Читать книгу The Chase - Vanessa Fewings - Страница 11

2

“You all right?” Clara rested her palm on my forehead.

“The stairs took it out of me,” I fibbed and gestured to get the attention of a waitress.

She came over, and with a nod of thanks I lifted a flute of champagne off her silver tray and took several sips to quench my thirst.

My thoughts drifted to the basement and my run-in with Tobias Wilder. These were the kind of moments I cherished—me dipping my toe in the dangerous side of life—but I knew the moment I saw reason, I’d pull it right out.

The only romance I would ever indulge in again was the fantasy where everyone lived happily ever after.

Oh no, I’d really embarrassed myself down there.

Clara narrowed her gaze and it made me smile. It was the kind of smile you give when you doubt yourself beyond all reason.

“Happiness is the best revenge,” she offered brightly. “I’m happy you’re here.”

It was still difficult to accept Zach wasn’t coming back. He should have been here tonight and it hurt so bad that I’d had to tear up my invitation because it had his name on it.

I tried not to think of the way his copper locks flopped over his deep blue eyes, or how his refined nose made him look so cultivated and that endearing way he emanated his free-thinking spirit.

A month or so after my father’s funeral, Zach Montgomery, the man I had been destined to marry, complained my grief was causing him too much stress. With our finals looming he couldn’t be “distracted.” He needed a break from us, just for a little while. I’d lovingly given it to him.

I’d seen my understanding nature pay off when he’d graduated with an MA in art curating.

Afterward, when the intensity of our studies was over and I could see the strain lifted from his handsome face, I’d met him for dinner at our favorite pub, The Old Ship, and reassured him I’d pull back on all this unnecessary drama of grief. I’d truly believed he’d realize his mistake after our exams were over. Even with Clara’s disapproval I couldn’t have refused him had he changed his mind and asked to come back to me.

Until the dreadful truth came out.

That stark memory returning along with that knot in my stomach, and I felt like I was there again—

Tucked away in my favorite corner of the Witt Library, with my head buried in a book. I’d been reading about Vermeer and how he’d painstakingly chose his expensive pigments. Colors I’d once run my fingertip over, acutely aware of the privilege of such intimacy that came with ownership. One of the few from my secret stash that not even Zach knew of.

Snug in my oversize jumper to ward off the chill of the Witt, I’d been happily reading away until those familiar voices of my classmates had caught my attention. I’d placed my fingertip on the page to keep my place...

Their hushed gossiping the catalyst that sent my life into a tailspin: Zachary Montgomery was now living it up all the way across the world in a little town called Tivoli, where he’d taken a job in an art gallery.

The news came as a blow, not least because I’d had no idea he’d even left London.

The whispers went on to reveal a few of the other students had received their invitations to the wedding of Italian beauty and fellow student Natalia Donate to Zachary Montgomery.

Those late evenings Natalia had spent hours with us studying at my flat had provided her with access to more than just my art acumen. She’d made a play for my boyfriend and come out the resounding winner.

If paintings taught me anything with their endless portrayals of human suffering, it was that heartbreak is inevitable and we are fools to be surprised by it. Trust is an ill-fated pursuit.

Although Clara believed in true love and had no doubt found it, I questioned whether I was ever going to experience it again.

Clara tutted. “He doesn’t deserve one more second of you.”

I leaned in and hugged her. I’d tell Clara about my risqué adventure once I’d gotten control over this flush that threatened to rise each time I thought of him. I imagined over the course of the evening one of the many artists here or even sculptors would spot the infamous Mr. Wilder and try to persuade him to pose for them.

Naked. Preferably.

I treated myself to that thought.

“So what do you think?”

My attention snapped to Clara.

“They’ve gone all out, haven’t they?” she added as she looked around.

“This is more than I expected.” Using a pillar for a shield, I looked for Tobias in the crowd. “Can’t get over it.”

“They’re wooing you for the other paintings.” She turned to look at me.

“It does look like it, doesn’t it?”

“You never talk about them?” she said.

“They’re all I have left of Dad.”

She rubbed my back, knowing well enough not to push me. “He’d be so proud of you.”

The black marble tile almost clashed with the pink marbled pillars lining the room either side. Along those pristine cream-colored walls hung the finest eighteenth-century Italian paintings, which were apparently on loan from the Vatican.

Suppressing my melancholy, I vowed to enjoy tonight.

The Otillie was one of my favorite places to visit and easily one of the most prestigious galleries in the world, with a unique collection of both modern and ancient art.

Despite such grandeur, it was also famed for showcasing new and up-and-coming artists before anyone else had discovered them. Like the young painter Liza Blake, who stood alone in a corner looking a little forlorn. She’d been easy to spot with her blue hair, and her boho chic dress looked cute on her, those round rimmed glasses perched on the end of her nose. Artists were always so interesting, their perspectives so profound, and I admired their tenacity for following their hearts and sharing their emotional power. Perhaps it was the only way to find ours, through their vision of just what we were capable of.

“Let’s go say hello to Liza.” Excitement flushed my cheeks that I was here again.

I took in the other guests, a handful of well-known socialites, some I recognized from past events, the avid art collectors circling The Otillie’s rising new talent and ready to invest in their promising careers.

“Look who’s here,” whispered Clara. “Your favorite person.”

I almost coughed up my drink.

A well-worn face and yet strangely handsome in a highly bred kind of way. The Right Honorable Lord Nigel Turner stood out in the crowd with his high cheekbones and overly refined nose. His tweed jacket with that perfect bow tie made him seem extra quirky and yet moneyed. His chin rose with an air of superiority as he perused the other guests. Nigel was apparently related to “the Turner,” or so he told us. He worked at The London Times as their senior art critic and wielded the kind of power that could make or break an artist’s career.

I’d crushed on him back when Lady Zara Leighton had a nice ring to it. Right before I’d actually met him.

We made our way over to Liza, and she smiled with relief when she saw us. I got her talking about her favorite subject, modern art, and she soon relaxed as she chatted away about the latest piece she was working on.

Together we mingled with the other guests, sipping champagne and popping back way too many caviar hors d’oeuvres.

Clara arched an amused brow when I reached for another flute from a passing waiter’s tray. I’d never tolerated booze well, very often getting tipsy on merely one glass. Still, this night was the first real evening I was letting myself go in what felt like ages, and I soon found myself having fun. With Clara’s mischievous insights into the other guests, she had me and Liza struggling to keep our laughter down.

Nigel nudged up against Clara. “You’re looking lovely tonight.”

“Thank you.” She offered him a polite smile.

“You didn’t bring your camera?” he asked.

“Taking the night off. The staff get nervous when they see a photographer taking photos of their priceless paintings. Something about copyright.”

His overly critical gaze found me. “I was sorry to hear about your father.”

“Thank you,” I said. “I appreciate that.”

Those difficult few months were behind me now and for the first time tonight I’d felt that wedge of pain in my heart lifting. I swallowed my grief with a sip of champagne and broke Turner’s gaze, hoping he’d talk to Liza.

“I hear a rumor you’re hiding away more paintings?” he said.

I shook my head, not wanting to go there.

“One step at a time,” Clara whispered.

Nigel narrowed his gaze. “Your skills could be put to good use.”

“Excuse me?”

“That fire at your father’s home?” he said.

“I don’t remember much.” Other than the bitter taste of ash.

“She was ten,” snapped Clara. “For goodness’ sake.”

“Interesting that Walter William Ouless’s St. Joan of Arc has turned up in Venice?” he went on. “Have you heard?”

My throat tightened. “That’s impossible.”

“And yet.” He smirked.

A wave of panic circled my stomach.

Part of me wanted it to be true. Needed to believe our beloved Joan of Arc had survived that fire. But with that revelation would come a truth so vivid I wasn’t sure I’d survive it. All I’d known would be proven a lie.

I’d missed her terribly; Ouless had masterfully painted one of France’s most beloved heroines. Her legacy included visions of Christ that inspired her heroic reclaiming of France from the British. Of all my father’s collection she’d both inspired and scared me the most, perhaps because some part of me knew I’d never be capable of that kind of bravery.

Clara piped up, “Maybe Ouless painted more than one?”

Nigel tutted. “How likely is that?”

“Sounds very likely,” she said. “Probably loads of them out there.”

I cringed too soon, revealing I knew all too well this remarkable British painter was known for his one-of-a-kind masterpieces. Ouless was considered one of the nineteenth century’s best known portraitists and his Joan of Arc had been sought after by too many collectors to count. My father had rejected every offer.

Nigel lit up with triumph. “There’s a chance it wasn’t destroyed as alleged.”

“I’m afraid it was,” I said through clenched teeth.

Clara sounded distant. “Really, Nigel? This is Zara’s evening to celebrate her dad’s legacy.”

“What’s left of it,” he muttered.

I reached out to the marble pillar to steady my legs.

“Any plans to visit the painting?” he added. “If that piece is real—”

“Of course it’s not,” I said.

“It’s coming to London for final authentication apparently,” he said.

My legs wobbled with the unsteadiness of my feet.

“Are you sure?” asked Clara.

“That’s the rumor.” Nigel frowned his disapproval.

Dread shot up my spine. “Who is this mystery dealer?”

Who was the outrageous person willing to put his or her reputation on the line?

“Have no idea,” said Nigel. “I’m sure you’ll want more answers?”

“Yes.” No.

I want to forget.

The resurfacing of that old lie proved jealousy for my father’s collection still went deep. I wasn’t ready to give up the others, not yet.

Black spots flashed across my vision—

Tobias Wilder strolled out of the crowd toward us carrying two glasses of champagne, and I sucked in a sharp breath of surprise. He offered one of them to me; bubbles rising to the surface, the chilled glass making my fingers tingle as I accepted it from him.

Soothed by his beautiful striking face and that rugged stubble clashing with his styled locks he’d since run a comb through.

“Thank you,” I said, amazed my underwear fiasco hadn’t scared him off.

“My pleasure.” Tobias gave a self-possessed nod and then gestured to the waiter beside him. The young man handed out more champagne flutes to the others in our group. Two more waiters hurried forward and held out their trays laden with china plates full of hors d’oeuvres.

Nigel, Liza and Clara all helped themselves to the assorted small bites of food with obvious glee, seemingly recognizing him too. With a wave of my hand and a kind smile, I declined an appetizer.

“That’s awfully nice of you,” Nigel said.

“Mind if I join you?” Tobias showed off that dazzling smile. “What a fantastic venue. Love this place.”

The staff hurried away.

Dragging my teeth over my bottom lip, I tried to think of something to say, perhaps draw his attention to the Raphael directly behind him. In that painting the Italian artist had captured the beguiling image of a young lady with a unicorn on her lap.

“You like that one?” Tobias asked me with his back still to the painting.

“Yes.” I loved it and adored the crisp gold and burgundy of the subject’s dress, her delicate beauty, her eyes exuding innocence and the way she held that small animal on her lap so very carefully.

“Is that a unicorn?” asked Clara.

“A conventional symbol of chastity,” I told her.

“The allure of High Renaissance.” Tobias turned to take in the portrait and then spun round and fixed his gaze on mine—

Liquefying my insides and making my chest tighten.

Oh, bloody hell.

He was still staring at me.

At least when I’d met him briefly in the basement there had been some distance between us, but now, with that intense green stare locked on mine and that delicate waft of heady cologne reaching me he’d made my thoughts freeze.

“Mr. Wilder?” Nigel proffered his hand. “It’s such a pleasure to finally meet you.” Tobias turned toward Nigel and reached out to shake.

“I was in LA when The Wilder hosted the Samurai collection,” Nigel told him. “Japanese art is my specialty.”

“That was five years ago.” Tobias turned to us. “The Taka Ishii Gallery generously loaned us a few of their most treasured pieces. First time in the US.”

“I’d have loved to have seen that,” said Clara. “Will it come to London?”

“Afraid not,” said Tobias. “The collection is at home in Tokyo now and won’t tour again in our lifetime. Though we are hosting a collection by Sandro Botticelli.” His face lit up with happiness. “It’s quite something.”

Sighs of admiration rose from everyone circling him.

“You’re all invited of course—” his gaze fell on me “—if you’re ever in the neighborhood.”

My heart fluttered at the thought of seeing those early Renaissance pieces by an artist who’d captured the deepest emotions in his subjects’ eyes.

Who was I kidding? My heart was fluttering over this hottie.

Tobias smiled wistfully. “Seeing La Primavera up close is a privilege.”

I wanted to tell him how much I’d always wanted to visit The Wilder Museum, but held back, not sure if that would come over as a little forward.

Tobias slipped into a smile. “Nigel, may I call you Nigel?”

“Absolutely.”

“I enjoyed that piece you wrote about the Tate.”

“The one on Anna Lea Merritt?”

“That’s the one,” he said. “Very insightful. Love her work.”

“She married her tutor,” I muttered.

Tobias looked my way, his eyes narrowing in interest, and he made me blush.

Clara’s eyebrows popped up, and I hoped she was the only one who’d caught my visceral response to this man. For some reason my mouth had stopped working and this was unusual for me. I loved taking part in this kind of conversation and Clara knew it.

“So what brings you to London?” asked Nigel.

“Business,” he replied.

With Tobias conveniently distracted, I took a breath and admired him discreetly. He moved with such refinement, and yet his earthiness made him less threatening. I kicked myself that I’d had him all to myself down in the basement and not taken the time to talk with him and get to know this enigma better.

Tobias tucked his left hand into his trouser pocket casually and took a sip of bubbly.

That lick across his bottom lip, that tilt of his head, that intensity in his expression as he listened to Nigel.

God, he was gorgeous.

A rush of excitement flooded my chest as I realized he was still hanging out with us.

I let out a wistful sigh.

And earned a flicker of amusement in Tobias’s expression; his eyes crinkled into a subtle smile.

Oh no, he’d sensed me staring.

Reason kicked in as I recalled my first instinct had been to run when I’d met him. He’d no doubt have a slew of women chasing after him and all of them from his world of beautiful socialites. The European supermodel types who took perfection all too seriously.

And based on the passing glances from the other guests surrounding us, many of them seemed just as enamored and more than proved my glum musing that men like this could only be enjoyed from afar.

There was an evening of Googling Tobias Wilder ahead of me when I got back to my Notting Hill flat. See what he was up to now and perhaps find a clue to why he was in London. I’d dig up some dirt on him, no doubt, some article to confirm my gut feeling about him. Tobias Wilder was out of my league for all the right reasons.

He stepped forward to shake Liza’s hand and then Clara’s, his smile reaching his eyes. Their faces lit up in delight at meeting this charismatic man.

“Pleasure’s all mine.” He turned to me and took my hand firmly in his. “Tobias.”

“Zara.”

His smile faded and he blinked at me.

“Zara Leighton,” I said brightly.

His hand slid from mine and he looked away as though distracted.

“Tonight’s a celebration for Zara,” explained Nigel. “She’s given her painting to the gallery. It’s quite a find. Have you seen it?”

“She’s beautiful,” said Tobias. “The painting. Well, I should go. Thank you for the great company. It’s been...insightful.”

“But you only just got here?” said Clara.

“I have an appointment across town.”

“Where are you staying?” asked Nigel.

But Tobias was already weaving his way through the crowd and heading fast for the door.

That masterful stride carrying him away from us.

We all swapped wary glances with each other at his quick exit, and I felt Clara’s arm wrap around my waist to comfort me.

Tobias’s attention had been short lived and someone or something had drawn him away all too briskly. Taking another sip of champagne, I feigned there had never been any hope it might have been me.