The Gilded Chain

Wes Thorne was a sex god. A god who at that moment was focused solely on her pleasure. He doubled his speed and the sensation of him fully merged with her was all it took to send her careening off the edge into bliss. The man could fuck her into unconsciousness.

Her lashes fluttered closed, and she lay limp and exhausted, letting him disentangle their bodies. He left the bed and she heard the faint sound of water ru

This was how she’d envisioned her first kiss. That kiss in the tack room had been an inferno. Was that how all great loves started? With a lightning strike upon the body followed by the tender warmth of a kiss tamed by sweetness and true affection? Both were perfect and exciting in their own ways and just as fulfilling. She’d never dreamed she’d ever experience both, and certainly not with a man like Wes.

“Darling, I’m sorry I scared you.” He nuzzled her cheek and hugged her closer.

Callie felt so close to him that she surrendered to her desires and wrapped her arms about him, further co

Callie refused to let that scare her, not tonight. Everything felt right, felt wonderful. How often had she been this lucky? Never.

“Wes, in the morning I want you to tell me more about the art thief,” she said when their mouths finally broke apart.

“Not tonight?” he said and chuckled, stroking a fingertip down the top of her nose.

“Just kiss me, damn it.” She giggled and curled her fingers around his neck, urging his head back down to hers.

“As you wish,” he murmured and stole her breath with a kiss of fire and passion. A kiss to defy all others in its perfection.

*  *  *

A black wraith crept along the property line of the Thorne estate on Long Island. Security guards and closed-circuit cameras had been played like fiddles to the shadow’s tune.

“While the cat’s away, the mice will play.” The shadow laughed silently as it picked the lock on the balcony door of a first-floor bedroom.

Thorne was not in residence and his servants were lax in their duties, which was just the way the Illusionist liked it. Padding like a large jungle cat down the steps, he searched room by room.

No Monet, no Renoir…none of the most expensive pieces the shadow sought. He could steal the less expensive pieces, but that would spoil the plan, and Thorne would realize his defenses had been breached. Better to wait and find a means of getting access to wherever the real pieces were hidden away. He could wait. Thorne wouldn’t get any warning. There would be no fun if he got wise and moved the priceless art off the island.

The Morton job had been perfectly executed right down to allowing a cracked frame to give away the fact that he’d stolen the painting. Just as he pla

He passed in front of a handsome painting depicting the view of the Seine River. The colors used were lovely, the composition almost perfect. The artist’s name was an unfamiliar scrawl of black paint in one corner. Why did Thorne have so many pieces created by unknown artists? It made little sense. Art only held value if the creator had value. A person who painted just like Monet was irrelevant if he wasn’t actually Monet. So why did Thorne stock his collection with such items? The man touched the tip of the frame with one gloved fingertip, nudging a painting into a level-hanging position.

His eye for precision was what made him a master. He could replicate any painting to perfection and, therefore, if the opportunity arose, steal original works and replace them with his forgeries, undetected. He’d stolen half a dozen pieces from the rich fat cats on Long Island already, and only the Mortons had realized their Goya was missing. That had sold quite well to one of his co

The Illusionist flashed a cocky little smile up at the security camera that had been wirelessly hacked. It was playing a looped feed of an empty hall while he took a look around. For all intents and purposes, he was a ghost, flitting unseen through Thorne’s estate.

Uncatchable.

Unstoppable.

An illusion.

*  *  *

The sketchpad and its thick paper were crisp and white. A blank slate for Callie to create her dreams. Tucked up in a large armchair by Wes’s bed, she sifted through the set of newly sharpened graphite pencils and picked a medium HB. Then she concentrated on her subject, a sexy, deliciously naked man in the king bed. Wes was asleep, sprawled out on his stomach, his face turned in her direction, one arm dangling off the bed. The blankets pooled at his lower back and exposed one muscled leg. He had the most amusing tendency to kick free of the sheets during the night so it was a good thing his large body was warm and it kept her from freezing.

She used the HB pencil to lightly sketch the bed frame, then the contours of his body. Tracing the way his arms bulged in places and the slopes of his shoulders down to his trim waist, she used shadows and patches of white to give his body definition and life. Using one of her lighter H pencils, she sketched the relaxed line of his brows, straight nose, strong chin, and the fall of his thick lashes against his cheeks. She sketched the slight upward curve of his lips and the sleepy look of satisfaction on his face.

What did a man like Wes Thorne dream about? Art? Women? Treasures from the basement of the Louvre?

The morning sun was that singular shade of buttery warm yellow as it slowly progressed across the room and climbed the bed frame to illuminate Wes. The sun, like a lover, caressed his lightly ta

Callie continued to sketch the rumpled bed scene, smiling more than once. She’d have to hide this one from him. He could never see it. He’d make fun of her. A few feet away, the lovebirds sat in their cage, puffing up their feathers and blinking sleepily. The female tucked her head close to her body, settling onto the bar closest to Callie. Her green-and-peach feathers were warm and seemed to glow with a faint glint on their tips as though they’d been dipped in liquid sunlight. The male lovebird jumped from the nest down to his mate and chirped excitedly. Callie shot a glance at Wes, but he didn’t stir.

After finishing her sketch of Wes, she signed her initials and dated it before turning to a fresh page. The birds were difficult to capture. They weren’t perfectly still but hopped and chattered. The Parisian birds outside landed on the balcony and spoke in their own avian tongue, conversing with the lovebirds. Callie captured rough sketches of the birds, hasty sketches of their wings, their faces, their bright eyes and affectionate poses.