Читать книгу The Game - Vanessa Fewings - Страница 9

3

Within twenty minutes we were winding our way along the UCLA campus roads, and my heart rate rocketed from my brilliant plan inspired further by the impressive old brick buildings of this bustling college. Students strolled to and from their classes. I imagined Gabe would be happy here amongst all this prestige and academic camaraderie.

My focus returned to Marshall. He looked like a reasonable man.

Discreetly, I reached into my handbag and pulled out my phone. I hated the idea of being without it, but this was the only way I’d be able to evade him. If he skipped town, there was a chance I could find someone with the skill to reverse engineer the signal and track it to him. I was going to have to stash it somewhere safe for now.

“Right over there, please.” I pointed to the Franklin D. Murphy Sculpture Garden.

The car pulled up to the curb.

“I’ll let Mr. Wilder know we’re running late,” said Marshall. “He’ll inform his flight crew.”

I raised my phone and smiled through my lie. “He told me to take all the time I need.”

Marshall narrowed his gaze in the rearview, seemingly unconvinced.

You don’t intimidate me, buddy, not even after you broke into my hotel room and violated my privacy.

“Can you open the door, please?”

He hesitated. “Did you text your professor? Does he have it, miss?”

“I hope so.” My gaze swept the sculpture garden. “I’ll be right back.” I grabbed my handbag ready to bolt.

With a click of the lock I was free and my feet hit the curb with a bounce of triumph. I turned to give a wave of thanks and then realized Marshall was getting out.

“I’ll be quicker alone.” I took off, striding fast through the well-tended garden, passing an array of sculptures, one of them a large golden female torso on a solid granite base. It was beautiful, and I pined to be able to enjoy these modern masterpieces with the attention they deserved and not while running from Tobias’s chauffer. A perky tour guide led a long line of prospective students around the campus. I took advantage of the endless line of people and weaved through them and shut off my phone.

Turning left and a sharp right, I saw the Charles E. Young Research Library up ahead and hurried toward it and with one quick glance back I confirmed I wasn’t being followed—

The atmosphere was expectedly serene and as I strolled toward the reception desk situated to the right of the glass foyer, I threw a big smile to the librarian, a man in his thirties who was slim and studious looking with his head buried in a book. He frowned his interest when he greeted me.

Within minutes I was heading down the staircase to the rare book reading room after providing a convincing performance as a foreign student. Throwing in some academic jargon that gave me the credibility I needed along with my unusual request to see their out-of-print edition of a collection of paintings by Paul Gauguin from the late 1800s. Gauguin was a famed painter, printmaker and sculptor, and this was the first rare book that came to mind.

I made my way into the air-sealed room, respectful of the other students, and picked up a pair of white gloves out of a wooden box on a corner table and pulled them on. Instead of looking for the book on Gauguin, I pulled a first edition biography on William Shakespeare off the shelf that in any other circumstance would have had my full attention. I pretended to read it.

Tobias might very well hold a press conference to announce the suspicious provenance of my St. Joan. Then again, with one phone call from me, the police would turn their attention on him and his days of thievery would be over or at least stilted.

Though I believed Tobias wouldn’t hurt me. We were at an impasse.

I needed time to rethink my strategy and if this is what it took, me throwing caution to the wind and trusting my gut, then so be it.

When the room emptied of visitors I returned the first edition to its shelf, pulled off the gloves and returned them to their wooden box. I carried my phone over to the oak book cabinet, knelt and reached around to stash my phone behind it.

There, it was done.

I exited the reading room and headed over to the wall phone. Within a few seconds I was speaking to the campus operator and asking to be put through to Professor Gabe Anderson’s office.

“Zara?” Gabe answered with that American brightness.

“Professor Anderson?” There came a wave of comfort at hearing his voice again.

“What a lovely surprise. Where are you?”

“I stopped off at the antiques reading room. You know how I love old books. Are you busy?”

“Never.” He gave a sigh. “Are you okay?”

“Yes. Why?”

“Your chauffer was here looking for you.”

Oh, no, Marshall had found Gabe’s office. He must have called his boss to tell him he’d lost me, and then Tobias had immediately searched The Courtauld’s teacher database and cross-referenced it with all the professors at UCLA. How easy it would have been to track down Gabe. Tobias had then directed Marshall to find him on the campus. All in under fifteen minutes.

“Why would I have your passport?” Anderson sounded concerned. “Haven’t seen you in three months.”

“It’s a misunderstanding. Is he still there?”

“He headed off to look for you. He left his number. Shall I call him?”

“No, it’s fine.” I wondered if Marshall might be trying to follow the GPS in the phone I’d just stashed, the same one Tobias had conveniently gifted me.

“Is now an okay time?” I asked.

“Of course. I’m in Boelter Hall, office 112.”

“I’ll be right there.”

After asking the librarian for directions I headed out of the library, weaving my way along the college lanes.

There came a rush of relief when I saw Professor Anderson waiting for me outside his office door. I hurried toward him and gave him a big hug. He gestured for me to follow him into his office but I hesitated for a second, wondering if Marshall might come back. Still, if he did I could handle him. It wasn’t like he’d be able to force me back into his limo.

I made my way in and shut the door. “It’s so wonderful to see you, Professor.”

“Call me Gabe. I had no idea you were in LA?” He pointed to one of the two armchairs in the corner for me to sit. “Tea?”

“No, thank you.”

His office was an organized chaos with files stacked high on his desk and his impressive collection of Asian history books lined up along the dark wooden shelf. An empty coffee mug. Gabe was wearing his usual tweed jacket and black slacks to offset being in his early thirties, and his raven locks still flopped over his kind eyes.

“Zara, so good to see you. I hear you got hired at Huntly Pierre?”

“Yes, as an art specialist. Sorry I didn’t call you to let you know I was visiting LA. I meant to.”

“Are you on vacation?”

“Kind of. Mixing work with pleasure.” And as I was unofficially in California that version sat well with me.

“Where are you staying?”

“Beverly Wilshire.” I cringed inwardly, recalling how Tobias had unceremoniously checked me out of my hotel room.

“Your chauffeur told me you lost your passport?”

“Did he bother you? I’m sorry.”

“No, he wanted to help you out.” Gabe stood and reached for a Post-it note on his desk. “Here’s his number.”

I took it from him. “Thank you.”

He sat back down. “How long are you here?”

“A week.”

“On behalf of Huntly Pierre?”

“Kind of. To be honest I’m going a little rogue. Using my free time to investigate a lead.”

He laughed. “My little librarian?”

I deserved that I suppose. I’d been one of his quieter students and only revealed a spark of personality when I handed in my papers that always came back with an A+.

It didn’t take us long to catch up and it was lovely to hear how he was now living in Brentwood with his boyfriend, Ned, a technology strategist for a firm in Menlo Park, though Gabe said he worked from home most days.

The last few hours had felt like a whirlwind of emotions and seeing my old professor filled me with happiness; Gabe was the connection to home I’d needed even if he was here now.

Jet lag caught up and I suppressed a yawn. “I need to call a taxi.”

“I can drive you.”

“I’m fine. But thank you.”

He stood and reached for his phone. “Where are you going?”

“Can you recommend a hotel? I need to be closer to the Los Angeles County Museum of Art.”

“The Sofitel? It’s also near the Beverly Center. It’s a big shopping center and is just across the street.”

“Perfect.”

Gabe made the call and requested the cab park in front of Boelter Hall. With that done he scribbled a number on a piece of paper and handed it to me. “Here’s my cell.”

“Thank you.” I tucked it into my handbag.

“I don’t suppose you’d like to join me at a cocktail party tomorrow night?”

“Where?”

“The Broad. One of my students is showcasing his collection as part of a youth program at the gallery.”

My attention spiked with the thought of visiting one of the city’s most distinguished museums that was on my list to check out. “I’d love to go.”

“Great! I’ll pick you up tomorrow at seven. It’s black-tie.”

“I have just the thing.” Ironically a dress that rogue Wilder had bought me back in London.

I gave Gabe a big hug and followed the pathway toward the entrance of Boelter Hall, all the while glancing around for Marshall. When I reached the grassy bank, I saw my taxi idling at the curb. Settling in the back of the car I looked forward to checking into the Sofitel hotel and, just as Gabe suggested, visiting the shopping center. I needed to replace the contents of my suitcase.

Staring out at the passing scenery, the enormity of what I was taking on hit me. I had less than a week to collate data from every single gallery, along with private collections in LA, the kind that might draw the attention of a thief. For now, at least, I had a motive to go on; a broken provenance consistently occurring with each painting stolen by Icon. A gargantuan task that would quite frankly have been impossible without my access to Huntly Pierre’s newly developed software. An ingenious processing program that collated the art collections of international galleries with details including their individual history. This ability was now part of my investigative tool kit.

Why couldn’t all this be simple? Why wasn’t the enigmatic Tobias who I’d fallen hard for just an ordinary man who I could date without all this drama? Our worlds were clashing and the fallout was going to leave nothing but two broken people if I wasn’t careful.

It hurt knowing Tobias was in the same city and I couldn’t see him. Being so close to him at The Wilder Museum had reminded me he was dangerously seductive. Recalling the way he’d pressed his body against mine with all that hard muscle and boundless power threatened to make me lose focus.

I’d always wanted to visit The Broad, famed for its avant-garde reputation, and I couldn’t wait to explore the endless showrooms.

That’s it, think of a vast, frigid gallery instead of Wilder and refocus your brain on why you’re here.

After paying for my cab, I climbed out and headed toward the impressive front door of the Sofitel.

“Miss,” the taxi driver called after me.

I turned to face him and froze—

He was retrieving a red suitcase out of the trunk of his cab.

Mine.

He handed it over to a young valet who rushed it past me, throwing a welcoming smile.

The blood drained from my face as I realized Marshall had realized the cab was for me and had placed it in there before I’d left Gabe’s office.

Tobias is bloody relentless.