The Billionaires: The Stepbrothers (Lover's Triangle 3)

Although her internal temperature soared, she went into Sam’s closet and found sweaters folded in dresser drawers. She selected a navy-colored one that almost matched the hue of the T-shirt he’d worn this evening, which complemented his lighter eyes, and pulled it on. Then she settled in the large bed, thinking it was way too much space for one person. And finding that reality a somewhat disturbing one, particularly on Sam’s behalf.

He should have gotten his full dream. A wife. A child. Maybe several kids. Hell, he had the acreage to add on. Fill this house with tons of laughter and lots of puppies.

A tear formed on the rim of her eye. Whereas Michael appealed wholeheartedly to the adventurer in Scarlet, Sam’s damaged soul called to hers.

Not exactly something she was at ease owning up to. It would be in her best interest to keep all of her past pains locked up tight. Not speak of her parents and their tragic, harrowing deaths.

It was saner that way.

Yet she couldn’t deny that hers and Sam’s heartbreak made them kindred spirits. And Scarlet found solace in that.

So much so, she was able to stare up at the glowing pink clouds and the soothing snowfall captured in the hint of moonlight and breathe a bit easier. Although it was apparent there was a need for release from the overwrought emotions that permeated this stunning house, a surprisingly peaceful synergy flowed through her.

At first, Scarlet had no idea how that could be possible—when two wrecked people and one abused puppy were currently residing under the same roof and the entire space was rife with distress, she shouldn’t have found even a small measure of tranquility.

But she did.

Because the fires snapped and crackled, warming the air.

The snow fell in fat, pristine-white flakes.

The scent of venison roast and caramelized onions still lingered. Mixed with the tinge of apple-cinnamon.

So beyond the suffering, there was an inviting degree of comfort.

No hustle and bustle. No shoving thoughts and dismal feelings under the rug, because they’d pretty much been laid at both Scarlet’s and Sam’s feet. Like Michael, Sam had many layers to him that she wanted to strip away. In due time.

Admittedly, her interactions with both men helped Scarlet to expand her tunnel vision on work and humanize the case she was focused on.

Not something she normally did. But in this instance, it felt right.

Michael wasn’t her thief.

She was convinced of that.

Nor was Sam.

So … Who was?

Mitcham had nothing to gain, aside from recouping the initial expenditure on the collection. But seriously. The man was worth more money than she—and pretty much most of the global populace—could comprehend. So that didn’t make sense. Not to mention, he’d purchased the artwork for his new bride. What sort of monster would gift the woman he loved with such a rare treasure and then turn around and rip it from her hands?

It wouldn’t exactly be a clever way to welcome her into his home.

And Karina wasn’t a fathomable suspect herself. By marrying Mitcham, the woman had just scored everything she could possibly want—a rich, handsome husband, a mansion, and a prestigious art collection.

So who the hell would benefit from stealing the works?

An aficionado outside the mansion walls, sure. As Michael had implied. But something crucial Scarlet had learned from Jewel when it came to high-end collectors was that they wanted to show off their prizes. Put their acquisitions—no matter how those acquisitions had ended up in their possession—on display. Like trophies.

r /> If one couldn’t brag about such an impressive array of paintings without drawing suspicion—and the FBI to their doorstep—then what would be the purpose of procuring them? Especially under such high stakes?

Scarlet’s brain churned as her thoughts ran rampant.

She’d be exhausted come morning if she kept this up, but she’d yet in her twenty-eight years of existence figured out where the off switch was.

So she mulled over more scenarios and possibilities. But like the FBI, she was coming up empty-handed.

Fatigue would eventually catch up to her. Until it did, she allowed everything from the probable to the absurd traipse through her mind. Knowing if she hit upon one tiny feasible concept, something bigger might gel.…