1. Butterfly

“Hello, Butterfly.”

I raised my head. Even if I hadn’t recognized the man who walked into my gallery, or his sexier-than-shit British accent, I would’ve known who he was. Only Brando Ripa had ever called me by the nickname. I blinked more than once, stood, and walked toward him. “Brand? Is it really you?”

“It hasn’t been that long,” he said, winking.

My eyes scrunched as we embraced and cheek-kissed. “I thought you were in prison.”

He stepped back but still held both my hands in his. “Out on good behavior.”

I raised a brow, retreating far enough so we no longer touched. “Somehow, I doubt that was the reason.” While I winked and smiled, I wasn’t being facetious. The man hadn’t behaved a day in his life, as far as I remembered.

His eyes softened. “How are you, Butterfly?”

“Penelope—or Pen. And fine.”

“Are you? Truly?”

I retreated to the desk where I’d been sitting when he walked in, leaned against it, and looked everywhere but at him. His physical beauty had always been my undoing. Spending time in prison hadn’t diminished it in the slightest. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“May I?” he asked, pointing to a chair.

“Of course.” As I looked into his gray-green eyes, he reached up, unintentionally flexing the powerful muscles of his upper arm, and ran his hand through his sandy-brown hair. It was longer than I’d ever seen it, which likely meant he’d been out of prison for some time. I wondered how long.

When his leg brushed mine as he took his seat, I straightened and walked around the desk but remained standing.

He cleared his throat. “One of the conditions of my release was agreeing to work for Doc Butler.”

I recognized the name. Doc—or Kade, as I knew him—was Quinn’s father. Quinn and I, along with three of our other friends, referred to ourselves as the “Tribe of Five.” We’d been best buddies since we were seven years old, and were also business partners in the gallery.

Kade was a former Marine Raider who had worked for the CIA after he left active duty and now owned a private intelligence firm called K19 Security Solutions.

“What an interesting turn of events,” I commented.

He raised a brow and smirked. “As you know, my expertise lies in art forgery.”

I gripped the back of my chair, then plopped down in it as much as sat, realizing Kade must’ve somehow gotten wind of the meeting I’d had four days ago with investigators from the FBI.

From the moment the man and woman arrived at the gallery, something had felt off to me. Since I was working alone that day, I motioned for the two security guards on duty to discreetly make their presence known.

There was only one other person browsing when they came in, and when he thanked me and left, the woman approached, showed me her badge, and asked if there was somewhere we could speak privately.

I used the remote to lock the door and invited the two to the conference room in the back after the man also flashed his badge. Once inside, he introduced himself as Special Agent Dan McWhinn and the woman as Special Agent Sonia Vasquez.

“Am I in some kind of trouble?” I asked.

The man cleared his throat. “We’re investigating a high-end forged-art ring. Yours, along with several other galleries in New York, Chicago, San Francisco, and other cities both here in the US and around the world, are purported to have sold several of the forged pieces.”

“Wait. Are you saying you believe the Catarina Benedetto Gallery has sold forged art?”

“Allegedly, yes.”

I shook my head. “I can assure you my partners and I have not. We thoroughly research the provenance of every piece we sell, most of which are purchased from some of the most respected auction houses in the world.”

My cheeks flushed when I realized I was wrong and they were right by the look on their faces.

“How many pieces are we talking?” I asked, wanting to excuse myself and throw up.

“Twenty-four.”

I saw spots before my eyes. Twenty-four? God, that number could value in the millions. “Do you have a list?”

Agent Vasquez passed it across the table, and I scanned it. Yes, it was millions. The other thing I noticed right away was I had personally arranged for the procurement of every painting on it. While I’d previously wondered if I was in trouble, maybe it was worse.

“Am I under arrest?” I asked.

“Not unless you knowingly arranged for the sale of fraudulent paintings,” Agent McWhinn responded.

“Of course I didn’t,” I snapped.

Before they left, the two explained it was an active investigation, so I was not permitted to discuss it with anyone.

“What about my partners? I can’t keep this from them. Or our clients.”

Agent Vasquez handed me each of their business cards and suggested I schedule a time for them to meet with my partners. “We’ll be in touch as the investigation moves forward. We’ll also be the ones to notify the current owners of the art in question.”

“I’m here to help, Butterfly,”Brand said, jarring me out of the thoughts I’d gotten lost in.

I raised my head and glared at him.

“Sorry—Penelope.”

“Are you working with the FBI?”

“In conjunction with them, yes.”

I had half a mind to call Kade directly and ask what the hell was going on, particularly since the only one of my four partners who knew so far was Tara. Wait. Tara.

“Is your sister behind this? Did she contact Kade, err, Doc?” Not that there was anything wrong with her doing so. I just wished she would’ve talked to me about it first.

“She did not, and she and I have not spoken since my release.”

“Why not?”

“Because I wanted to see you first, Butter—Pen.”

I didn’t necessarily hate the nickname he’d bestowed on me; it was more the memory of the last time I heard him speak it, which was also the last time I’d seen him before today, that unsettled me.

He’d put his hand on the back of my neck that afternoon, whispering, “Butterfly,” before we’d shared our first and only kiss.

It was nothing like the ones on the cheek we’d exchanged earlier. No, it was a lover’s kiss, hotter than any I’d had before or since.

It started off tentatively, a quick brush of his mouth on mine before Brand coaxed my lips apart. His tongue sought mine with an urgency—a possession—I’d spent many hours dreaming about.

I’d gone limp that day, wishing we were alone somewhere where we could strip each other from our clothing and I could feel his naked body against mine. Instead, we were standing near a busy Midtown Manhattan intersection while hundreds of cars, and more people, passed us by.

All too soon, he’d ended the kiss, dropped his hand, turned, and walked away without uttering another word. At the time, I’d told myself it was ridiculous to think I was in love with him. It was nothing more than lust. However, no one else had made my heart pound the way Brand did back then. Or now, if I was being honest.

I’d looked away, but met his gaze when he sighed and said, “I think about it all the time too, Butterfly.”

My spine stiffened, and I folded my hands in front of me on the desk, refusing to acknowledge how dead-on he was in reading my thoughts. “You said you’re here to help.”

His hooded eyes opened wider, and he sat up straighter, as if my doing so had jarred him out of the memory like he’d done to me minutes before. “That’s right. As you know, the Catarina Benedetto Gallery wasn’t the only one affected. There are several others in Midtown alone.”

“I see.” I shuffled papers around on my desk. “What is it you need from me?” When his gaze lingered but he didn’t speak, I regretted phrasing my question the way I had. “I’ve given my statement to the agents and forwarded the documentation they requested. Unfortunately, the pieces in question were secured through various brokers, not just one.”

“You aren’t alone in that. From the report I read, the other galleries I alluded to said much the same thing. However, the number of pieces in question is far greater.”

“I’m relieved to hear it,” I muttered under my breath.

“Sorry. I meant your gallery had the larger amount of forged art.”

“It isn’t mine alone. I mean, you know Tara, Aine, Ava, Quinn, and I are partners, not that it’s relevant.” I was rambling, once again stunned, so I took a deep breath. “How many more?”

“Twice as many.” Brand leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

I was nauseated. When word eventually got out about this, we’d be out of business. In the meantime, I had to answer to Tara and our other three partners about what this would mean for us going forward. Short and long term. The only art I’d feel comfortable selling now was Tara’s, and that was because I’d watched her paint it. While she was good and her work was popular, it wouldn’t bring in enough revenue on its own to keep us in business.

My cell vibrated with a message, and out of habit, I glanced over at it.

“What is it?” Brand asked when my eyes scrunched.

I swiped the screen and read the message from my dad.

“Fuck,” I muttered, again under my breath, rubbing my eyes and rolling my shoulders.

“Penelope?”

“Yes?”

“What was the message?”

“It’s nothing.”

He raised a brow.

“It’s from my dad. He’s pestering me to meet his latest love interest—which I have zero interest in doing. The last one didn’t last a year once she got him to marry her. Or maybe it was vice versa. Either way, his relationships never last.”

Another message popped up. This one said he’d had a change of plans and wanted to talk to me about the property on Fire Island.

“That fucking asshole,” I muttered.

Brand got up, walked around the desk, and stood next to me.

As he got closer, I looked up at him. “What?”

He turned my chair, put a hand on each of the armrests, and bent at the waist, his face close enough that if I leaned forward, I could kiss him. And right now, I wanted to more than anything. “There’s more to this than you’re saying.”

“It’s just…” I shook my head.

“I’ve known you a long time, and rarely have I heard you curse.”

I tried to turn my chair, but he tightened his grip. “I swear all the time, Brand,” I snapped. “It isn’t like you’ve been around the last four years—longer, really—to know what I do and don’t do.”

“Why is this upsetting you? Were you close to his last wife?”

I laughed out loud. “I don’t even remember her name.”

“I’m not letting you get away with this. I’ll keep you trapped in your chair all night if I have to.”

I sighed and looked into his eyes. He wasn’t bluffing. He was going to keep after me until I told him.

“Meeting his girlfriend isn’t what upset me,” I finally said. “It was the second half of the message. He said he also wants to talk to me about the property on Fire Island.”

Brand raised a brow. “What about it?”

It wasn’t him I was mad at; it was my dad, but when I jerked the chair harder, he let go. Maybe he did because he saw my eyes fill with tears, mortifying me. When I stood and looked out the window, he put his hand on my shoulder.

“He’s supposed to be giving it to me. When he told me he was going to sell it, I begged him to let me buy it. Instead, he offered to quitclaim it. Now, he says there’s been a change of plans.” I brushed away my tears and turned around. “It’s just really bad timing. If he wants me to buy it, like I originally offered, I doubt I’ll be able to come up with the money.”

“Because of the forged art? I’m sure the gallery’s insurance would cover the loss.”

“Even if they do, they don’t hand the money over immediately. They’ll conduct their own investigation. It could be months. Even years. In the meantime, I feel as though we should be prepared to refund our clients as soon as the FBI notifies them. I can’t ask my partners to pony up for this. I’m the one who handled the acquisitions. I’m the one who purchased the forgeries. It’s my responsibility.”

I looked up at the ceiling. Why was I telling him this? Brand was no different than a stranger walking in off the street. Except that we’d kissed. Still, I hadn’t seen him in years. I barely knew him.

So why, when he spun me around and pulled me into his arms, did I feel so much better?