“Which I must prevent.” Gabe was buying time. Time for Sebastian to prove his innocence and reclaim his honor, as he’d demanded. Physically he couldn’t defend himself yet.
Gabe thumbed through the papers. The prenup seemed basic for anyone protecting millions, the deal between the fathers brutally specific. But former Senator Chandler was accustomed to using power, and Richard Grimes to abusing it. “How did you get these?”
“You don’t want to know.”
“No one can trace you to me?”
“Has anyone before?”
Gabe studied the man who moved in and out of the city shadows with quiet efficiency, a specialist at what he did, hence the nickname Doc. Little shocked Gabe anymore, but a man selling his own daughter—He shut down the thought.
He thanked Doc, dismissing him, then he linked his fingers behind his head, leaned back and closed his eyes, savoring the anticipation that coursed through him. Sebastian would have his day—and the guilt that walked, talked and slept with Gabe in ever-deepening darkness since the accident would fade. He had involved Sebastian in his need for revenge, a need handcuffed by a promise. Taking down Richard Grimes and Arthur Chandler would help to ease the guilt. It would definitely help. Sebastian would pound the final nails in their coffins, but Gabe would dig the graves.
Unable to sit still, he picked up a photograph that Doc had brought, then walked the generous confines of the office that took up half the second story of his home. Dispassionately he studied the black-and-white photo of the woman about to be sold into marriage. Cristina Chandler. Her hair was a medium tone, and long enough to be banded in a ponytail while she played tennis at the country club. Her eyes were light—blue, probably. Her body was...unremarkable. The typical welltoned, angular body of a well-bred debutante—former debutante. She was twenty-seven years old, according to the fact sheet stapled to the photo. Graduated with respectable grades from a local state college, majored in computer graphics. Mother died two years ago. No siblings. No job. Recently leased an apartment in the city.
Just another woman of privilege, as cool as she was sleek. He knew her type, had avoided her type all his life.
He stopped pacing in front of the large De La Hoya portrait, of his mother. He’d regretted the promise he’d made to her seventeen years ago, regretted it so much he hadn’t made a promise to anyone except Sebastian since then. Circumstances change with time. At fifteen, he hadn’t known that yet. Now, at thirty-two, he knew better. And he knew he had to break that early promise..
The time had come. As if preordained, everything was falling into place. Nothing could stop what would happen now. Preventing this merger that the families were calling a marriage was the first step.
Gabe moved to look out a window. The city skyline was shrouded with morning fog, the kind that would burn off soon, revealing a crisp San Francisco autumn day. It suited his mood, for a fog was surely lifting from his own life. Richard Grimes and Arthur Chandler would pay for what they’d done.
The sins of the fathers are to be laid upon the children.
The quotation rang in Gabe’s head. A price would be exacted between the generations, a price long overdue, in Gabe’s book. Yet there would be other costs. His mother may never forgive him, even though he also sought justice for her. And Miss Cristina Chandler may find herself an inadvertent victim of convenience—Gabe’s. and the other men’s. But the world needed to hear the truth, and perhaps the cool, sophisticated woman was due to have her eyes opened, as well. Perhaps he was even saving her from a worse fate.
He could not fail. He’d waited a long time for this moment, and indeed, there would be a price to pay. But reward justified risk. That was his motto.
One
“There’s something wonderfully visceral about his work, don’t you think?” Cristina Chandler pressed her wineglass to her lips as she tried to understand her intense reaction to the painting in front of her. The Galeria Secreto teemed with people, but the voices were hushed and the laughter low, almost seductive, as if the tone had been established by the display they were all there to see—the newest De La Hoya creations.
What incredible work it was. Big canvas, broad strokes, bold colors, seething with passion. She couldn’t recall ever viewing a nude painted with such fire, such blatant sexuality, and yet it was tasteful enough to hang in a living room, although it certainly belonged in the privacy of someone’s bedroom.
“Makes you wonder if the artist fooled around with her,” Jen Wilding said under her breath. “I mean, look at her face. If that isn’t a well-satisfied woman, I don’t know what is.”
Cristina slid her glass across her lips again. “I don’t know that she’s satisfied. Not yet. I think she’s been thoroughly aroused, and satisfaction is just moments away.”
“And your father has commissioned your portrait from this De La Hoya person? Has he ever seen this guy’s work? Does he know you’d have to spend time alone with him?”
A picture started to form in Cristina’s mind as she imagined what Alejandro De La Hoya looked like. Dark, undoubtedly. Latin. With intense eyes that looked deep inside a person and drew out their fantasies. A man who would see through lies and insecurities to what was real. A man for whom a woman would gladly strip herself bare and not feel the least bit shy. Or hesitant. Or humiliated.
Jen whimpered. Cristina smiled at her friend.
“God, Cris, I’m getting hot just thinking about taking that woman’s place.” Jen drained her wineglass and set it on the tray of a passing waiter, grabbing a full one with the other hand in a practiced move. “It’s been weeks since I tangled under the sheets with anyone.”
Weeks? Cristina thought as they moved on. I should be so lucky. “What if De La Hoya is eighty years old and has a wart on his nose?”
“I’d shut my eyes. Any man who could make me feel like that woman obviously does—But if he looked like that I’d be ecstatic,” Jen said as she stopped at the next painting.
Cristina glanced at the program in her hand, looking for the title of the portrait Jen was panting over. Sebastian. The name teased her memory, the reason just beyond her grasp, but perhaps only because it was an old-fashioned name for such a modern man. And yet it suited him. His long, black hair framed a solid face with fine, dark eyes and a hard mouth, the image of a lord from another land, another century—who wore jeans, a lumberjack shirt and boots. Definitely twentieth century stuff.
Jen sighed. “I’ll bet he’d have me shouting timber more than once a night.”
Cristina laughed. She was glad she’d come, after all. She’d almost ignored the out-of-the-blue, engraved invitation, probably would have, except that Jen refused to let her. Too many strange things had happened lately, and she needed an evening of pure fun.
“So, what’s the deal with this portrait your dad is arranging?” Jen asked. “I know that De La Hoya is all the rage, but isn’t he, like, superexpensive?”
“Not only expensive, but incredibly mysterious. No one ever sees him.”
“How is that possible?”
“The rumor is that he works behind some sort of curtain or two-way mirror. I don’t know the specifics. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. Even if De La Hoya agrees, I’m not going to allow it. I don’t think Father can afford to spend that kind of money, even if it does complete the family gallery. Besides which, it just seems so pretentious.”
“That is often the point, I believe,” said a man from behind them, his voice as hushed and seductive as the environment demanded.
Cristina and