“What’ll it be?” the bartender asks.
“I’ll have a double of the Courvoisier and,” I turn to Brielle with one eyebrow raised, “if I may?”
There’s the tiniest bit of cynicism at my presumption before she shrugs and waves her permission.
“Could you possibly make a French 75 for the mademoiselle?”
He heaves a small exhale of scorn at the choice before shrugging and walking off to make it.
“French 75? Dare I ask what that is?”
“A little sweet, a little sour, drenched with champagne. The perfect thing to help your mouth develop a taste for something French.”
It takes her a moment to allow it to happen, but she eventually laughs and shakes her head. “Did anyone ever tell you that you lack subtlety?”
“I’m French. We’re a very passionate people,” I say with an overtly earnest expression.
“I thought that was the Italians,” she quips.
“Italian, French, it all comes from the Romance Languages. Fortunately, I have a master tongue.” It’s slightly crass and far too easy.
Brielle twists her lips with amusement—her dancing eyes give her away—and shakes her head. So she appreciates my lack of subtly after all.
“So, what part of France are you from?”
“Nice.”
“French Riviera. That must have been nice,” she remarks, raising her eyebrows with appreciation.
Brielle stares at me for a moment, then laughs at what she’s just said. Even though the spelling is the same, the pronunciation of the two words is completely different. It has the benefit of melting away another thin layer of ice separating us.
Fully thawed, I have a feeling Brielle will be worth the risk of approaching her like this. And hell if my insides aren’t on fire just from being in such close proximity to her.
“So you’re from France. I have to say, except for a slight accent, your English is impeccable.”
I hesitate at the unspoken question before answering. “We were required to learn two languages in school.” Technically the truth, but hardly how I came to be so fluent.
“Two?” she says her brow raising. “I had to take only one and hell if my Spanish is anywhere as decent as your English.”
“It is the lingua franca,” I say with a nonchalant shrug. “I thought it was important enough to master.”
“That you did. What was the other language?”
“Ich spreche Deutsch,” I say in German. Then add by way of explanation, “Our closest neighbors to the east.”
She nods as though this makes sense.
“One French 75 and one Courvoisier,” the bartender announces, placing them before us.
Brielle takes a sip of her drink, raising one eyebrow above the rim as it hits her tongue. “Kudos to you, I actually like it.”
“A woman of taste. I knew it the moment you agreed to go out with me.”
That earns me a roll of the eye, and a dimple I’ve never seen before next to the grin on her lips. I’m beginning to love this smile of hers. It’s enigmatic, like Mona Lisa’s. It doesn’t reveal too much, keeping the observer wondering what exactly she’s wondering. Now that I think about it, I don’t remember her smiling in any of the photos sent to me. She also seems reluctant to reveal one in person.
Why is that?
Whatever the reason, I want to see her smile more, especially when I’m the one bringing it out.
But tonight is business, not pleasure. At least for now.
My mind shifts gears, remembering everything that’s at stake. It helps me put aside this infatuation with the woman sitting next to me—too close—and focus on what needs to be done.
“This painting that will be revealed Friday, apparently it’s a big deal? They were talking about it in my department. Are you excited to finally see it?”
Brielle eyes me over the glass as though trying to read into that query.
Go for it, Brielle. I have so many layers she’d need a shovel.
She takes a moment to swallow and set down her drink before donning a facade someone with a less practiced eye would easily miss. Fortunately, I already know all her secrets.
“Of course I am. It’s a beautiful piece with a fascinating history.”
“It was lost at some point, no? That is what I’ve heard at least. It’s nice of Bernard Gaultier to put it on public display.”
“Nice,” She repeats with a heaping serving of sarcasm on top as she takes another sip. “More like self-serving. Attention is his favorite thing to bask in.”
We’ve gotten off track, but not terribly so. “Bitching,” as they call it here is a natural dehydrator, practically begging the body for more alcohol to fuel it along. As the saying goes, all roads lead to Rome, and Bernard Gaultier, spiced with a bit of alcohol is one avenue that will get me right back where I need to be.
“If I had a work of art that had been missing that long, I’d want to show it off as well,” I say, taking a sip from my drink.
“Even if it was rumored to be stolen by the Nazis?” she asks, raising one eyebrow.
And there it is, the first clue.
“Really?” I ask, seemingly surprised yet intrigued. “Do people actually suspect that?”
“Well, Chabat was living in Nazi-occupied France when it was painted, and that was the last time it was ever seen. Most of his work was destroyed.”
“Except for this one, apparently.”
“Apparently.”
“Why do you suppose that is? Perhaps the original owners simply hid it and later sold it. In times of war, people get desperate.”
“They wouldn’t have sold a Chabat. Even back then, his work was valuable. Besides, it was a personal piece, Noémie, the subject of the painting, she—” she stops herself, realizing that she’s about to say too much. “I mean have you seen a picture of the painting?”
I nod, maintaining my rapt attention to encourage her to go on. “She was a beautiful woman.”
“Not just beautiful. She was…dynamic. Rumored to be part of the French Resistance before it really even began, and Jewish to boot! I mean, talk about bravery.”
“I fail to see how that proves the original owners didn’t sell or simply lose it during the war. It also doesn’t prove that it was stolen by the Nazis.”
“The original owner, Victor Ardant he—I mean the only reason he would have possibly owned it was because he was obviously in love with the woman, right? So why would he ever sell it? Even after he mysteriously died, his children had to flee Paris almost immediately after.”
How the hell does she know all this?
“All the more reason for them to sell it? You said it would have been valuable.”
“They were teenagers, what would they know about selling art? Besides, he owned a jewelry store. Isn’t it far more likely they would have tried to sell jewelry than something so sentimental?”
She doesn’t even know she’s giving too much away. Enough for me to realize she has no idea the danger she’s in by merely telling me this. If she’s this forthcoming with information, I can only wonder who else she’s told. So far, nothing she’s revealed is too damning, but if she knew the interested parties involved, she’d keep whatever she knew to herself.
“This woman, Noémie, was she their mother?”
“Well…no but…” She seems at a loss for words now. I’m not sure if it’s because she doesn’t know the answers to the questions I pose or because she’s finally catching on that she shouldn’t be such an open book.
“It doesn’t matter,” she says, shaking her head. “Like I said, it’s far more likely that they would have sold jewelry. It was a family business going back generations. They would have understood how to buy and sell that rather than paintings, especially considering how much more convenient it is to carry around. The only obvious answer is that it was stolen, most likely by the same Nazi’s who probably killed Victor Ardant.”
Oh, Brielle…just stop.
&nb
sp; On the other hand, I do have a job to do. “And why didn’t his children come back to claim the painting after the war was over? Why haven’t their descendants come forward to claim the painting?”
That is, of course, the ultimate question. This is precisely where I’ve been directing the conversation all along.
Something in Brielle’s gaze shifts and she lowers it in defeat. “It isn’t as easy as most people think, especially after a war like that one.”
She brings her eyes back up, filled with blazing defiance. “I suppose that’s why men like Gaultier feel free to show it off like it’s some brilliant discovery or rescued artifact he’s miraculously uncovered.”
“You don’t suspect him of working with Nazis, do you?”
She gives me a wry grin. “Trust me, that provenance is squeaky clean. No Third Reich skeletons in the closet of that painting’s past, at least on paper. Conveniently enough.”
“Well, if that’s the case, unless someone has proof or can show they are a legitimate heir, what can anyone do?” I ask, bringing my drink to my lips. My eyes are glued to her, watching for any and all reactions, no matter how subtle.
“Perhaps,” she says with that enigmatic smile again, this time more cryptic than ever.
Merde.
It’s frustrating and intriguing all at once. I don’t think any other woman has forced me to work this hard, even those who had just as much reason to be secretive as Brielle does.
Still, I now know she has some kind of proof, perhaps the very thing my “employer” is worried about.
“Anyway, enough about the painting,” she says brightly.
I swallow and smile. “Your passion for it is impressive.” I have to admit, even I got caught up in her fervor. For a variety of reasons, it stirs something sentimental in me. My job, stealing items of value, is a fairly dispassionate endeavor by now. I remove things from point A and deliver them to point B. Other than the thrill of targeting a specific type of deserved individual, and the obvious challenges that go along with the intricacy of the job, there’s nothing by way of emotion involved.
But Brielle has it in spades. There’s a light that shines in her eyes as she talks about the painting, the history behind it, the family involved. It’s an interesting story to be sure—I’m quite familiar with it myself—but most people would hardly be this impassioned.
Brielle smiles—oh that smile—and takes a long sip of her drink. “Speaking of impressive. That move you did with my desk this morning, where you pulled yourself up? It was…very impressive.”
“Is that so?” I reply, with a seductive grin.
I suppose we’ve officially moved on from work to playtime. Which is perfectly fine by me.
“Mmm-hmm, You obviously work out.”
“I was raised in an environment where physical fitness is prioritized,” I say with as much of a smile as I can muster. “I’ve been practicing gymnastics since I was a teenager.”
She nearly spits her drink out at that, laughing over her sip. “Gymnastics?”
“It provides a very intense and thorough aerobic and anaerobic workout,” I say, giving her my best professorial expression.
“Gymnastics,” she repeats, giving me a deadpan look. Her eyes roam over my body and she raises one appreciative eyebrow. “I suppose so.”
I grin, perfectly used to this reaction, especially from women in certain countries of the world, this one included. “I’d be more than happy to give you a demonstration.”
“What?” she laughs. “As in…here in the bar?”
“No, no, we will finish and I can walk you home.”
“Smooth,” she says with a laugh. If anything, it’s even better than her smile. “Get me all excited with anticipation then slip that one right on in.”
I grin. “Perhaps when I show you what my body is capable of along the way, you won’t find it so objectionable?”
She considers me with a reluctant, but glaringly dimpled smile before shaking her head.
“Thank you very much for the drink, and just the drink.”
“C’est dommage,” I say as I finish my drink along with her. I catch the bartender’s attention and hand over my card.
“Don’t look so forlorn. You can sleep easy knowing you introduced me to a new favorite language.”
I raise my eyes at the obvious meaning there.
Are you flirting with me, Brielle?
“I doubt I’ll get much sleep tonight,” I reply, allowing my eyes to drink up one last image of her.
Before Brielle can respond, the bartender is back with my receipt.
“Allons-y,” I say, rising up out of my seat and reaching out my hand.
Brielle looks down at the quaint gesture with amusement but takes it all the same. I can feel her eyes on my back as I lead her out. Once on the sidewalk outside I turn to her, still with her hand in mine.
“I look forward to seeing more of you, Brielle…at work of course,” I say with a small grin.
“Maybe next time you can pick a better time to interrupt my workday, perhaps when my boss is in. It’ll give me a chance to escape for a while, maybe even get a quick peek at the painting once it’s finally on display.” Her eyes lower a bit with cunning amusement, slightly tinged by a bit of French 75. “Of course…you’d have to last longer than five minutes for me to get any pleasure from it.”
Oh yes, definitely flirting. This, despite all her protests against dating coworkers.
She has no idea who she’s up against.
A devilish grin curls my lips as I move in closer. I’m only a hair’s breadth away from her, so close, all she’d have to do is reel slightly to fall into me. I stare down at her, waiting until her sloe-eyed gaze is completely locked with mine.
“What I could do to you in five minutes would make that painting seem like the doodles of a child in the margins of a textbook. Just imagine the masterpiece I could create if I had you all night.”
She blinks up at me, appalled at my gall. But even in the low light from nearby street lamps, I can see how dilated her pupils are, how heavy her breath is, how slightly parted those lips are, perfect for…
And then it disappears, like a cloud of smoke at the end of a magic trick. She blinks and shakes her head back into sobriety, then steps back.
Putain de merde! This job is going to wreck me.
“As much as I’d love to see what your, ah,” she casts those feline eyes down to my crotch and smirks, “paintbrush is capable of, I don’t play where I work. I’m afraid your artistic endeavors will have to be a solo affair.”
She pulls away and pats my chest, her eyes briefly darting down in surprise to where her fingertips meet unyielding flesh before she swallows hard and recovers. “Happy painting, Andrew.”
I watch her turn and leave. Once she’s gone, my smile disappears as I twirl the ID card I just lifted from her purse between my fingers.
“Merci beaucoup, Brielle.”
Chapter Six
Brielle
“In here, sweetpea!” I hear Georgette say, calling me by the nickname she and Frank labeled me with, as soon as I open the door to the apartment. I follow her voice to the small living room.
“You’re here later than usual. Don’t tell me that awful man kept you this long. Not when you always get there so early in the morning.”
“No,” I say with a frown as I think about what Gaultier did to me this morning. It slowly disappears. “Another man, actually.”
“Ohh, well this I have to hear about,” she replies, giving me a cunning smirk. “I’ve got the butter cookies already open and waiting.”
I let my purse slide down my arm and sink into the second armchair across from her. The same face that greets me every morning from a picture frame on my nightstand—along with Frank, her deceased husband—now stares back at me.
These days, that face is a little more lined and weathered than when that photo was taken. It still has the same vibrant blue eyes and laugh lines that have now de
epened to permanent creases. Whispers of white hair fly around her head like a halo, the mass of it too thin these days to remain in the long braid that used to run down her back, even well into her sixties.
At seventy, the wild and free days of Georgette (a.k.a Georgie) Howard’s youth are now giving way to the final hours of old age, earlier for her than most of her generation. She always cheerfully claims it’s from having lived, loved, and laughed too hard “long before it became the hip thing to do.”
If there’s something that can go wrong with the human body, the woman who, for all intents and purposes, raised me has it. She likes to joke that each of her chronic illnesses—from pancreatitis, to rheumatoid arthritis, to Crohn’s disease, not to mention a bout with breast cancer that she survived—has the effect of canceling the other out to keep her alive.
I don’t find it particularly funny.
“How about I make us some tea, Georgie?” I say, grabbing a butter cookie from the tin. “Do you still have any of the Bengal Spice I bought you Saturday?”
“Stop stalling, Brielle. No tea—except in the form of gossip,” she says with a smile. “The other kind will have me up all night shuffling to and from the bathroom. Now spill the goods, sweetpea.”
Georgette sits ups a little straighter in her chair. I wince along with her as the pain from the degenerative joint disease in her hip sadistically reminds her she’s not the young hippie she once was.
“Don’t strain yourself, Georgie.”
“Hush with that. If I want to give my hip a good wake up call to remind it I’m not dead yet, I’ll do it, especially if it means hearing about you finally going out on a date instead of this silly crusade of yours.”
“It’s not silly,” I say before biting down on the cookie. It’s one with sugar crystals on top, and the instant sugar rush on my tastebuds sends a soothing feeling through my system. This is exactly what home feels like.
“Brielle, sweetpea, you know I love you like a daughter—”
“Oh, Lord,” I say with a groan, throwing my head back on the seat, “that’s always a preamble to some sage advice about how I should be living my life.”
The French Thief: An International Legacies Romance Page 4
