They were all back in the limo, just about to pull away from the curb outside the store, when he heard a light tap on the tinted window. Gregor pushed the armrest button, and it slid silently down, revealing in degrees the most astonishing face he’d ever seen, peering in.

Wide-set eyes of blackest night, canted up at the corners like a cat’s. Thick, shoulder-length hair chopped rough and dyed indigo blue by someone who obviously hated her. Skin the color and creamy consistency of café au lait. A delicate nose and a wide, intelligent forehead and lips almost outrageously full that brought to mind certain body parts he’d like to have them wrapped around.

Gregor didn’t think she could accurately be called beautiful—she was too exotic, too many planes and angles in features that were proportionate but atypical—but he knew without doubt he’d never seen anything remotely comparable. He felt like he was a Neanderthal gazing at a Salvador Dali painting; he had no frame of reference and didn’t quite understand it, but he recognized the genius nonetheless.

For the first time in his life, he almost believed in the existence of God.

His surrealist masterpiece said, “I think this belongs to you.” She lifted her hand, and from one tapered finger dangled the gold and diamond watch Sean had taken. It glinted with mocking cheer in the afternoon sun.

When he glanced back at her, she had a faintly amused tilt to her mouth. Gregor felt the sudden, violent urge to kiss those pornographic lips. Instead he said, “No. You’re mistaken.”

Her brows rose. “Am I?”

She laughed a low, throaty laugh that sent a shiver all the way down his spine. He ordered the driver to keep the car running, opened the door, stepped out into the crisp autumn air, and struggled to inhale a single breath of it as his gaze traveled over her body. Head to toe she was encased in black—stiletto boots, kidskin gloves, and enough skintight, curve-hugging leather to satisfy the kinkiest of BDSM enthusiasts, complete with a high-collared jacket zipped right up to her chin.

All that leather armor couldn’t mask the pain in her eyes, though. He stood on the sidewalk next to her and marveled at how someone with the balls to be so defiantly uncommon could be so sad. Her lips smiled, but her midnight eyes held a terrible sorrow he was deeply moved to want to erase.

“Perhaps I’ll keep it, then,” the sloe-eyed stunner said, and slid the watch over her hand and clasped it in place on her wrist. She admired it for a moment, turning it in the light, and then looked back at him, pinning him in the deep melancholia of her eyes. “You wouldn’t happen to know anyone who could help me sell something like this for a little profit, would you?”

The amusement again. Because he wanted desperately to assure it would stay, he replied, “As a matter of fact, I would.”

Then he sent the driver with a tearstained Sean and a pouting Nicollette on their way.

Three years ago. Gregor knew the woman standing behind him now had known exactly who he was that day, had most likely followed him, waiting for the chance to propose to him what she did eventually propose, here in this very office after she’d pretended to let him convince her to come. Though they’d done business together regularly since then, she was as much a mystery to him now as she was that very first day, a bewitching ghost who drifted in and out of his life, ever silently, ever unexpectedly, leaving behind a faint scent of clover and winter roses that haunted him for hours afterward.

She haunted him.

Gregor, a man of calculating pragmatism who didn’t believe in spirits or the supernatural or anything that could not be purchased with cold, hard cash, still wasn’t entirely convinced this otherworldly creature was real.

“Just another one of Édoard’s lackeys, princess,” he said to her now, slowly swiveling around in his chair.

In soft shadow against the far wall, she stood watching him, regal and enigmatic as the Sphinx. He called her princess because although she stole for a living and dressed like a dominatrix and downed whiskey like it was going out of style, she was obviously highborn, a feline Audrey Hepburn, elegant and lithe. There was something elementally feral about her, too. Something that spoke of nighttime prowls and moonlit hunts.

Something almost…predatory.

He’d never known anyone who could be silent the way she could, who could look at you—into you—as if contemplating how you’d taste.

It was disturbing. Also—profoundly exciting.

She wore sleek, androgynous black, as always: a supple, thigh-length belted leather coat that molded to the lean lines of her body, black gloves, and short black boots with enough buckles and straps to handily double as bondage wear. Beneath the coat her long, gleaming golden legs were bare. She’d told him once that pantyhose made her feel claustrophobic—she had to feel the air on her skin—and he’d instantly summoned the vivid image of her sun-dappled nude body stretched out on green grass under a tree in the woods, arching her back and holding her arms out to him, wiggling her fingers in invitation like a lusty dryad.

He couldn’t help these thoughts. He had a girlfriend, Céline, he was more or less devoted to, but in the presence of this woman who called herself Eliana—he wasn’t entirely convinced that was her real name—all his willpower crumbled.

It should have worried him.

Being a man, it intrigued him instead.

“I don’t think so.” She stepped forward from the shadows, and for the first time Gregor noticed she carried a long cardboard cylinder under one arm. “He’s dangerous, I’m sure of it.”

Gregor rose, crossed to her, and took both her hands in his own. Beneath her gloves, they were chilled. He didn’t bother asking her how she’d gained access to his highly secured building. Just another of her mysteries, never to be decoded.

“Don’t worry about him,” he murmured, gazing down at her. “It’s good to see you again, princess. How are you?”

She grimaced and dropped her gaze to their joined hands. “You know I hate it when you call me that, Gregor. I’m about as much a princess as you are.” After a moment, she gently removed her hands from his. “And how I am is worried about you. They’re getting too close. One of these days—”

“One of these days nothing,” he interrupted firmly, brushing her concerns aside. “They don’t know anything, and they never will. Have I ever failed you before?”

She looked up at him, and something hot flared in her eyes, which was immediately veiled when she lowered her lashes, deftly avoiding his scrutiny.

He was tempted to put a finger beneath her chin and force her to meet his eyes, but he knew that would be a mistake. Aloof and proud—though never haughty—she didn’t do emotions well. As a matter of fact, he’d never met anyone more restrained. Only rare glimpses of sadness and quickly snuffed anger ever escaped her chilly reserve, and it made him wonder what she was hiding. In his experience, only people with something to hide or something they were trying to forget kept themselves locked down like she did.

In Eliana’s case, he suspected it might be both.

“No. Of course not, Gregor. I only meant that maybe we should stop for a while. I don’t want to put you in any danger—”

His guffaw cut her off. “Danger is my middle name! Get it right! I’ll not be havin’ any more of that nonsense. Now, girl, show me what you’ve got there under your pretty little arm.”

Her lips curved to a faint, wry smile. Her lashes lifted, and she regarded him with those eyes, dark as a swan’s. Then without another word, she moved to his desk, removed a plastic cap from the cardboard cylinder, and withdrew a canvas from within. She laid the cylinder aside and carefully unrolled the canvas until it lay flat.

He came up behind her and stood looking down over her shoulder. Had the cylinder contained the Holy Ghost itself, he would not have been more stunned. “The Card Players,” he whispered.