Her Vicious Art, His Dark Obsession

The harsh spotlight illuminated Katelyn's face perfectly.

Etienne stared down at her.

His pupils dilated so fast his eyes looked completely black.

He saw the starlit eyes. He saw the tiny mole on her collarbone.

It was her.

The phantom he had been hunting for three months was standing right in his gallery.

The grip on her wrist tightened painfully.

"You," Etienne breathed, his voice a dangerous, vibrating rumble.

Katelyn's mind short-circuited.

It was the bastard from the linen closet.

Before she could process the impossibility of the situation, the heavy velvet doors of the gallery swung open.

"Check behind the displays," a security guard ordered.

Katelyn panicked.

If the guards caught her, they would drag her back to Julian. Julian would hand her to Arnett.

She looked up at Etienne. His jaw was locked, his eyes burning with a terrifying mixture of rage and raw hunger.

She had to use him again.

Katelyn stepped directly into his space.

She pressed her chest flush against his. She slid her free hand up his chest, gripping the lapel of his black shirt.

She dragged her thigh slowly, deliberately against his leg.

She went up on her tiptoes, her lips brushing his jawline.

"Take me out of here," she whispered, her voice a husky, desperate purr. "Or take me right here on the floor. Your choice."

Etienne let out a harsh, incredulous laugh.

He couldn't believe the sheer audacity of this woman. She was trying to play him again.

The beams of the guards' flashlights swept across the far wall.

Etienne's eyes darkened.

He didn't say a word. He wrapped his massive arm around her waist, lifting her entirely off the floor.

He carried her to the back of the gallery, pressing his thumb against a biometric scanner hidden in the wall.

A seamless metal door slid open.

He threw her inside and stepped in after her. The door hissed shut, cutting off the guards' voices completely.

It was a glass-walled private elevator.

The elevator shot upward with stomach-dropping speed.

Etienne backed Katelyn up until her spine hit the cold glass.

He planted his hands on the glass on either side of her head, trapping her.

He leaned in, his face inches from hers.

"What's your name?" Etienne demanded, his voice laced with venom. "Or are you going to lie to me again before you try to rob me?"

Katelyn met his furious gaze without flinching.

"Kate," she lied smoothly. "And I don't need to rob you. You look like you can afford whatever I want."

The elevator chimed.

The doors opened directly into the sprawling, ultra-luxurious master penthouse.

Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a panoramic view of the pitch-black ocean.

Etienne didn't hesitate.

He scooped her up, threw her over his shoulder, and strode into the master bedroom.

He tossed her onto the massive, circular black velvet bed.

Katelyn bounced on the mattress, trying to scramble backward, but Etienne was already on top of her.

He grabbed the delicate straps of her silk dress.

With one violent yank, the expensive fabric tore down the middle.

It wasn't a gentle seduction. It was a war.

Katelyn didn't cower. She fought back.

She dug her nails into the heavy muscles of his back, pulling him down, matching his aggression with a feral hunger of her own.

They collided in a chaotic tangle of limbs, biting, scratching, and consuming each other.

Meanwhile, down on the lower deck, Julian was pacing furiously.

"Yes, Mr. Reed," Julian said into his phone. "I swear to God, it was her. She's on the Shadow Trust."

Thousands of miles away in California, Arnett slammed his fist on his desk.

"Call the maritime authorities," Arnett roared to his assistants. "Send the helicopters. Ground that yacht!"

Back in the penthouse, the storm finally broke.

Katelyn lay on the tangled black sheets, her chest heaving, her skin flushed and marked with red fingerprints.

Etienne sat up against the headboard.

He reached over, pulled a cigarette from a silver case, and lit it.

He took a slow drag, his eyes never leaving her face. The rage had settled into a deep, possessive satisfaction.

He blew a stream of smoke toward the ceiling.

"You're not running this time, Kate," Etienne said, his voice a low, gravelly threat. "You're not leaving my sight."