The woman in the glasses lifted a tentative hand.

“We have eleven five—”

“Fifteen million!” boomed a familiar voice from the back of the room.

It took me a second to realize who it was, because he was no longer wearing his uniform. My driver, Dante, stood there, in a dark suit that looked freshly pressed, a white shirt neatly tucked into the slacks, and his cap, sunglasses and ill-fitting jacket gone. He looked alarmingly sexy, a hand slung in a pocket.

“Are you a registered bidder?”

He pointed to the late arrival, the nervous blonde at the phone table.

“That is my company’s representative, Isabella, from the Central Bank of Argentina. She can vouch for my funds. You can hang up now, Isabella. I am so sorry I’m late.”

Dante—or whatever his real name was—raised the temperature of the theater from simmer to boil. The auctioneer, now flustered, turned to find the bespectacled woman’s head resting in a hand, defeated.

“So then … it is fifteen million … going once … going twice … and sold to the gentleman in the dark suit. Carolina Mendoza’s Red Rage goes for fifteen million. A record, ladies and gentlemen. A smashing record!”

Applause broke out in the theater, but my hands held firm to my armrests as I watched Dante stride over to the losing bidder to shake her hand. The crowd continued to clap as Dante posed for pictures in front of the painting. The auctioneer, after a quiet word with Isabella, motioned me down the stairs to the telephone table, now cleared of everything except an elaborate certificate carefully centered on a leather blotter.

“Isabella tells me the fifteen million dollars has already been cleared. Unless you have any objections to an unregistered bidder purchasing the painting, you may sign the transfer of ownership,” said the auctioneer, handing me a fancy pen with a feather tail, and adding, “It is an enormous amount of money. Impressive.”

He also seemed unnerved by this handsome man who had infiltrated these somber, private proceedings in such a strangely dramatic way. But what do you say when someone drops fifteen million dollars, tripling what was projected? You say thank you, and you sign on the dotted line, which is what I did, with an appropriate flourish. I couldn’t wait to tell Matilda about the windfall.

I handed the auctioneer the papers.

Dante, or whoever he was, came over to the table and completed the transfer with his own undecipherable signature. Then he met my still-confused gaze.

“Nice to formally meet you, Miss Mason. I can assure you that Ms. Mendoza’s painting will be going to a very good home. I am a big fan of all her endeavors. So you can imagine how sad I was to be left off the list of bidders, and how grateful I am that you did not hold that against me.”

“Who are you?” I asked, cautiously weaving my hand through the crook of an arm he offered. “And what was all that limo subterfuge? The not speaking English? Showing up unregistered? Was that really necessary? Surely you could have—”

“Dauphine, my dear, I will explain everything in good time. But we must leave now, before curiosity overtakes the room, swallowing us both. People will begin to ask questions. About me, about you and about the … group you represent.”

“What do you know about that?”

“I know enough to ask you … if you’ll accept the Step.”

Of course! So he is one of them. He’s one of us!

As a crowd gathered to photograph Red Rage before it was packed and shipped, he ushered me up the steps to the theater’s exit. Now it was all making sense, though my heart continued pounding.

The foyer was empty, save for a half-dozen bored drivers checking their watches. Dante pulled me sharply in the opposite direction, through high glass doors covered in lace curtains. Suddenly, we were alone in a beautiful narrow hall painted ivory, lined with columns and wainscoting in the same golden hue as my bracelet. He let go of my arm, his whole body now facing me.

“So?”

“So …” I said, inching backwards until I collapsed onto an overstuffed settee beneath a bust of some famous composer. “Did you really just spend fifteen million dollars on a painting?”

“I did.”

“Why?”

“To impress you. Did it work?”

I shifted over so he could sit beside me.

“Possibly.”

Clearly, this was a man for whom everything came easy. But I wasn’t quite sure I wanted to be one of those things. He leaned in, his face inches from mine. His nostrils flared like an animal’s picking up the scent of fear … and liking it.

“I’ll ask you once again: do you accept the Step?”

He lifted my hand and was about to examine my bracelet when I snatched my wrist from him, hiding it behind my back. He was sexy, and he knew about S.E.C.R.E.T., but there was a dark air about him that kept tripping me up.

“What’s your real name?” I asked. “And how come you didn’t know where the auction was if your banker was here, the blond one?”

“She was following us, having not received an invitation either. Now, I’ll be happy to answer the rest of your questions, Dauphine. But there’s really only one that matters. Do you accept the Step?”

His mouth now at my ear, he gathered a lobe between his lips, gently sucking it. A current flowed through me, my body turning to lava. Everywhere he touched me, the skin beneath melted. He was moving fast, so fast I’d soon be unable to stop him, even if I wanted to.

“I’ve been wanting to do this since I laid eyes on you at the hotel,” he whispered, parting my knees, his hand making its languid way up my thighs.

I froze at the sound of chatter coming from the lobby.

“I locked the door. No one will find us in here,” he said, my skirt now pulled almost all the way up to my hips.

I placed a hand on his shoulder and gently pushed him.

“Where are you from?”

He dove in again, his mouth finding my neck. He was having none of my questions. I was delirious with desire, my instincts beginning to dull because of his talented mouth.

“Dauphine, accept, and I’ll tell you everything.”

“I will accept,” I murmured, eyes closed, “if you tell me … what Step I’m on.”

His eyes searched for my bracelet again, but I’d cleverly tucked my arm behind me.

He straightened up, tugging the cuffs on his sleeves.

“It’s not a hard question,” I said. “Why don’t you check the charm, the one you brought to give me afterwards? That will tell you the answer.”

He paused for a moment, then said, “You know the rules, Dauphine. If you don’t accept, I can’t show you the charm.”

I went over the S.E.C.R.E.T. acronym in my head. He was Compelling, that’s for sure. And this would have been a Romantic, Erotic interlude. Perhaps it would have left me feeling Ecstatic and Transformed. But there was just one problem: I didn’t feel Safe. That was what it all boiled down to. If Step Five was about overcoming my fears, his refusal to answer my questions kept me from feeling that.

“You know the rules too, Dante, or whatever your name is. If I don’t accept the Step, we stop here. It’s over. I’m saying no. Who are you anyway? You sound like you’re from the South—in fact, from Louisiana.”

“Well, now,” he huffed, standing. “For someone who refuses me, you sure demand a lot.”

“It would seem so,” I said, pulling my dress down over my knees. My chignon had fallen out in our brief tussle, so I undid the barrette holding it in place, releasing my hair.

“Red Rage indeed,” he said, admiring my hair, reaching out to caress a tendril. I pulled away. “I would be happy to have my driver take you back to your hotel.”

“That won’t be necessary,” I said. “I can make it back on my own.”

“Then … I shall be on my way.”

He stood and walked away, unlocked the door, and quietly shut it behind him as he left. Who in the hell was this man and what had he just tried to pull? I waited a few more seconds before heading back to the theater, where a handful of people still surrounded the painting. Was it too late to rip up the transfer of ownership? I had to try.

The auctioneer was locked in quiet conversation with the banker, Isabella.

“Excuse me,” I said, interrupting them. “Before I leave, can you tell me if it’s possible to stop the transfer? It’s just … I feel I might have made a mistake in selling the painting to an unregistered bidder.”

They looked at each other as though they had been discussing this exact thing.

“The problem is that you would now need his signature too,” said the auctioneer. “He officially owns that painting.”

“And he was a very keen buyer,” Isabella added, in clipped but perfect English. “I did not realize he was unregistered; otherwise I would not have participated on behalf of Señor Castille.”

“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?