A Scandalous Portrait (The Rose Room Rogues #1) - Callie Hutton Page 0,14

her chest to the point where she felt as though she would swoon.

“I don’t want you to look at it.”

“Sit down, Diana. You look like you’re about to faint.”

She sat, her entire body trembling. “I don’t faint.”

Hunt joined her on the settee and took her hand in his. “Sweetheart, I cannot steal the portrait without looking at it. How will I know which one to take? Or do you expect me to empty out the gallery in hopes that one of the pictures I steal is yours?”

She chewed her lip and gazed into his deep brown eyes. She’d been looking at those eyes since she was a child, mostly when she needed his help. Yet now they seemed to captivate her as never before. Were they always so soul-searching? Had they always made her feel so tingly inside? She felt as though he could look inside to her very heart.

She raised her chin, ignoring the blush that had risen to her face. “I don’t want you to see me. . .”

His full lips quirked in a slight smile, his eyes dancing with mirth. “Yes?”

Diana blew out a deep breath. “You know what I mean.”

His mouth broke into a full grin. “Perhaps I do, but to be absolutely sure as to what you are referring, just explain why you do not want me to look at a portrait that I am expected to steal?”

“Very well.” Despite her discomfort, she straightened her shoulders and stared into his eyes. “I do not want you to see me naked. There. I said it. Do you understand now?”

He stood and paced, looking back at her, his humor squelched. “So, let me understand this. You want me to go into a studio, under cover of darkness, and steal a portrait that I cannot look at?”

“You make it sound so silly. So impossible.”

He placed his hands on his hips and faced her. “It is silly and impossible, Diana. Think about what you’re saying. I cannot take a portrait without knowing it’s the right one.”

She chewed her lip again, knowing full well what he said was correct. But the thought of him looking at her. . .

“Very well. Then this is what I propose.” She patted the seat alongside her. She was tired of staring up at him. He was so very tall, and very broad, and very masculine, virile, and she was having a hard time breathing. It must have been that his sizable presence was using up all the air.

Hunt sat and turned to her. “What plan do you have now, sweeting?”

“When you search the portraits, only look at the heads.”

Hunt dragged his hand down his face. “All right. I will try—but I can’t promise I can do it—to look only at heads and faces.”

“Thank you.” She smiled and then frowned. “One more thing.”

He sighed. “Now what?”

“Once you get it home, you must burn it.”

“Burn it?”

“Yes. Burn it.”

“Without looking at it, I presume?”

“Of course. You can place it backwards in the fireplace and then burn it.” She stared at him for a moment. “What is wrong with your eye?”

“My eye?”

“Yes.” She pointed to his face. “You seem to have this tic underneath your right eye.”

About three o’clock the next morning, not wanting to have his very first genuine thievery—he did not count Miss Manchester’s retrieval of her own property as theft—hanging over his head, Hunt dressed all in black and had his butler arrange to have a hackney secured and waiting on the next street. On the off chance someone recognized the crest on his coach, he thought it best to remain as anonymous as possible.

There were still a few carriages returning from events, but the streets were mostly empty. A light mist had begun to fall and that, along with the usual fog, helped to hide anyone traipsing about the area. He had the driver stop a full street from the gallery with instructions to wait for him. From there, he walked, keeping close to the buildings and well into the shadows.

The building housing the gallery stood in the moonless night, a dark shadow amongst others on the street. It was a three-story building and, considering the need for light, he assumed the gallery occupied the top floor.

After a quick glance at the street, Hunt turned and moved deftly alongside the building into the narrow alleyway. His heavy breathing misted in the night air. He squatted in front of the back door and, despite the lack of light, used his sense of touch and considerable