapped in brown paper, and the men were just taking the enormous painting out of the truck. It took twelve men to do it.

Gilbert halted. “Uh, sir. Where on earth is that going to fit?”

Fender ignored him. “Leave it here.”

The men looked confused because Fender had just asked them to drop the painting on the cobblestone driveway.