A future he was eager to begin.
“We should go soon,” he murmured against her brow. “Lazaro Archer can have the Order’s private jet ready for us at any time. If I don’t call him soon and make the arrangements, there’s a very good chance I’ll tie you to the bed and have my wicked way with you again.”
She smiled, looking anything but worried. “I like your wicked ways. And I also liked being on top. So maybe I’ll be the one to tie you to the bed sometime.”
His cock responded instantly, evidence she could see plainly enough, not to mention feel. As if to let him know she had him precisely where she wanted him, Jordana reached down and stroked his erect shaft.
On a groan, he caught her hand and linked his fingers through hers. “Come on, let’s go inside before I spread you beneath me on the tiles out here.”
He led her back into the villa, past the blood from the battle they’d survived together and into the living area. Nathan hadn’t realized until now how rich Cass’s villa was with original art and other treasures.
And there was something else he hadn’t noticed until now either.
A small, framed snapshot occupying a private place of honor on the far wall of the living area. It was a black-and-white photo of a young woman. A woman with long dark hair, dressed in a pale linen, ankle-length sheath. She stood on the same terrace Nathan and Jordana had just come in from, overlooking the same cliffside and coast, except she stood there under the full light of day, the sun glinting off the sheen of her hair.
Nathan frowned. “Is that a picture of—”
“My mother,” Jordana murmured at nearly the same moment, shock and wonder in her quiet reply. “Oh, my God. That has to be her.”
She broke away from Nathan and crossed the room for a closer look. He followed, taking in the details of the candid shot, which had been captured from inside the villa by someone who clearly adored the subject.
The woman stood half turned near the railing, her delicate face dipped down toward her shoulder, wistful, smiling with a private joy. Nathan knew the elegant profile well enough: One glance in Jordana’s direction would have confirmed the same high cheekbones, the small, straight nose and regal, if stubborn, chin.
“That’s Soraya,” Jordana whispered. She pointed to the photo, where it was just possible to see from the woman’s angle the hint of a rounded belly. “Oh, Nathan. That’s my mother and me.”
Jordana carefully reached out to take the frame off its fixture on the wall. It stuck a bit, then sprang free on a soft click, followed by a mechanical whir from somewhere within the wall on which the photo had hung.
The tall millwork panel began to slide open, revealing an alcove hidden behind the false wall.
Nathan stepped back, taking Jordana with him by the arm. “What the hell …”
He tried to sweep her behind him, but she stepped forward, unafraid. “Nothing in my father’s house will hurt me,” she reassured him.
Even so, as the panel slid all the way open, Nathan’s muscles tensed for battle, his senses instantly on high alert. He realized right away his concerns were unfounded.
The panel hid another piece of Cass’s art.
A sculpture, roughly a foot tall, depicting a handsome shepherd youth asleep beneath a crescent moon.
Nathan had seen this piece before.
It was on display in the exhibit Jordana had lovingly curated and unveiled to the public just the other night.
“Sleeping Endymion,” Jordana whispered, astonished to find the sculpture here, in her father’s Amalfi villa. “How can this be?”
Nathan stood beside her as she gaped at the terra cotta work of art she knew so well.
Or, rather, thought she had.
Now she realized she’d made a mistake.
There were things she hadn’t seen before. Not until this very moment.
“When Cass came to the museum that afternoon, we talked about art. He knew so much. Seeing this place, I understand why now,” she said, trying to put the puzzle together in her mind. “He asked me what my favorite piece was in the exhibit. He seemed so pleased when I told him it was this one.” She shook her head as understanding dawned. “Not this one precisely, but the one Cass donated to the museum anonymously twenty-some-odd years ago. It was him.”
“What are you saying? That this sculpture meant enough to Cass that he had a second one made for himself?”
“No.” She shook her head, incredulous as she inspected the piece more carefully. “Oh, no, Nathan. I think this may be the original. In fact, I’m practically certain it is.”