Читать книгу The Chase - Vanessa Fewings - Страница 12
ОглавлениеWith my morning latte in hand, I wound my way up the fourteen-story staircase of The Tiriani Building toward the top floor. My fear of being late clashed with my claustrophobia. Taking the elevator was impossible, though, but as every building had stairs it was never an issue and on the positive side it was great for my bum.
During my interview three weeks ago I’d been wowed by the sprawling view that stretched as far as Canary Wharf, and the interior’s decor of steel and silver solidifying its cutting-edge reputation.
Pausing between floors to catch my breath and take delicate sips, careful not to spill my drink on my new blue silk blouse or Ralph Lauren skirt, I was close to being late for that 9:30 a.m. staff meeting. My first introduction to Huntly Pierre’s elite crack team of investigators had kept me up all night with a mixture of excitement and nerves.
I patted myself on the back with how well I’d already coped with disaster this morning. My curling iron broke seconds after switching it on so I’d had to shove my wayward locks into a neat chignon.
Huntly Pierre took up the top six floors and was a modern masterpiece of architecture smack-dab in the middle of The Strand, and the kind of real estate that proved the company was thriving. I’d been brought on for my special brand of expertise garnered from that art history degree I’d earned at Courtauld. This was truly my dream job. I would soon be hanging out at galleries all day, chatting with other art lovers, and my nosy personality would get its daily fix.
My face flushed as I recalled last night’s highlight at The Otillie, meeting the enigmatic Mr. Wilder. I’d fallen asleep with my laptop open on his pretty boy face.
One thing was for sure, he was the outdoorsy type and had a thing for motorbikes and sports cars, or any kind of speed, for that matter.
Soon after I’d gotten home from the gallery I’d sat riveted to my screen as I’d watched what was hailed as a rare insight into his life filmed last year and aired on national television. He’d taken the interviewer on a private tour of his Los Angeles gallery. As they’d strolled through The Wilder, perusing his fine collection of paintings, Tobias had sincerely expressed his passion for seeing art education continued in schools.
I’d let out a sigh as I’d watched him express his belief that students benefited greatly from learning to see beyond the ordinary—
“They must be taught to look closer,” he’d fervidly expressed. “They must be shown how to peer through the enlightened lens of art and develop the skills that will lead them to experience creative lives.”
That short journalistic piece had highlighted his serious nature, which I’d glimpsed last night. Though when Tobias had finally relaxed a little, enough to smile into the camera, he might as well have been looking through the screen at me.
My face burned brighter at the seeming chink in that bad boy charm that threatened to disarm my defenses.
Though there was tragedy in his past too. I found an article on him from five years ago, written in the Telegraph Online. His parents had died in a plane crash when he was a boy. Perhaps this was why he was so driven; he was running away from the pain. He’d refused to comment on that aspect of his life, preferring instead to keep it private.
There had been photo after photo of the press catching him making supersonic exits at every opportunity, his hair messed up and his sunglasses shielding those stunning green eyes. The press had christened him “Mr. Elusive” and it suited him.
Now that I knew it wasn’t unusual for him to perform a disappearing act I didn’t feel like it had been me who’d scared him away with any number of my usual social blunders.
I wished I’d savored that sun-kissed body a little more but I’d been so shocked to see a living, breathing masterpiece subtly flexing his muscles in The Otillie’s basement.
I felt a wave of melancholy that I’d never know the meaning of that Latin inscription on his well-toned torso. I wondered if he had any more of those mysterious inked inscriptions on any other part of his body.
I flinched and almost bit through my lip.
And burst through the top-floor exit with a little too much gusto.
That caffeine had evidently kicked in, and I startled Elena, the receptionist, forcing her to spring to her feet to greet me.
“Morning exercise,” I managed breathlessly.
“Good morning, Zara.” She sang the words in that heavy Glasgow accent.
I’d fallen for Elena’s easy breezy charm the day of my interview when she made me laugh with her cheeky humor. She’d worked here for years and seemed to know the inside scoop on everyone. I loved her fashion sense, that daring miniskirt just above her knees and those fine leather boots, which seemed a statement of her unwavering confidence—I’d overheard her on the phone handling difficult clients—her purple sweater added a dash of color.
A rush of movement came at me.
Danny Kenner swept past me with the biggest grin. “Hi there.”
His accent reminded me of Tobias’s, but Danny had a Californian lilt whereas Tobias’s had an indistinguishable husky edge.
His ripped jeans and Lacoste jumper, along with his Nike sneakers, revealed Huntly Pierre’s more casual approach to their dress code.
I smiled after him.
Danny had made me feel welcome during my first visit here, and we’d hit it off straight away with our shared love of “anything” by Rembrandt and Starbucks.
Elena beamed at him. “They got a fingerprint on the Jaeger case.”
My gaze snapped after Danny, wanting to run after him and hear more.
Last night, the same evening I’d dropped Madame Rose off at The Otillie, there’d been a theft from a private house in Holland Park.
This morning, I’d been riveted to the TV as the BBC newscaster had reported that nothing else had been taken. The Jaeger family had lost their greatest heirloom, an 1896 Edvard Munch, and were predictably devastated.
This second theft in under a month in London was sending the art community into a spin. The police were scrambling for clues and had brought in the team at Huntly Pierre.
Part of this job was also comforting the victims and I prided myself that with my tragic history I’d flourish with that aspect of my profession. I knew what it felt like to lose what had essentially become a friend; for some, art had a way of drawing you in and holding you spellbound for a lifetime.
I felt a rush of excitement that I was finally here.
“Your meeting with the staff got pushed,” she said. “The boss has a last-minute change in schedule.”
“I imagine everyone’s crazy busy,” I said. “How are you handling the press?”
“Everything goes through Mr. Huntly.”
“Of course.”
“He’ll come get you when he’s ready.”
“Great.”
“Let’s show you around.”
She introduced me to the rest of the staff, and I was greeted with warm smiles. Everyone seemed friendly and acted happy here, which was a great sign. The large windows allowed sunlight to flood in and the warm tone of those cream-colored walls gave the central cubicles a spacious feel.
When we made it to the room that would become my office I saw the small brown paper bag on the desk.
“It’s a muffin,” said Elena. “My treat to make you feel at home.”
“Thank you, Elena. That was so kind of you.” I peeked into the bag. “Now this is a perfect way to start the day.” It made my mouth water just thinking of it.
“Here’s what you’ll need to get started.” She handed me a file. “You’ll find everything on our private website. Just hit Staff Access. Change your codes and shred this.”
“Got it.”
She left me to get settled, and I sat in the leather swivel chair and fired up the desktop computer in front of me.
There was an empty bookcase flush against the right wall, a filing cabinet in the corner and a stack of empty files on top of it. The blank wall in front was just waiting for a painting. That view was something else: the River Thames looked beautiful with the morning sunlight reflecting off it.
I dragged my gaze away and tapped my code into Huntly Pierre’s database and began navigating the software. Taking a bite of that delicious blueberry muffin, undoing all the good of those stairs.
“Good morning, Ms. Leighton.” Adley Huntly leaned a shoulder casually on the door frame. His friendly face beamed a warm welcome.
Brushing crumbs off my hands, I pushed myself to my feet.
His white hair gave my boss an arty flair. He was strikingly tall and slim and his tailored suit rounded out his aristocratic air. Adley was well respected in the community as one of the most successful consultants in the industry. Working for him was going to be life changing.
I made my way over to him. “Sir, it’s a pleasure to see you again.”
“Likewise, Zara.” His handshake was firm and his smile reassuring. “Do you have everything you need?”
“Yes, thank you. Elena’s been wonderful.”
“Glad to hear it. Ready to get to work?” He gestured. “We’re in the conference room.”
He led me back through the foyer and down a long sprawling hallway. I’d not seen the east wing yet and tried not to gape at the whitewashed walls upon which hung a line of forgeries of the Old Masters.
“I want to thank you again for this incredible opportunity,” I said.
“We’re delighted to have you onboard.” He checked his phone as we walked.
I paused before the stunning replica of Vincent van Gogh’s The Starry Night.
“Good, aren’t they?” he said.
“They are.” I let out a sigh of wonder as we strolled passed a Salvador Dali. “Will I be part of the Jaeger team?”
“Perhaps. The painting’s gone. Lost without a trace, apparently.”
“Sorry to hear that.”
“Actually, we have a new assignment for you. A client needs an authentication on a piece he’s considering purchasing.” His face crinkled into a smile. “Thought we’d break you in slowly.”
“Of course,” I said, “Whatever you think is best.” Adley went on ahead into the conference room.
I glanced behind to take in one of my favorite paintings by John Singer Sergeant, affectionately known as Portrait of Madame X. A lifelike image of an elegant young woman wearing a long black evening dress, her hand casually resting on a small table as she stared off wistfully.
Virginie Gautreau had been an American beauty who’d garnered a notorious reputation for her rumored infidelities. The painting had caused a scandal during its 1884 debut in Paris.
My focus was captured by its guilty secret. This portrait was a brilliant forgery that could have slipped past the experts. It was that good.
“Ms. Leighton?” Adley called out.
Virginie Gautreau masked her true feelings so well. Like I was doing now.
My feet melting into the floor as my breath caught.
Adley had taken his place at the head of the table and beside him sat a stunning thirtysomething, her hair a striking platinum blond up in a neat chignon.
And sitting beside her—Tobias Wilder.
Now cleanly shaven, he’d outdone his last suit with this three-piece pinstripe number that highlighted his finely formed physique, his short dark blond hair perfectly combed and those striking eyes...were locked on mine.
What was he doing here?
There was no sign of that dashing warm smile. His mouth was fixed in a tense hard line of scrutiny and those irises were now a startling jade.
I dragged my gaze away from his and looked over at Adley.
He was studying my reaction. “Those forgeries have a knack of getting to you, don’t they?”
Catching my breath, I gestured to the paintings. “How do you ever get any work done?”
Tobias pushed himself to his feet and came over. “Miss Leighton.”
“You know each other?” asked Adley.
Tobias reached out to shake my hand. “Had the pleasure of meeting last night at The Otillie.”
Right after I’d caught him half-naked, I secretly mused, holding on to his hand for a second too long, the sensation of his touch temptingly addictive.
Cringing inwardly, I tried not to think about me unwittingly flashing him yesterday.
Casually, he tucked his hands into his pockets. “The gallery’s a favorite to visit when I’m this side of the pond. I’m good friends with Miles Tenant—”
“The Otillie’s curator,” said Adley. “Great chap. Knows his art.”
I went to ask him if it had been Miles who’d invited him to the party but thought better of it. Maybe later, when the formality of the meeting was over.
“Already broken the ice, then?” Alder’s gaze fell on me. “Good to hear.”
“One of my dad’s paintings,” I told him. “I’ve donated it to the gallery. They were kind enough to hold a reception in his name.”
“Of course, Madame Rose Récamier?” he said. “How was the reception?”
“Great,” said Tobias. “The usual crowd.”
“Got anything else hidden away?” said Adley cheekily.
I wore my best vague expression.
They didn’t need to know about my little secret stash of art gems. Amongst the collection was a tour de force from a painter who’d influenced the landscape of Western art. I’d already drawn too much attention, and what was left of our paintings threatened to disrupt the kind of peace I’d come to crave.
“Would anyone like a doughnut?” I gestured to the plate in front of us.
“No, thank you.” Tobias’s jaw muscles tightened and flexed, and he swapped a wary glance with the woman.
That spark of recognition on his face last night when he’d first met me had probably come from a Huntly Pierre memo he’d read with my name on it. Realizing this made me feel a little better.
Damn, this place was fantastic. I already loved working here. The kind of clients this place attracted was astonishing.
“Ms. Arquette.” Tobias gestured toward her. “My attorney.”
“So happy to meet you,” I said brightly. “Can we get you anything?”
“I’m fine,” she said with a softly spoken Swedish accent. “Any more coffee and I’ll never sleep again. Please, call me Logan.”
“Logan,” I said, “welcome to London.”
She started to say something but Tobias answered for her. “She lives here.”
“Oh, that’s lovely,” I said.
“I’m bicoastal, Ms. Leighton.” She flashed a grin at Tobias. “Sometimes LA. Sometimes here. I go where needed.”
Her neat chignon was showing mine up—whereas hers didn’t have a hair out of place, mine looked like I’d gone for the other end of the spectrum with wisps of hair fighting for freedom.
Tobias took a step toward me, closing the gap between us, and he raised his hand toward my mouth, his intense stare fixed on mine. I leaned back slightly, but his thumb was already brushing over my lower lip in a sensual sweep and it pouted naturally beneath his touch.
My breath stilted as a rush of tingles circled my chest and my cheeks felt flushed. Time slowing...
His irises were speckled with amber. That revelation, along with his mind-altering cologne wafting my way, caused a wave of giddiness.
The shadow of his touch on my lip...
“Crumb,” he said huskily and lowered his hand to his side.
“Muffin,” I managed and went for a seat near Adley, avoiding Logan’s ice-cold glare. Tobias gripped the back of my chair and nudged me forward into the desk.
“Thank you.” I wished I’d brought a pen and notepad now so I could pretend to write. “It was a gift from Elena. The muffin, I mean.” I offered a polite smile to Logan. “Our receptionist. It’s blueberry. With blueberry bits in there.”
Logan smirked as though amused.
He didn’t seem to notice, merely rounded the table and took his seat again right next to her.
“Careful,” said Logan, “don’t up-sell Elena too much or I might headhunt her.”
Tobias swiveled casually in his chair. “Let’s leave their staff alone.”
He’d brought his left leg up and crossed it over his right, showing off those fine highly polished leather shoes, and he looked so damn confident, so relaxed, so ridiculously dashing.
“Elena’s been with us for years,” offered Adley. “We’d be lost without her. Shall we go over the details?” Adley opened the beige folder in front of him.
I settled back in my chair, pretending that Tobias hadn’t fixed his stare on me. This seemed like cruel karma after I’d ogled him for a little too long last night.
I avoided his scrutiny by showing interest in the paintings surrounding me. More fakes hung from the walls. The large Jackson Pollock to our left was breathtakingly real. The original was safe in the National Gallery, a tube ride from here. A home away from home during my student days.
Pollock, one of America’s most famous abstract artists, had left a legacy of canvases splashed with brilliant roiling lines and blotches that even today stirred a visceral response. This one, if it had been real, would have fetched at least thirty million pounds if sold today. Luckily, it was in here and off the market so some poor unsuspecting collector with too much money didn’t throw it away on a counterfeit.
I’d once watched my father throw a mug of tea at a forgery. He’d told me afterward the artist had plagiarized the heart and soul of the painter. There was only one explanation for hanging these cruel betrayals up in the east wing. They were used for training.
Dragging my gaze away from the Pollock, I returned my focus to Adley.
He peered over his rounded spectacles at Tobias. “The plan is to authenticate before you buy?”
“It’s a time issue,” said Tobias. “It’s the kind of investment I’m willing to make but only if we can confirm its authenticity.”
“Which painting?” I asked.
“Mr. Wilder is hoping to move fast,” said Logan.
“You’re not going with an American firm?” said Adley.
“Discretion is essential,” replied Logan.
“It’s in the UK?” I wondered why he was not going with the firm he usually used. After all, his vast collection had been authenticated.
“It’s a well-sought-out piece,” said Tobias. “I need discretion.”
“We’re ahead of the curve with this one,” said Logan. “We want to move fast.”
“Huntly Pierre guarantees a strict privacy policy,” said Adley. “Our service is confidential.”
Logan’s glare locked on me. “How long have you worked for the firm?”
“Well, I’ve been with Huntly Pierre—” I looked over at Adley.
He gave a reassuring smile. “I can assure you Ms. Leighton’s art pedigree is exceptional.”
“If you don’t mind,” said Logan. “We’re merely crossing our t’s.”
“Of course.” Adley gestured for her to continue.
Tobias picked up a pen embossed with the company insignia and tapped it on the desk. “Tell us more about you, Ms. Leighton.”
“I studied art here in London.” I smiled, hoping that would allay their concerns. “I’ve loved art all my life.”
Logan opened the beige folder in front of her and read. “Courtauld Institute of Art?”
There was a flipping folder on me?
A wave of nervousness circled my stomach. “Yes, I graduated—”
“With honors.” Tobias’s stare locked on mine. “Impressive.”
“The Courtauld’s just down the road,” I told them brightly. “I can arrange a visit if you like.”
Logan’s frown narrowed. “We’re more interested in your current experience.”
“Oh, well, I’ve not been with the firm that long. But I’ve been immersed in the art world all my life. My father was an honorary member of the Royal Academy of Arts.”
“Are you a member?” asked Logan.
“No,” I said, “you have to be voted in. Members are usually practicing artists.”
Tobias reached out for that folder and slid it toward him along the desk. Turning the pages slowly, he seemed to be reading every single line of whatever was in there. If silence could have been considered a weapon he’d mastered the art of using it.
That Jackson Pollock was jarring my nerves, those swirls of white on black, those yellow blotches had hit the canvas with precision. To an untrained eye they would have appeared like a madman’s call for help.
Adley leaned forward. “Zara has a natural flair for—”
“Is this your first day?” Logan sounded incredulous. Tobias’s stare slowly lifted to hold mine.
Making me feel like I’d been caught in a lie. The unfairness of being thrown into the deep end hit me. The fine hairs on my forearms prickled.
“Ms. Leighton?” she said sternly.
“Zara?” Tobias sounded tense.
He’d gone from friendly American to scary interrogator with that steely gaze fixed on mine.
I straightened my back defensively. “As it so happens, yes.”
Logan’s skeptical glare shot toward Adley. “This is your best man?”
“My team is currently invested in a high-profile case,” said Adley.
“You’re essentially saying your staff is too busy for us?” Logan looked annoyed.
Adley seemed unfazed. “Well, as you probably know there have been a couple of art thefts, right here in London. We’ve been brought in by the Met to do what we can to help. See if they’re connected.”
He went on to explain the details. As my world crumbled around me.
This day was meant to be bloody awesome. Now I was about to prove to my new boss I had no right to be here.
Why had I even bothered? Why had I even believed I could make a place for myself in a world that had turned away from my family? I was destined to be discovered as a fraud myself. Might as well just hang me up on the wall.
I was starting to regret ever meeting Tobias Wilder. Even if my thighs were squeezed tight and that tingling between them was disagreeing with my current conclusion: he was beginning to look like a class-A rogue who always got his way. Yet my thoughts kept carrying me back to his secret tattoo, the first Latin word meeting the tip of his V and conveniently leading off toward his forbidden zone.
That video of him I’d watched last night had probably been a ruse to soften those hard edges of his public image.
He seemed willing to do just about anything to own that mystery painting. I’d seen that same determination in my father. These were the kind of men who let nothing stand in their way when it came to possessing that certain coveted masterpiece.
Adley and Logan continued to debate the wisdom of hiring such an obvious newbie with no fieldwork experience.
Tobias’s expression remained unreadable. The way he played with that pen made me want to snatch it out of his hands and ram it into the middle of that Jackson Pollock—
Those maddening swirls mirrored my racing heartbeat and those yellow blotches significantly matched the artist’s adoration for placing bright colors just so, a brilliant rebellion against order and a show of pride against expectations and yet setting them where our subconscious reassured us they were meant to be. That hint of a blue canvas beneath all that profound color was hard to fake, if not impossible, and I didn’t need to stick my nose up against it to know there was only one man who could pull off a Pollock as good as this one—
“Zara?” said Tobias.
I blinked his way as though stirring from a dream.
The way he’d spoken my name made me feel as though he’d touched me all over again.
My fingertips traced my lips.
We don’t like him, remember?
“Want to add anything, Ms. Leighton?” asked Logan.
Great, I’d suddenly developed ADD too, apparently.
Not wanting to embarrass myself or Adley one more second, I rose to my feet. “If you’ll excuse me...” I need fresh air. “I’ll get us some more water.”
“Well, this has been a colossal waste of time,” muttered Logan.
I folded my arms. “Excuse me?”
She gave a thin smile. “I was merely advising my client we’re running late.”
My arm shot up and I pointed toward the Pollock. “Look.”
Logan followed my gaze.
I took a sharp inhale of breath. “It’s a Pollock.”
Adley arched a brow as though inviting me to elaborate.
I rose and strolled over to it. “This is a sixty-million-dollar painting and the coffeepot is boiling just ten feet away from the canvas. Mr. Adley, whoever appraised your artwork needs retraining.”
“That would be me,” he said calmly.
My apology stuck in my throat and I swallowed to budge it, my brain replaying the last ten seconds to check if I’d sworn out loud.
I was too thrown to even cringe.
“And it just happens to be hanging in your coffee room?” said Tobias, smiling over at Adley. “A remarkable discovery.”
No, he wasn’t going to fill me with doubt.
Logan stared over at it. “Shouldn’t you x-ray it before jumping to a conclusion?”
“The evidence is backed by the frame, Ms. Arquette,” I said. “See? The frame is modest.” My gaze swept over the canvas, my heart sympathizing with this masterpiece and feeling just as misunderstood.
Adley gestured with open palms toward Tobias and it looked like resignation, or worse, an apology on my behalf.
Tobias’s fingers were resting on my file. “Thank you, Adley. I believe we’re done here.” He closed it and pushed to his feet.
Words were exchanged between him and Adley. A shake of hands. A promise to be in touch.
Tobias lowered his head, tucked his hands into his pockets and left the room without looking at me. Logan threw me a thin smile and followed him out.
I stood frozen, regretting the sudden delivery of my outburst as I watched them leave, realizing it was too late to salvage the meeting.
I spun to face Adley. “Sir, I’m so sorry. I don’t know what came over me.”
“You’re going to have to learn to keep a lid on your emotions, Zara.”
“Yes, of course.” I plopped back down in my seat.
Had I just blown my career on my first day? Yes, I bloody well had.
Adley’s attention went from the door to where Logan and Tobias had just exited and moved swiftly over to the Pollock, his attention lingering there. “Well done.”
I blinked my confusion.
Adley gestured to the painting. “Most people assume they’re all fakes. They don’t see beyond the other scoundrels hanging around them. They assume if one is fake, then they all are.”
Startled, I sat back.
“Our client requested a demonstration of your skills. I made a call.”
I wondered how much this had cost the firm. The security detail alone would amount to thousands. It had to be the kind of investment that would pay off when it nabbed a high-paying client. Adley stared in admiration at the painting and I stared at him, marveling at his faith in me to pull off this feat.
“They left in an awful hurry,” I muttered.
He shrugged. “Looks like we’re officially lending you to Wilder.”
My breath caught and my fingernails dug into the armrests.
“He’s requested an exclusive consultation,” he added.
“He asked for me personally?”
But Adley was already on the phone and chatting with a curator about having that Pollock they’d borrowed just this morning returned to the National Gallery.
