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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.
