Celt. (Den of Mercenaries #2)(4)

Even with the shirt around her waist, she could still feel the heat of his palm on the small of her back.

Dropping her hands, she moved back a little. “Thanks.”

His smile was easy, friendly, even as his eyes blatantly swept over her. “No bother at all.”

She couldn’t withhold her smile even if she wanted to. His accent was a dream to hear. It was lilting, and had an almost smoky quality to it.

Irish. He was definitely Irish.

When he turned his head, staring off at something in the distance, she discreetly checked him out in return. He, like her, wasn’t particularly dressed for this weather, only wearing a soft-knit gray tee, dark-wash jeans that seemed tailored for him, and boots that looked like they had seen better days.

There were two thick, black bands tattooed around his right forearm, the only tattoo she could see, if he had others. The knuckles of the hand wrapped securely around the metal pole to the left of her, like the knuckles of the hand he used to pull her in, were scarred—as though he had been in a number of fights all his life.

If her stop wasn’t just a few minutes away, she would have been tempted to spark up a conversation with him, maybe even get his name, but she decided against it, stepping off the train when the doors opened at the next station.

She didn’t need to make another bad decision.

But at the last minute, unable to help herself, she glanced back one final time, smiling when she found his eyes on her. Caught, he gave her a charmingly crooked smile, and didn’t even bother to look ashamed that she caught him checking out her ass.

Men.

Shaking her head, Amber headed out onto the bustling sidewalk, glad that the rain had lightened up in the short time she had been traveling. Cedar came into view rather quickly, and as she walked in, Elliot was in the parlor already, instructing movers on where to bring several crates they were wheeling in.

Elliot was in his mid-thirties with the misfortune of having a receding hairline, even at his young age. He fixed this by wearing a rather natural looking toupee. He worked out at least five times a week and made a point to buy at least one new suit every two weeks. He cared more about his appearance than the majority of his staff of females.

Today was no different.

He was wearing one of his suits, one that was a bit too snug, and shiny black loafers. Noticing her, he broke out in a grin.

“Amber! You look beautiful as always.” He air-kissed both of her cheeks. “And I love what you’ve done with your hair.”

For the longest time, she had bleached her hair, leaving her mane of curly hair blonde though she kept dark roots, but two nights ago, she had decided to dye it back dark.

“Come on back, there’s someone I want you to meet.”

Briefly waving to Tabitha, one of the other floor girls she had grown close to during her time in the gallery, Amber followed Elliot toward a back room and waited while he unlocked the door with the key he carried around on a delicate chain around his neck.

This particular room was climate-controlled, and specifically used to store some of the gallery’s more prominent works while they weren’t on display.

There was someone already in the room, standing next to a tarp-covered painting, a phone in his hand. As they entered, he turned ever so slightly, just enough that his profile could be seen before he faced them completely.

“Ah, Gabriel,” Elliot announced once they got close. “This was the artist I was telling you about. Amber, meet Gabriel Monte.”

He had a wide, charming smile with dark eyes that seemed to miss nothing. His hair was mostly black with a few silver streaks throughout, and while Elliot acted superior, this man radiated it. It was almost uncomfortable being in his presence.

“Amber, very nice to meet you. I’ve heard great things.”

Smiling politely, she accepted the hand he offered, releasing it a second later. “It’s nice to meet you too, Mr. Monte.”

“Gabriel, please.”

Clearing his throat gently, Elliot spoke up. “Gabriel has a special request, one that he would like to ask you pers—”

Gabriel cut him off. “An associate of mine has asked that I hold an auction for a painting from his private collection. Due to the history of the painting … he is a bit concerned that should anyone know that it is being sold, there will be a strong chance of someone trying to steal it.”

Amber might not have known what painting hid beneath the covering, but if it required this kind of mystery and speech, then it was probably worth more than she could put a number to. Art thefts were common throughout the world, especially if the artist was well known. Some paintings were worth a cool few million just off face-value alone, and those same ones could go for much more on the black market.

“I thought it best to have someone come in,” Gabriel said, drawing Amber from her thoughts, “and create a replica of the painting for further security. Once the auction begins, no one will be able to tell which of the two paintings is authentic, and thus decrease its chances of being stolen.”

That was actually a pretty brilliant idea, though Amber didn’t voice that thought aloud.

“Elliot tells me you are one of the best he’s ever seen, and that you’re more than capable for the job.”

Amber glanced over at her boss in surprise. She was good—she had worked hard enough to describe herself as such—but Elliot was obviously putting a lot more trust in her than she would have thought he would.