Chapter 8 - SEVEN PAINTINGS
They had forty-eight hours.
After that, the Ash Circle planned to move the seven paintings overseas.
Sadie turned Callum’s penthouse into an investigation room.
Photographs covered every wall.
She worked barefoot because her injured ankle would not tolerate shoes.
Callum noticed she forgot to eat when concentrating.
So food began appearing beside her.
She noticed.
“You’re feeding me.”
“I’m protecting an investment.”
“You brought pancakes.”
“Strategic pancakes.”
“With blueberries.”
“Highly strategic.”
Their relationship changed through tiny things.
He stopped commanding her to rest.
He started asking.
She stopped calling him Mr. Russo.
Mostly.
At 2:00 a.m., Sadie fell asleep over a provenance ledger.
Callum found her cheek pressed against a photograph of a seventeenth-century martyr.
He lifted her carefully.
Her eyes opened.
“Put me down.”
“No.”
“I can walk.”
“Historically, that has produced mixed results.”
She glared sleepily.
He carried her toward the bedroom.
“Callum?”
“Yes?”
“Why haven’t you kissed me?”
He nearly dropped her.
Sadie’s eyes widened.
Apparently exhaustion had removed the filter between thought and speech.
“I didn’t say that.”
“You did.”
“I’m concussed.”
“You’re not.”
“Delayed concussion.”
Callum stopped.
They were inches apart.
“Because,” he said quietly, “you’re injured, frightened and dependent on my protection.”
Sadie became serious.
“And?”
“And I refuse to become another powerful man who makes you wonder whether saying no is dangerous.”
Sadie stared at him.
Something changed inside her.
Not attraction.
That had existed for weeks, perhaps months.
Trust.
She touched his cheek.
“Then I’ll ask again when I’m not bleeding.”
“I’d appreciate that.”
“Good.”
She closed her eyes.
Three seconds later:
“Probably Thursday.”
Callum laughed.
Actually laughed.
May you like
Marco heard it from the hallway and nearly called a doctor.
Then the penthouse exploded.
