Page 44 of The Scarab's Game

“That counts,” said Dante. “I win.”

Was he right? Had Emmett been waiting for me, and his greeting was a cover? Or was this a coincidence?

If he’d been waiting, it was about the break-in, not his feelings for me.

Surely.

Surely?

Dante stepped around me, put his hands on my shoulders, and leaned in slowly. Instead of my lips, he pressed the softest, most chaste kiss on my cheek.

That was his bet-winning kiss?

As though reading my thoughts, he whispered, “You belong to another man.”

“I don’tbelongto anyone.”

“Your heart does.” He winked at me.

“Dante, good to see you.” Emmett stopped next to us and held out his hand.

“And you, Mr. Stone.” Dante released me and shook hands with Emmett.

“Call me Emmett, please.” He smiled, but the way their fingers turned slightly red told a different story. It was the same battle of wills as at the gallery yesterday.

“Emmett. Of course.” They finally released their grips. Who’d won? “Did you find anything else to purchase for your clients after you left the gallery this afternoon?”

“No.” Emmett scratched at his short beard. He’d complained this morning it was at the worst length, and either he’d have to deal with the itchiness or shave it off. “I’ve been looking for a gold scarab for some time now, but no one is selling quite what I’m looking for. Jean-Philippe wouldn’t have held out on me, would he?”

“I doubt it, unless he already had a buyer for such a piece.”

Emmett’s eyebrow raised. “You’re sureyouhaven’t heard anything?”

“If I had, I would provide what help?—”

I forced a yawn, big and quite unladylike—anything to break up the tension between them.

Dante had said he’d show me that Emmett was in love with me. Was that what this was? Was Emmett jealous? And Dante was taunting him, so I’d see it?

Was he playing matchmaker?

Another yawn. “I need to get upstairs. If you two will excuse me?”

“I’ll walk up with you,” said Emmett.

“Thank you for this evening.” Dante pulled me close and kissed my other cheek. “Until tomorrow.”

As Dante retreated, Emmett said, “How much work do you have left on the painting?”

“Two or three hours.” I shrugged and started deeper into the lobby, toward the elevators. “Dr. Ferraro hasn’t called me back with any new information, so I don’t even know if I’m cleaning the real thing.”

He made a noise of assent but said nothing. All the way to the elevator bank and while we waited for a car to arrive—just silence. His jaw flexed, and he avoided looking at me. But once the elevator doors sealed, he started. “You two a thing now?”

The judgment in his voice stung, and I practically snapped back, “No.”

Emmett kept his gaze on the climbing numbers above us. “He kissed you.”

“It was a cheek kiss.” I shook my head. “He’s Italian.”