My Godfather's Secret Lover
He had shed his suit jacket, rolling the sleeves of his white shirt up his muscular, vein-lined forearms.
"The cipher isn't based on the paintings," Vivian whispered, her finger tracing a sketch of a night-blooming cereus. "It’s based on the lunar calendar of the year he died. He was tracking something else, Arthur. Not art. Transactions."
"Transactions?" Arthur asked, stepping closer. He stood directly behind her now, his chest almost touching her back. The sheer physical presence of him was overwhelming. She could smell his scent—a intoxicating blend of expensive sandalwood, rich tobacco, and pure, raw masculinity.