She spun to face him, forcing a smile despite the bile rising in her throat.

"You forgot Sasha�s baklava." Rudy held up a to-go container, his smirk making her skin crawl. "Should I deliver it myself?"

A hard-on was the last thing Dorian expected to get from his meeting at the JHS, but when he saw the woman standing at the information desk, all bets were off.

Impossible.

He�d been obsessing about her all day, and suddenly there she was, leaning against the desk with her beautiful ass calling to him like a beacon. She was dressed casually today�a V-neck blouse that showed off her neck and throat and dark jeans that hugged every delicious curve�but it was definitely Charlotte. The auburn hair, the delicate features, that confident, take-no-prisoners stance.

The scent.

He�d recognize his woman anywhere.

But what the bloody hell is she doing here?

Dorian never found out why she�d been snooping around the Salvatore penthouse last night, and now she was here, snooping around the museum moments after his meeting with the curator about the Whitfield.

It couldn�t have been a coincidence.

Without making his presence known, Dorian crept up behind her, eavesdropping on her conversation with the desk attendant.

"Let me check," the attendant said, tabbing through files on his computer. "Desolate Rains. Okay, here it is. Acquisition is still pending, but yes, it�s slated to be displayed in our permanent collection later this winter."

"Is there any other information you can give me?" Charlotte asked.

"It says here that the painting was one of a series looted during the Second World War," he said. "From�"

"Poland�s National Art Institute," Charlotte said. "Yes, I�m familiar with the painting�s history."

So was Dorian. The Whitfield was long thought destroyed. Since he�d heard a rumor of its reappearance in the States several years ago, Dorian had been working closely with the museum to locate it, the promise of his donation years in the making. He doubted the family he�d bought it from had any clue about its history, but the museum�s curator certainly did.

To Dorian, he was the one who mattered.

"I�m afraid that�s all the information I have right now," the attendant said. "But you�re welcome to check back again next month. The curator should have more details about the exhibit by then."

"What about the donor? Did he say why he purchased the painting for you?"

"I�m sorry, ma�am. That�s confidential. The donor has asked to remain anonymous."

"I might be able to answer your questions," Dorian said, finally revealing himself. "The donor and I have quite a history."

The smile on Charlotte�s face as she turned toward him was worthy of its own painting, a work of art he tried desperately to memorize. She hid it quickly, masking her surprise, but the damage was done, and the verdict was in.

She was as happy to see him as he�d been to see her.

"Hello, Charlotte," he said warmly.

"Hi to you, too, Mr. Redthorne." JrNovels.com