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“Señor who?”
“Castille,” she said. “Pierre Castille. I assume he is well known in your city since his family owns
half of it.”
“A small part of this one too,” chuckled the auctioneer.
Pierre Castille? Of course I knew the name. But I hadn’t recognized his face out of context. There
weren’t many photos of him; he was private for someone so wealthy, but if you lived in New Orleans,
that name was tantamount to royalty.
Why the hell would Pierre Castille, Pierre the Heir, the Bayou Billionaire, infiltrate a private
auction, drop fifteen million dollars on a painting, then try to seduce me on a settee in a theater in
Buenos Aires? What had I gotten myself into?
I felt the blood rise to my face. Cassie and Matilda were going to hear about this. Perhaps it was a
sign. Perhaps stopping at Step Five was appropriate. I asked for directions to the cab stand and made
my defeated way outside. I’d conquered enough fears, I thought, glancing down at my bracelet. Even
half complete it looked quite pretty as it caught the glare off passing cars in the nighttime.
As I sat in the cab back to the hotel, my heart was still pounding, my skin feeling seared where
Pierre Castille had touched me.