Page 40 of Ruthless Enforcer

I turn slowly to look at him. "I painted it."

Gabriel goes completely still. His gaze drops to the canvas, then snaps back to mine, sharp and assessing. I watch the realization settle across his features. He isn't looking at a cattle heiress who got caught in the crossfire of a syndicate feud anymore. He's looking at the woman who created something that stopped him in his tracks three years before he ever knew her name.

Still, he says, "You're Claire Laurent?"

I smile at his incredulity. "Yes."

"The reclusive prodigy the East Coast critics have been losing their shit over for eighteen months."

"I wouldn't call them critics," I say dryly. "Most of them just like free wine."

"You did this," he murmurs, his thumb brushing the rough cedar frame. “Fuck, Duchess. You’re even more brilliant than I realized.”

That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.

Leaning in, Gabriel looks at the painting again—really studies it this time. Then he turns to me. "The show in Bozeman. It's in two weeks?"

"Give or take." I nod. “It’s called What We Hold.”

"And you're a canvas short."

"Yes." I wince. I still don’t know what the last painting is going to be. “And I have a couple canvases in my studio that I need to deliver.”

His expression turns serious. "If you had everything you needed, could you paint here?"

"Yes," I reply cautiously. Is he serious?

He nods decisively. "Then you paint here."

"Gabriel." I wonder if throwing my arms around him would violate our détente.

"I'm not letting you go back to Helena." His gaze moves to the painting, something close to awe still lingering in his expression. Then those blue eyes come back to mine. "But I'm not letting you give this up either. The show happens, Duchess. We’ll work out the details."

Something inside me goes very still.

And suddenly, fourteen-year-old me isn't the one in trouble—I am.

33

GABRIEL

By dinnertime, I have all the arrangements made.

After forty-eight hours of attempted kidnapping, an impromptu wedding, and enough adrenaline to kill a lesser woman, Clara finally hits the wall. She retreats to her bedroom early, leaving me with the key to her studio in Helena, a meticulously detailed list of supplies, and the heavy silence of an empty house.

I leave just before nine, taking the dark coastal highway north to a private airstrip half an hour away.

The private jet Hendricks arranged for me is fueled, prepped, and waiting on the tarmac with its turbines idling low. Less than two hours later, the wheels touch down on cold Montana asphalt under a canopy of slate-black clouds.

Mandy is leaning against the fender of a black SUV in the shadows of the private hangar, arms crossed against the mountain chill, looking entirely too amused. Hendricks sits inside, behind the wheel, the cold blue glow of a tablet illuminating his sharp features.

"Congratulations, Mr. Reyes," Mandy says dryly as I approach. "How’s the honeymoon?"

"There is no honeymoon." Like I need to be reminded about that. I toss my duffel in the back and climb in.

She hops in the passenger seat. "Trouble in paradise already?"

I shut the door. "Hendricks, control your woman."