Chapter 2 - The Back Bay AuctionThe private gallery on Newbury Street was shrouded in shadows, lit only by recessed track lighting that cast amber pools over centuries-old canvases.
Chloe stood beside a velvet-roped display case, her clipboard resting against her thigh. She wore the obsidian dress, her dark hair pinned back into an intricate knot that left her neck exposed. Across the room, half a dozen Boston elites—politicians, real estate moguls, and men with too many rings on their fingers—spoke in hushed, nervous tones.
They all knew who owned the gallery now.
Sebastian Rourke did not sit at the front. He stood near the back archway, leaning casually against a Corinthian column, nursing a glass of amber bourbon. He wore a midnight-blue tuxedo jacket with black silk lapels, his silver-streaked hair catching the gallery lights.
When Chloe walked in, his conversation stopped mid-sentence.
He didn't look at her face first. His gaze tracked slowly down the line of her throat, lingered over the swell of her chest, and traced the dramatic flare of her hips where the obsidian silk wrapped tightly around her frame.
It was a look of pure, unadulterated possession. It made her breath hitch, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird.
“Ms. Henderson,” a smooth voice purred behind her.
Chloe turned to find Arthur Vance, a senior partner at a rival investment firm and a man rumored to launder money for the Irish syndicate in South Boston. Vance smiled, his eyes dropping appraisingly over her figure with a greasy familiarity that made her stomach turn.
“I hear you’re the brilliant mind behind the Westbridge valuations,” Vance said, stepping too close. “Must be quite a thrill working for a man like Rourke. Though I’m surprised a woman of your... generous proportions isn't worried about getting crushed in his wake.”
Before Chloe could deliver a chilling retort, the ambient noise in the gallery vanished.
Sebastian Rourke did not rush. He simply detached himself from the column and crossed the polished hardwood floor. The other men in the vicinity immediately stepped back, clearing a wide path as if clearing a field for artillery fire.
Sebastian stopped two inches behind Chloe. His shoulder brushed hers, radiating an intense, searing heat.
He looked down at Arthur Vance with eyes like frozen obsidian.
“Mr. Vance,” Sebastian said softly. His voice carried across the silent room like a falling guillotine. “In my world, men who comment on a lady's proportions find their tongues tied up in legal settlements before the week is out. Are you in the mood to lose your corporate charter tonight?”
Vance paled instantly, taking a hurried step backward. “It was just a compliment, Mr. Rourke. I meant nothing by it.”
“She doesn't require your compliments,” Sebastian replied, his tone chillingly polite. “And she certainly doesn't require your company.”
Vance practically tripped over his own loafers as he scurried away.
Chloe turned her head, looking up at Sebastian. The scent of him—expensive cedarwood, expensive scotch, and raw, masculine danger—overwhelmed her senses.
“You didn't have to do that,” she whispered.
“I didn't do it for you,” Sebastian murmured, his head dipping lower so his lips brushed the sensitive skin just beneath her ear. “I did it because my patience for small-minded men in cheap suits expired the moment you walked through those doors.”
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“Sebastian...” she warned, her voice trembling slightly.
“Tonight, after the auction closes,” he whispered against her skin, sending a shiver straight down her spine, “you are coming with me. We have business to discuss regarding an antique chest in my private study. And you will not say no.”
