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EXCERPT:
Excerpt from
Forbidden Kiss
by Shannon Leigh
Copyright © 2014 by Shannon Leigh. All rights reserved, including the right
to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For
information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.
Chapter One
Jule Casale stomped her Kelly-green rainboots on the top step of the
converted warehouse. Fat droplets of water flew to the concrete, adding to the
existing puddles forming in the hollows of the aging stoop.
Typical Chicago. The promise of spring, so fresh and bright this morning,
turned to torrential rain by late afternoon, soaking everything, including
moods. But nothing would sour her outlook. Nope. Not with the tiny victory she’d
achieved at finding one Rom Montgomery, the difficult SOB.
So it was with the memory of that success in her mind that she rang the bell
for the third time before the lock sounded and the door opened.
And there he was. The reclusive and enigmatic Rom Montgomery, the bad boy
collector of the fine antiquities world who defied the press and guarded his
privacy with fists and curses. So private, he almost didn’t exist according to
her research. At least not before ten years ago.
He’d appeared on the antiquities scene like a bear in winter, unpredictable
and unexpected. Aggressive and hostile. A predator who knew his quarry. He’d
quickly established a reputation as a collector of ancient swords, and today
occupied the top position as global expert on metallurgy and ancient weapons.
Except right now in the waning light of late afternoon, on the wet back alley
entrance to a hidden gallery, he wasn’t reclusive at all—he was close. Looming.
Intimidating. Practically in her face. She couldn’t make him out other than as
generally large and muscular, and her impatience regarding his aggression after
her long investigation to find him flared to life.
Antagonistic bastard.
Jule refused to take a step back into the rain to accommodate such a display,
but she did lean back to take him in. All—what appeared to be—six feet and more
of him. If she didn’t have five older brothers cut from the same broad
shouldered, towering cloth, she might have the good sense to be cowed. Instead,
she became prickly as she did when backed into a corner—physically speaking.
“Rom Montgomery?” she demanded.
His whiskey colored eyes glowed in the shadows of the stoop, almost backlit
by an internal fiery light.
“A question? Really? Seems unnecessary since you made it to my unmarked door
off an inconvenient side street.”
So it was going to be like that?
“I’m Jule Casale,” she forced her hand into the space between them. “I spoke
to you earlier this afternoon about the painting I’m trying to identify.”
He didn’t acknowledge the earlier conversation. He simply looked down at her
outstretched hand like she’d offered him a stack of forms for an IRS filing.
“No thank you.” And he proceeded to shut the door in her face.
“Hang on. It’s important!” Jule reacted quickly, wedging her booted foot
between the closing door and the jam. The door stopped short of crushing her
foot, and reopened, an indifferent expression greeting her once again.
“I need to talk to you,” she said, her hand holding the door open.
“You need to talk to someone who cares. Or make it worth my while. I don’t
consult for free.”
Jule had prepared for this. She’d looked long and hard for something to sway
him to her cause.
Here goes nothing. “For your cooperation, I’m willing to get you an
introduction to the Great Dane Rescue Society. I know you’ve been trying to hook
up with them, but have been rebuffed by the founder.”
Jule counted the founder of the rescue group as a personal friend, and the
woman had relayed Mr. Montgomery’s attempts at a women ‘n wine party, to not
only donate money to the cause of caring for terminal dogs, but to host injured
and special needs Danes in his home.
Rejection met his request. The determination: an unsuitable environment for
animals with specific needs.
Jule wondered why the dogs were so important to him . Or why a guy with as
much money as he had, cared about fostering terminal dogs. Had to be a story
there, somewhere.
Whatever his interest, his current body language relaxed and Jule considered
that yet another victory. A smile teased the corners of his full mouth. And the
door opened wide.
“Come in.” He stepped back and admitted her.
Jule crossed the threshold into the proverbial bear’s lair and shivered
involuntarily. She’d bought her way in, now to get him to help her identify the
painting she’d been working on these last few months.
She followed him into a concrete and glass vestibule, noting how his dark
T-shirt stretched tight across his shoulders and strained at the arms, revealing
large, muscular biceps. Holy crap! This guy is ripped. The small number of
pictures she’d seen of him didn’t do his body justice.
A tapered waist drew her eye to well-fitted jeans that encased strong thighs,
and he had a nice ass. Really nice.
“Jule Casale. Related to Edmondo Casale?”
The nature of the question didn’t catch her off guard, just the fact he’d
gotten to it before she even had her raincoat off. Seemed a bit rude, but then
again, she was talking to a man who’d earned a name for himself with his sharp
intellect and even sharper attitude.
“Yes, as a matter of fact. He’s my father.”
He grunted dismissively. “So you’ve come to discuss a painting?” He left her
standing in the vestibule as he moved through an arched brick opening and into
the gallery proper. She joined him, shrugging. If he didn’t care about rainwater
dripping everywhere, neither did she.
Swords, knives, daggers, and blades of every length and design served as art.
They hung on the walls, lit from above, and were ensconced in cases, resting on
rich velvet. There were even some lying freely on the desk and scattered on the
few tables visible in the room.
It gave Jule the willies all the way down to her cotton candy pink toenail
polish. For the first time, she questioned her decision to force her way into
the man’s domain.
Too late now.
Shaking off good common sense (a Casale trait), she stiffened her spine and
planted herself directly in the middle of the room.
“I told you on the phone, Ms. Casale,” he made her name sound like a weapon,
sharp and hard like the swords hanging on the walls. “I don’t have any expertise
in Renaissance art. Did you need to hear it in person?”
He had indeed told her the very thing and then promptly hung up.
“Look, I’m sorry if my father has done something to upset you. We’re not in
the same business at all.” How many times did she have to apologize for her
father’s mistakes? “But I’m here because the art world needs your help.” She
reached in her pocket to retrieve the envelope of color images.
As the world’s foremost collector and dealer of swords, both ancient and
medieval, Montgomery could be her best and perhaps only hope to unlocking the
identity of the painting in her possession.
“This is what I wanted you to see,” she said, moving close enough to show him
the glossy photos.
The barest flicker of recognition flared to life in his eyes. It was a tiny
spark, but it grew brighter the longer he looked.
Jule’s heart beat faster beneath her woolen sweater. He knew! And he would
tell her. And then she could identify the painting and present her findings to
the museum. The open slot for curator of early Italian Renaissance art had her
name all over it.
With an audible exhale, Montgomery slipped the photo from her hand, brushing
Jule with his fingers as he did so. The calluses on his fingers rasped against
her softer skin, sending a trickle of warmth from her heart to her abdomen.
One of Mama Casale’s infinitely silly, but astonishingly profound refrains
boomed inside her head. “When you finally meet him, the one, you’ll know it
because your insides will feel topsy-turvey,” she’d said.
Jule’s insides felt neither topsy nor turvy, but intact, if not somewhat
awakened, as if she’d been slumbering for too long.
Montgomery walked into a shaft of overhead lighting. The light draped his
head and shoulders, creating a play of shadow and illumination on his face. She
noticed the five o’clock shadow for the first time, framing his strong, square
chin and lips.
While he examined the photos, she examined him and found herself falling into
a memory, caught in a replay.
He stood across the hall, an unrecognizable figure among a sea of family. A
hooded cloak shadowed his face until he leaned on a column near the servants’
entrance. Overhead torchlight revealed the man, barely out of boyhood. Soft
light bronzed the planes of his face, easing the pain and sorrow he so obviously
carried. Why someone so young amidst a joyous masquerade ball should be so sad,
she knew well.
Because her heart bled, too. She was to be engaged to one she did not love.
Tonight, they celebrated.
“Ms. Casale.”
Jule’s head snapped up. She glanced around the room, looking for the
torchlight and the young man who looked impossibly like Rom Montgomery.
What had she been doing? Dreaming? And why did she have this overriding
feeling of crossing a forbidden line? Like being with Montgomery was going to
get her into trouble.
Because he was trouble.
“Yes?” She responded, feigning attention.
Montgomery had crossed to her side, the photos forgotten for the moment.
Concern furrowed his brows. Warm. He was so damn warm. It would feel right
falling into his arms.
What the hell is wrong with me?
“You okay?”
“Sure. Just chilled from the rain.” What else could she say? Yeah, I just had
this weird flashback to a memory I don’t own, but no worries, I’m not crazy.
Except, maybe she was crazy.
Refusing to lose her momentum in pursuit of answers, she said, “I take it you
have seen the sword in the painting before?”
He studied her silently for several seconds and Jule prayed he wouldn’t
escort her out. The moment was awkward and she resisted the urge to squirm and
shuffle her feet. The intensity of his perusal made her nervous—and dammit, kind
of excited?
She stared back at him, noticing his impossibly long lashes. Her gaze drifted
down to his soft lips. She imagined they would be supple against hers, but his
fierce attitude would create an urgency and dominance that could overwhelm her.
Feeling like a teenager about to be rejected when emotionally overextended,
Jule jerked her eyes back up to his. His steady gaze didn’t waver, but it seemed
softer than it had been previously—almost caring.
Her heart thudded in her chest as he spoke.
“I know of the sword, yes. But it’s not a very exciting history.” He strode
to an ebony cabinet and pulled two highballs from an interior shelf. “Can I get
you a drink Ms. Casale?” He said it in an offhanded manner, as if he were only
being polite. But nothing about the man was truly polite—in fact, he was all
fierce authority.
She didn’t want to come off as submissive, so she said, “Absolutely. How
about I make it?”
Jule joined Montgomery at the liquor cabinet and sorted through the bottles
inside. That’s when she saw it. The dagger. Not just any dagger like those
decorating the walls, but the one.
Blood rushed from her head in a startling whoosh and Jule almost fainted. She
definitely staggered as if she’d already consumed the alcohol. She knew that
knife. Intimately. Knew the feel of it in her hand, its cold metal against her
skin. She knew without looking the fineness of the polished mahogany hilt and
the evenness of the grain.
She knew the weight of it.
And how it felt cutting into her flesh.
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