When the waiter finally sets the bill down, my date leans forward, her eyes glinting with a combination of flirtation and expectation. She’s already made it obvious that she’s willing to come home with me. A little smile, a tilt of the head, a subtle touch of the hand across the table, an invitation in its purest form.
There was a time I would have taken her home and had sex with her even knowing it wouldn’t be going anywhere, but that was years ago. I’ve grown past that silliness now. She is not what I want. And I’ve learned not to waste time on irrelevant women. She’s nothing to me. Everything I want, everything that’s consuming me, is the exact opposite of the woman before me.
I want Joseph’s chaotic daughter.
And she is the only woman I want.
I curse Jo under my breath. She has the audacity to be perfect - beautiful, clever, infuriating - and now she’s ruining everyone else for me. How the hell am I meant to find someone to be the mother of my child when I can’t get her out of my head?
Then I makeup my mind that I’m not going to waste another moment of my time with any more of these kinds of ‘dates’.
I pay the bill and ask Crystal if she needs me to call her a cab. She pouts and twirls a lock of hair around her finger, a little girl’s voice emerging as she speaks.
“Why don’t you want to take me home?”
“You’re too good for me. Goodnight, Crystal.”
I get up as her mouth drops open in shock. The cool night air hits me the moment I step outside. The city is fading into the evening.
I walk towards my car, adjusting my jacket slightly, my jaw tight, my mind still circling around the varnish-scented Jo. That girl has made every other woman I’ve met since the reading of the will utterly meaningless. Every inviting smile, every flirtatious laugh, every sparkling eye has been eclipsed by her.
And I hate her for it. And that contradiction of want and hate, that dark, gnawing pull of desire mixed with irritation, will not leave me. Certainly not tonight. And I’m starting to worry, not ever.
Chapter
Sixteen
JO
The vault is quiet, almost reverent, except for the ever-present low hum of the climate control system keeping the air at the perfect temperature and humidity. I take a step back from the painting I’ve just finished and stand staring at it. It looks perfect. I eye it critically, but I already know I haven’t missed anything.
Satisfied, I sink into the padded stool in front of it, admiring the vibrant colors I’ve exposed. I love the way the light now dances across the surface just as it must have when the artist first completed it. My chest swells with satisfaction, and I allow myself to smile. This is why I do what I do. This bringing life back to centuries old painting is the kind of work that makes every dawn waking and every meticulous hour spent on it, so worth it.
I glance at the clock on the far wall. It’s already late afternoon, and it’s probably not worth starting a new painting now. I decide to call it a day. But first, I want to, at least, havea peek at the next painting, and maybe prepare the loom by stretching some Belgium linen over the wooden frame.
The painting is still wrapped, carefully shrouded in a protective cloth, lying on the custom stand that I know is meant to cradle it. I pull back the cloth slowly, almost ceremoniously. I reveal the painting in all of its glory. It’s a 300-year-old Thomas Gainsborough. I stand back to drink it in and appreciate every little detail of such a masterpiece, but suddenly my stomach drops.
What?
I frown.
Something isn’t right.
I tilt my head to one side as I study the painting more closely. The surface gleams with dull light. There’s a tension in the brush work that I would expect from a Gainsborough, but something is definitely off. The pigments, the way the layers interact, the shading, it’s too precise, too calculated. I peer closely at it. And it’s too perfectly preserved. I lay the painting flat on my workstation, pick up my loupes from the bench, and begin a more meticulous inspection.
The blue cup in the painting catches my attention first. The shade isn’t quite right. It’s too bright, too smooth. My heart hammers as I check the chemical composition in my mind, the known pigment tables, and the materials available in the eighteenth century.
No. It can’t be.
I adjust the loupes and tilt my desk light to illuminate the painting even more, and then I examine every brushstroke, every inch of the canvas. I so want to be wrong, but the closer I look, the more I know I am not wrong. The blue pigment used here was not produced in that period. This supposedly priceless painting… is a fake.
I sit down, stunned, and the loupes fall into my lap. I can feel a flush creeping up my neck and across my cheeks, a mixture of disbelief at the situation and horror at what my own eyes have shown me. A fake. In my father’s collection. The real painting must have cost many millions. How could this have happened?
I know the protocols, and I am certain someone of my father’s reputation and fortune would have had the best art dealer in the world sourcing his stuff for him and they likely would have known protocols even I don’t know. So many experts would have been consulted before a purchase is actually made. From what I know of Joseph, he would never have bought a reproduction intentionally either, and even if he had, it would have been hung on a wall somewhere, not stored in his vault. So, what does that mean? How did this reproduction come to be part of his collection? I don’t know, but I can think of one person who might have a clue.
My legs tremble slightly as I get up and walk out of the vault, the echo of my heels harsh on the polished marble floor of the corridor. I need to call Gavin. I need someone official. Someone who can confirm what my eyes are telling me and shed some light on how and why that painting is in Joseph’s vault. I have only one theory, and I really don’t like it. What if my father or Gavin, or someone else, planted the fake as a test for me to see if I was experienced enough to notice it?
I reach the foyer where there is a phone, but I decide the landline there is too public and I will go up to my suite to make the call. As I sprint up the stairs, my mind is reeling. I reach the top of the stairs when a voice stops me.