Immovable Objects. Marie Ferrarella

style, any artist.

      She’d used both skills in printing up her invitation. The rest had required a little research. She’d gotten a lead on the company that had printed the original invitations. Paying a visit to the store, she’d affected a Southern accent and gushed, professing utter admiration for the look of the invitation when it had arrived at her home. The printer had been in the palm of her hand within two minutes, answering her questions unconditionally. After all, what was the harm in telling someone about the kind of paper that was used to print the invitation?

      Armed with that and the newspaper photograph of the invitation, the rest was easy.

      She smiled to herself as she slipped her wrap around her shoulders and gave herself one last look before picking up her purse. Ready.

      Cole had no idea who she was. Only that he quite possibly—despite his wide circle of friends, acquaintances and business associates—had never seen a woman quite this beautiful in his life. In the crowded gallery, he’d noticed her the moment she’d walked into the room.

      Taken possession of the room was a more apt description.

      He could feel his gut tightening just looking at her, and that kind of thing just didn’t happen to him. It had never happened to him, in fact, not even his first time with a woman. And these days, well, women had proven a far too accessible commodity for him to feel anything but the mildest form of fleeting excitement.

      He was blessed with good looks on top of his vast fortune, and all he had to do was crook his finger and women fell at his feet, ready and willing. There was no challenge for him. The outcome was always a foregone conclusion. The only eagerness in any physical encounter was displayed on the part of the women he encountered, women who wanted nothing more than to be part of the social whirl he always moved in.

      But this one, he could see even at this distance, had a fire in her eyes. The way she moved through the throng, displaying the most self-assured manner he’d ever seen, created a wrinkle in his concentration. Outside of himself, he couldn’t recall ever seeing anyone look quite so confident.

      And why shouldn’t she be confident? When you were drop-dead gorgeous, a certain kind of smugness had to enter into it.

      Who the hell was she? And who had invited her? He knew she couldn’t be on the list his secretary had him initial. He knew everyone on that list by sight, if not immediately by name.

      A possessive squeeze rendered on his forearm brought Cole back to his immediate circumstances. There was a blonde hanging off his arm and apparently on his every word.

      Except that he’d stopped talking.

      “If you’ll excuse me,” he began as he ably disengaged himself from the nubile blonde in the almost-dress that kept threatening to slip off her supple body. The woman—Ellen was it?—had hung herself on his arm some fifteen minutes ago, dangling there like an expensive bracelet.

      One look at the pout on her face told him that Ellen was not about to go quietly into that good night.

      “But I was hoping you could show me your private collection later,” she breathed suggestively. Her surgically perfect breasts all but put in a personal appearance, thanks to the filmy white material that was doing an inadequate job of covering them.

      Very deliberately, Cole moved out of range. “Perhaps some other time,” he said over his shoulder. He’d forgotten about her before the words ever reached the woman’s ears.

      His mind was elsewhere.

      The woman with the killer body and the Gypsy face had just moved toward the centerpiece of the gala, the bronze statue of Venus Smiling.

      From her expression, the lady in red seemed oblivious to the sensation she was creating in her wake.

      Bathed in cool blue lights that shone on it from three directions, Venus Smiling was hauntingly exquisite. Almost as exquisite as the woman looking at it, Cole couldn’t help thinking.

      Approaching her, Cole paused for a moment to spare a glance at the so-called work of art. The work of art that almost wasn’t.

      You are truly a master, Lorenzo. I have to give you that.

      He made a mental note to send the man a gift of appreciation over and above the sum they had agreed on once this whole affair was over. Once he managed to lay his hands on the original and return it, he might even keep Lorenzo’s work of art as a souvenir.

      As to finding out who had the original, the clock was definitely ticking. Come morning, he was going to have to turn his considerable energies to finding out just what had happened to it. For the last week, his attention had been focused on manipulating the press so that their attention was on the gala, not the piece, until it was ready.

      It had been touch and go for a while. At one point, it looked as if he was going to have to postpone the opening, but then Lorenzo had come through, the way he always did. The copy was ready a full eighteen hours before the big opening.

      Just enough time for the work to “cool.”

      Cole had had his doubts, up until the unveiling, that they could pull it off. But when Lorenzo had placed the statue before him, undraping it with a flourish, he’d been speechless. He was by no means an expert, but he certainly couldn’t tell the difference between the statue he had been shown in MacFarland’s mansion and the one that was now taking its place. Provided with a multitude of photographs, Lorenzo had managed to nail the statue right down to the minute details.

      The hunt for the missing statue was for tomorrow. Tonight Cole wanted to enjoy the fruits of his efforts. And possibly to enjoy this young woman who was looking at the sculpture with such rapt attention.

      As he came up behind her, he caught a whiff of something seductive that went straight to his gut. That was twice now, he thought.

      “It is beautiful, isn’t it?”

      Elizabeth didn’t turn immediately to look at the man standing behind her. Her attention was completely focused on the statue, to the exclusion of everything and everyone else. Situated the way it was, on a tall pedestal within a ring of blue lights and roped off from general access, it was too far away for her to study in detail.

      Even so, there was something that bothered her about the statue, something not quite right that she couldn’t put her finger on.

      Granted she’d only seen the statue once, and that had been on an old VHS tape that dealt with unique pieces of art that had found their way into private collections. But still, there was something nagging her about the statue. She needed a closer look, but she knew hopping over the golden ropes that surrounded the piece would be frowned upon.

      “Yes, it is beautiful,” she murmured, finally looking away and at the person who addressed her.

      Space within the gallery was at a premium. Rubbing elbows was not only a euphemistic description, but an accurate one as well. It was hard to move within the vast room without brushing up against someone. Right now she found herself brushing up against a sophisticated, handsome man with sea-blue eyes, light-blond hair worn like a lion’s mane and a killer smile.

      The latter seemed to burrow itself right into her very bones, bones that were currently experiencing, for lack of a better description, a startling jolt of electricity.

      He was tall, very tall. At six-one or six-two he dwarfed her, despite her four-inch heels. He also filled out his deep-gray suit to perfection with shoulders that in an emergency she was certain could probably easily accommodate an aircraft landing.

      He was definitely a man who deserved to be regarded as one of the beautiful people, she mused, studying him as she took a slow, languid sip from the champagne flute she was holding.

      Cocking her head, she glanced back at the sculpture. “It looks as if it was done yesterday.”

      Very few things threatened to make Cole’s heart stop. This, however, was one of them. Just who was she? Had she been sent by the person responsible for the statue’s disappearance?