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The lab door opened, and Sabrina slipped inside carrying a paper coffee cup. Her eyes remained red, but the frantic edge had softened. “Thanks for the break. It helped. I feel much better. And if you catch me texting Derek, or—saints preserve me!—calling him, throw something hard at my head.”

“You got it.”

Sabrina pulled her stool over to the worktable. “Wow, you've already got half the front clean. How do you plan on tackling that ruined face in the center?”

Focusing on conservation steadied me. “After I get it clean, I'll remove the damaged pieces and reconstruct the outlines of the face with gold wire, using the other faces as guides. When I have that adhered to the base with a temporary vegetable glue, I'll fill the reservoirs with glass paste. And then I'll use a heat gun to melt the glass.”

“Holy crap, that's a lot of work.”

“Not when you split it into portions.”

“I get so eager to see the finished piece.”

“I used to be impatient, even with my art. I worked only with acrylic paint so I didn't have to wait for layers to dry.” I offered her a faint smile. “But restoration work has taught me that the results are worth working and waiting for. Now, do you need me to go over the process for repairing the teacup again?”

“No, I think I've got it.” She went to her table.

“Don't be afraid to ask for help.”

As I picked up my cleaning swab, my gaze kept drifting toward the empty corridor beyond the glass. The stranger’s look remained etched in my mind. Not the one he'd given the reliquary—the look he'd shared with me.

Chapter Two

The next morning, coffee in hand and mental shield in place, I arrived at the lab, eager to get back to cleaning the reliquary. Usually, I paint at home after work, but my attempts the previous night had gone awry. My mind refused to consider any subject other than the blond stranger, and I had finally given up.

All the items we work on—with the exception of those too large to be stolen—get locked in a cabinet at night. Still thinking about the blond, I removed the cloth-wrapped reliquary from the cabinet and set it on my worktable. But before I could make a fresh cotton swab, Margaret from Collections Records intercepted me in the hallway, a clipboard pressed to her chest.

“You'll be having a visitor today.” She handed me a printed request form that read; Access to Acquisition Records: Byzantine Reliquary, Accession No. 1997.014.2. Requested by: Tristan Bane, Independent Historical Researcher.

I frowned at the paper. A records request was normal enough. Usually the researcher is hunting for provenance gaps, insurance value, or minor proof of smuggling networks they hoped would make their thesis more exciting. But this request wasn't asking about value, provenance chains, auction history, or which wealthy dead man's estate the reliquary had passed through before landing in our climate-controlled kingdom.

All Tristan Bane wanted to know was if the reliquary had ever been associated with the Stylos Monastery in Turkey. It was a strange request even without considering how Stylos wasn't a monastery associated with artifacts like the reliquary. The only others found there were frescoes and a pillar. It was what made the reliquary doubly precious. So, what information did Mr. Bane have that led him to suspect a connection between Stylos and the reliquary? And what kind of name was Tristan Bane anyway? He sounded like a supervillain.

“They've given him approval and access.” Margaret rounded her eyes, as shocked as I. “You're supposed to answer his questions and allow him to inspect the reliquary.”

“What? Who the hell is this guy?”

“I believe it says exactly who I am on that request form,” a man's voice came from behind me.

I turned and froze. It was him. Standing in the lab doorway. The blond I'd obsessed over all night. All morning too, if I'm being honest. And he was even more gorgeous up close. Those aquamarine eyes I'd kept envisioning glittered with turquoise striations and were framed in thick, curling eyelashes that put my stick-straight Asian lashes to shame. I was half Caucasian, but did I get my mom's long eyelashes? No, I inherited my dad's. But at least I got his thick, black hair too. It was my one physical trait I took pride in, and I found myself swishing my hip-length ponytail like a peacock displaying its feathers.

But back to Tristan Bane. Today, his coat was hung over his arm. As he approached, his suit stretched taut in places, displaying his physique. The bulge of biceps, corded thighs, and something that wasn't technically a muscle drew my attention. The man could fill a suit.

He walked like my father, with grace, but he outweighed Dad by a good forty pounds and stood at least seven inches taller than Dad's 5-foot-seven. My mind, already saturated with fantasies of Tristan Bane (oh, God, I had a name to go with the face now), went into hyper-aware mode and recorded every detail, from the way a lock of hair hung down one side of his face to the polish on his black shoes. Arousal shivered down my belly as images of Tristan Bane without his suit on took their spot in the fantasies I'd already woven.

Tristan Bane, possible supervillain, looked around the lab with widened eyes, taking in the shelves of tools, my worktable setup, and half-finished restorations with reverence, the way some people looked at cathedrals. Even though the reliquary was covered, his gaze settled on it.

“Uh, I gotta go.” Margaret hurried away, shutting the lab door behind her.

I frowned at her odd reaction. Sabrina, however, responded just as expected. Headphones on and working on her teacup, she nonetheless sensed the presence of a hottie. She glanced over, did a double take with widened eyes, swiveled her gaze to me, and waggled her eyebrows.

Her shameless appreciation jarred me out of my fantasies. Mentally slapping myself, I cleared my throat and lifted my chin. “I need to see some ID.”

His lips curved up, as if he found my demand delightful rather than confrontational. “I'm Tristan Bane.” He took a wallet out of his jacket pocket, flipped it open, and pulled out his ID. Holding it out for me to see, he asked, “And you are?”

I peered at the card and nodded. “I'm Destiny Takeda, the conservator assigned to the reliquary.” I held out a hand.

After putting his wallet away, he shook my hand. “Nice to meet you.”