Speaker 1: Caloroga Shark Media.
Speaker 2: Hello and Welcome to Romance Weekly. This episode is titled
The Forgery, Part two. The Master's Touch.
Speaker 1: Every brushstroke tells a story, the pressure of the artist's hand,
the hesitation, the surrender to passion. Right now, in the
private restoration room of the Thorn Gallery, Alex's hands are
telling a story I haven't heard in ten years. The
light has to fall just so, he murmurs. Standing behind
me as we examine the dagga. His chest brushes my
back with each breath, his hands ghosting over mine. As
I hold the ultraviolet light. See how the pigments react.
But I'm reacting more than the paint. Every point of
contact sends electricity through my skin. The heat of his body,
the brush of his fingers, the way his breath stirs
the hair at my nape. It's Paris all over again.
Show me, I say, letting myself lean back slightly, professional necessary,
a student learning from a master. His hands slide down
my arms, adjusting my grip on the light. Here his
mouth is at my ear now where the dancer's dress
meets shadow. The technique is familiar. The double meaning hangs
between us like expensive perfume. Another forgery, another trap, another
excuse for his hands to map my body under the
guise of investigation. Familiar. How I turn my head slightly,
letting my lips brush his jaw like Paris, familiar, like you,
your work, familiar. His fingers trace patterns on my silk sleeve.
No one else blends light and shadow quite like you, Olivia.
His words send a shiver down my spine that has
nothing to do with the galley's climate control. My body
remembers this, the careful dance of professional and personal, The
way his touch could shift from instructive to intimate in
a heartbeat. No one else had your teaching methods, I murmur,
arching back as his hand slide to my waist. The
thin silk of my blouse does nothing to dull the
heat of his fingers. Is that what you call it?
His mouth finds that spot below my ear that makes
my knees weak. Teaching. The memory floods back, hot as
oil paint in summer Paris ten years ago. The secret,
he'd whispered, guiding my hands on the canvas is to
let your body feel the movement, like dance, like desire.
I'd been aware of everything. The heat of his chest
against my back, the way his fingers interlaced with mine
on the brush, The subtle cologne that mixed with turpentine
and passion. Like this, I'd turned my head, letting my
lips graze his throat, the brush forgotten as his hands
found my hips perfect, his voice had roughened. Now show
me what else you've learned. What followed was our first masterpiece.
Not the painting, but the way he'd laid me back
on that paint splattered drop cloth, The way his hands
had mapped every inch of my skin, learning my body
like he'd learned the masters. The way I'd arched into
every touch, every kiss, every moment of exquisite torture. Present day,
you're thinking about Paris. His voice pulls me back, his
hands sliding higher under my blouse, about that first night
in the studio. You can't know that, but my body
betrays me, pressing back against him. I know how you
feel when you remember his teeth graze my ear lobe,
how your breath catches, how your pulse races, how your
skin flushes. Just hear his fingers trace the blush spreading
across my chest, dipping beneath black lace. Alex warning or invitation.
I'm not sure. Show me what else you remember? He
turns me to face him, lifting me onto the restoration table.
Show me what else I taught you. His kiss tastes
like memory and danger. My legs wrap around his waist
as his hands make quick work of my blouse buttons.
Each touch awakens nerve, endings I thought I'd forgotten, like
paint bringing a canvas to life. Tell me about the dagga,
he demands between kisses, which one? I gasp as his
mouth finds my collarbone, the fake on the wall or
the real one hidden in the vault. His hands still
on my skin, You know where it is. I know.
I lose my train of thought as his fingers trace
the edge of my bra I know the technique, the artist,
the oh God. Tell me. His touch grows, demanding professional fingers,
knowing exactly how to make me talk, how to make
me arch, how to make me surrender private collector. My
nails dig into his shoulders as pleasure builds. Waiting to
make the switch. During tonight's showing, give me a Name,
He unzips my skirt, hands sliding higher, make me. What
follows is pure artistry. His mouth painting desire across my skin,
my body his willing canvas. He takes me apart, stroke
by stroke, touch by touch, until I'm gasping His name
like a prayer, The name Olivia, his voice rough against
my throat as he moves inside me. Give me the
name Isabella. Truth spills like expensive wine. Isabella Thorn. She
commissioned both forgeries Paris, and now his rhythm falters. She's
behind all of this, not alone. I pull him deeper,
needing more. She's working with the restoration room. Door clicks,
footsteps in the gallery beyond. Don't stop. I breathe against
his mouth, even as the footsteps grow closer. The danger
only heightens every sensation, his hands on my skin, his
body moving with mine, the way pleasure builds like paint
layers toward a masterpiece. They'll hear us, but his thrust deepens,
his control slipping. Let them. I bite his shoulder to
keep from crying out. Let them see what a real
masterpiece looks like. He takes me harder then, one hand
covering my mouth as I come apart beneath him. My
body arches like a dancer in a daga, every nerve
ending on fire, every touch electric. The footsteps pause outside
our door. A shadow crosses the frosted glass Isabella. A
man's voice one I recognize the switch happens at midnight,
make sure they're both there. Alex's body tenses against mine,
inside mine, we both recognize that voice. Marcus Blackwood, the
collector who'd introduced us in Paris, who first suggested I
learn the art of forgery, who disappeared the night everything
fell apart. The shadow moves away in the aftermath of
pleasure and revelation. Alex's hands cut my face. You knew
he was involved, suspected. I kiss him, tasting truth and
danger since I saw the money, his style, his preferred artists,
his obsession with you, his fingers tightened possessively on my
hips with us. I meet his eyes with what we
created together, the paintings, the perfect partnership. I slide off
the table, letting my body drag against his art and authenticity,
creation and security, light and shadow. Midnight. I smooth my
skirt as Alex rebuttons his shirt. His eyes follow my
movements in the restoration room's mirrors. That gives us six hours,
six hours to figure out where they're keeping the real dagga.
His hands find my waist from behind, helping with my
blouse buttons. And why Marcus is really here? I know
where the painting is. I lean back against his chest,
watching our reflection, the same place he kept the real
money in Paris, his private vault at the hotel. No.
I turn in his arms in the gallery behind the renoir,
in his private viewing room. His fingers trace my colar bone,
straightening my pearls. Professional intimate. You're sure I designed the
hiding spot. I let my hands slide up his chest.
Back when he was teaching us both about alternative art acquisition.
You mean, when he was grooming us to be his
perfect forgers, his perfect team. I correct him, remembering you
with your security expertise, me with my eye for detail,
both of us young, talented, hungry, beautiful. His mouth finds
my throat, the way you looked in that Paris studio
covered in paint and moonlight, The way you looked teaching
me about light and shadow. My fingers find his tie,
straightening it. We were his masterpiece until we fell in love.
The words hang between us, dangerous as wet paint, His
hands still on my skin. That wasn't part of his plan.
I whisper against his mouth. We were supposed to be
his instruments, not each other's muses, his instruments. Alex's laugh
is dark against my skin, his perfect forgery team, until
we started creating something he couldn't control, our own masterpieces.
I arch as his hands slide lower, our own passion.
Is that why you ran his fingers find bare skin
under silk that last morning in Paris? I ran because
he threatened you. The truth spills out between kisses, said
he'd expose your role in the forgeries, destroy your career
unless you disappeared. His grip tightens with the money, with
the evidence of what we'd done. I pull back enough
to meet his eyes what he'd made us do, And
now now he's putting his masterpiece back together. I press closer,
feeling him respond instantly, using Isabella, using the gallery, using us.
The question is why his mouth traces fire down my throat?
Why now before I can answer my phone buzzes a
text from Isabella private viewing of the Dagga midnight Wear,
the red dress from Paris. You remember the one, don't you, Olivia,
The one with the paint stains that never quite came out.
Attached is a photo Paris that last night, Me in
the red dress, stretched on the chaise lounge, Alex teaching
me about light and form, both of us unaware we
were being watched. They documented everything. Alex's voice roughens every lesson,
every touch, every moment we thought was just ours, and
now they're recreating it. I show him the next text.
Time to complete the masterpiece, both of you. Tonight or
every gallery in Europe learns exactly how you perfected your techniques.
Let them expose us. His hands frame my face, Let
them try. No, I kiss him deep and sure, let's
give them what they want, one last performance, the students
becoming the masters. My smile is sharp against his mouth exactly.
But first, first, I push him back against the restoration table. First,
let's practice our technique. His laugh turns to a groan
as my hands find his belt. After all, every masterpiece
needs proper preparation, and this time we're creating something entirely new.
My hands make quick work of his belt as his
fingers tangle in my hair. This time is different, slower,
more deliberate, like adding layers to a painting, Each touch
building on the last, tell me the plan he demands,
as I sink to my knees. Isabella opens the private
viewing room at eleven. I look up at him through
my lashes, fingers working his zipper. Marcus arrives at eleven thirty,
and his breath catches as my mouth find skin, and
they'll expect us to play our parts. I trace my
tongue along sensitive flesh, the students, the lovers, the perfect forgers,
like Paris. His hands tighten in my hair better than Paris.
I take him deeper, feeling his control slip. This time,
we know we're being watched, my mouth and hands creating
pleasure like brushstrokes on canvas. His body responds to every touch,
every tease, every moment of exquisite torture. The dress he
manages between ragged breaths, the red one. Hmm. I pull
back just enough to speak, what about it? Wear it tonight?
His voice is strained as I resume my attention. But underneath, yes, underneath,
wear what you wore in Paris. He pulls me up, suddenly,
spinning us so I'm pressed against the table nothing. His
kiss tastes like desire and danger as his hands push
up my skirt. Your turn to tell me the rest
of the place, the rest of the plan. I gasp
as his fingers trace the edge of my stockings or
the rest of me both. His mouth follows the path
of his hands, making my head fall back. Tell me
what happens at midnight? Marcus will I lose my train
of thought as his tongue finds sensitive flesh. Marcus will
open the vault behind the renoirs, and then his fingers
slide higher as his mouth works magic. Then we my
hands grip the table edge as pleasure builds. We play
our parts. Let them think they're controlling us. Let them think,
oh God, think what. He increases his pace, demanding answers
with each stroke of his tongue. Think they've won. The
words tumble out between moans. Think we're still their perfect creation,
their masterpiece of manipulation. Until until we My body arches
as I get close, until we show them what real
artists can do. He takes me over the edge with
expert precision, my cry of pleasure echoing in the small room.
Before I can recover, he's standing, lifting me onto the table.
Show me now, he enters me in one smooth stroke,
Show me what real artists do. What follows is our
finest work yet, bodies moving together like brush on canvas,
creating something beautiful and dangerous and real. Each thrust draws
out more of the plan, more of the truth, more
of us, the FBI team, he demands. Driving deeper in
position at eleven, I match his rhythm, waiting for my signal,
which is me removing my mask. I clench around him
at exactly midnight and me you'll know. I pull him
down for a kiss that tastes like victory. Trust me.
His laugh vibrates through both our bodies, like I trusted
you in Paris. Better. I flip us, suddenly taking control
this time. I'm not leaving without you. We come apart
together like paint and canvas, surrendering to flame. His hands
grip my hips hard enough to leave marks as my
body arches, pleasure crashing through me in waves. After still
tangle together on the restoration table, reality begins to seep
back in. You never told me, he says, tracing patterns
on my bare back. What really happened that last morning
in Paris? You mean, after Marcus showed me the photos.
I pressed closer, kneading his heat, after he explained exactly
how he'd destroy you if I didn't disappear. After you
left me sleeping in that paint splattered studio, I went
to his hotel first. I kissed the scar on his chest,
the one from a gallery robbery gone wrong two years ago,
planted evidence linking him to three major forgery rings, the
same evidence that forced him underground, the same evidence he
thinks I still have. I prop myself up to look
at him, the real reason for tonight's little performance. His
hands slide into my hair, and do you have it better?
I smile against his mouth. I have proof he's been
running his operation from inside private galleries, using authenticators like me,
security experts like you, creating perfect pairs, perfect forgeries. I
sit up, letting him watch as I begin to dress
of art, of love, of trust and us. He catches
my wrist, pulls me back for one more kiss. What
are we forging? Something real? I breathe the words against
his lips, something even Marcus can't duplicate. His phone buzzes
a text from Isabella. Masks and evening wear required for
tonight's private viewing, though from the security footage of the
restoration room, clothes appear to be optional for you. Two.
Attached is a photo of us moments ago creating our
own masterpiece. There's still what His voice carries both warning
and heat. Good. I straighten my skirt one final time.
Let them tonight, we show them what real artists can do.
And what's that My smiles, sharp as a palette knife,
create something worth dying for. Six hours later, I stand
in my private studio applying the final touches. The red
dress from Paris still fits like sin cut low in front,
lower in back, with those paint stains that never quite
washed out battle scars from our first masterpiece. My phone
buzzes Alex in position. Marcus just arrived early, heading to
the private viewing room. Another text follows, immediately wear your
hair up like that night in the studio. Heat pulls
low in my belly as I pin the last curl.
He always did have an eye for detail, for the
way my neck looks exposed, for how easy it is
to unpin, to unzip, to focus. Olivia, I text back, Isabella,
already here watching the security feeds of your studio. Put
on a good show. I smile at the nearest camera
as I apply my lipstick, the same shade I wore
in Paris. Let them watch, let them think they know
what's coming. My Berner phone vibrates. The FBI team surveillance
in place, waiting for your signal. Everything's ready, the trap,
the evidence, the real dagger, hidden exactly where Marcus would
never think to look, in plain sight, Hanging in the
main gallery, labeled as a reproduction. Another text from Alex,
you ready. I send back a photo me in the
red dress, posed exactly like that night in Paris. But
this time there's steel in my smile, fire in my eyes.
His response is immediate perfection. Almost makes me want to
cancel the sting. Almost almost, But I've waited ten years
to see Marcus's face when he realizes his perfect forgery,
team forge something he couldn't control. Love, A pause, then
that and the perfect con. I check my reflection one
last time, the dress, the hair, the secrets hidden beneath it.
All time to create our masterpiece. The gallery halls are
silent at this hour, my heels clicking on marble the
only sound. Every step feels charged with purpose, with memory,
with desire. The private viewing room doors are ahead. Through
the glass. I see them waiting, Marcus examining the renoir
that hides his vault. Isabella by the bar, and Alex.
Alex stands exactly where he stood that night in Paris,
by the chaise lounge that's been positioned just so under
lights arrange to create the perfect shadows. Marcus has recreated everything,
every detail, every angle, except this time we're the masters,
not the students. I pause at the door, letting them
see me, letting the red dress work its magic in
the glass reflection. I watch Marcus's eyes narrow, Isabella's lips curve,
and Alex Alex looks at me like he wants to
create an entirely new masterpiece, right here, right now, magnificent.
Marcus's voice carries as I enter, a perfect recreation, but
he circles me slowly. The original had a certain innocence,
a certain vulnerability. We were different people. Then I accept
the champagne. Isabella offers, were you his hand brushes my
bare shoulder or were you always this calculating? Before I
can answer, Alex's moves smooth, predatory, his body sliding between
Marcus and me. Shall we begin? His voice carries heat
that's not entirely feigned. The authentication. Marcus's smile is sharp
in the gallery lights by all means, though. First he
gestures to Isabella, I believe a proper toast is in order.
Isabella pours champagne into crystal flutes, the same vintage from Paris.
Everything calculated, everything choreographed. To reunions. Marcus raised his glass
and to beautiful partnerships. I sip, watching Alex over the
rim of my glass. His eyes haven't left me since
I entered, playing his part perfectly, or maybe not playing
at all. Now Marcus sets down his glass. Let's see
if you remember your lessons. He guides me to the dagga.
Alex follows close enough that I feel his heat against
my back, just like Paris, just like the restoration room
hours ago. The light, Marcus instructs, show me how it falls.
My hands traced the brushstrokes. As Alex moves closer, professional necessary,
his fingers ghost over mine, showing me angles we both
already know by heart perfect. Marcus's voice carries satisfaction. Now
the shadow techniques. Alex's hand slide to my waist, turning
me toward toward the painting. His chest presses against my
back as we examine the darker portions. Every touch carries
double meaning. Past and present, lesson and seduction, truth and lies.
You always did work beautifully together. Isabella observes, refilling glasses
like dancers, like artists. Marcus corrects, my finest creation, your
finest forgery. I counter letting Alex's hands guide mine across
the canvas. Isn't that what this is really about? Getting
the team back together? Among other things? Marcus checks his watch,
speaking of which Isabella she moves to the renoir, swinging
it aside to reveal the vault right on schedule. Inside,
Marcus says, you'll find everything you need to complete tonight's work,
including he pulls out a folder. These photo's spill across
the viewing table. Paris, London, Berlin, Alex and me in
various galleries, various hotels, various intimate moments, A decade of surveillance.
You never stopped watching. Alex's voice carries genuine surprise, of
course not, Marcus smiles. One must protect one's investments, speaking
of which he nods to Isabella. She produces a gun. Now,
then Marcus lifts his glass. Shall we discuss the real
reason for tonight's reunion? The evidence I took from your hotel.
I lean back against Alex feeling his hand slide to
my thigh, where the real evidence is strapped, or the
fact that you're about to try to steal twelve million
in artwork using our techniques. Marcus's smile falters slightly. Clever girl,
always seeing the bigger picture. I learned from the best
I reach for the zipper of my dress. Would you
like to see what else I learned? But as the
red silk starts to fall, I catch Alex's slight nod
in the mirror. Time for the real show to begin.
Freeze fb I. The doors burst open as agents flood
the room. In the chaos that follows, several things happen
at once. Isabella's gun swings toward Alex. I throw my
champagne in her face. Marcus lunges for the vault and Alex.
Alex pulls me into a kiss that tastes like victory
and danger. And ten years of waiting got him. I
breathe against his mouth, got them all his hands find
the evidence strapped to my thigh. Though we should probably
verify the daga one more time in private, professional thoroughness,
something like that. Behind us, Marcus and Isabella are being cuffed.
The real Dagga is being documented, and upstairs the gallery
prepares for tomorrow's legitimate exhibition. But here, in this room
full of masterpieces, both real and forged, Alex and I
are creating something entirely new, something true, ready for the
next lesson. He pulls me toward the private restoration room
with you. I smile against his mouth. Always let the
real masterpiece begin.
Speaker 2: Romance Weekly is a production of Caloroga Shark Media executive
producers Mark Francis and John McDermott. Portions of this podcast
may have been created with the assistance of Ai
Speaker 1: Calaruga Shark Media