It was beautiful. The use of light and color was exquisite. Since beginning my career in professional thievery, I’d flipped through a few art books to get a feel for what’s worth the most.
“Now, I have a question for you,” I said slowly. “Why are you keeping a Monet in a drawer?”
It was Monet’s Water Lilies, just lying on a table in front of me. One of the most famous paintings in the world and probably one of Monet’s biggest contributions to the art world, and it was just stuffed in a drawer in Paris.
I surveyed the photos hanging above the workstation. They were all of Water Lilies—different, tiny details from the painting, including marks on the back of the canvas. All of these tiny details were duplicated on this canvas before me.
“Holy shit,” I said. “You’re an art forger.”
“I’m not an art forger,” Sophie said, her gaze floating over her masterpiece. “I’m the art forger.”
CHAPTER SIX
I found a park several blocks from Sophie’s home and sat on a bench under a weeping willow. I texted Rhys the address and performed some web kung fu on my phone while I waited. Googling “Gallerie de Bellerose,” I found a website for her studio featuring photos of the paintings and a bio on the artist, Dr. Sophie Bellerose, MFA.
She was who she said she was—an artist and an art authenticator, well known in the art world for her skills as a painter and as an art scholar. Nowhere in her biography did it mention a skill that I found truly enviable: art forgery. And damn, she was talented.
Rhys found me in the park and sat next to me. The park was abandoned, except for a few people riding on bikes and a couple having brunch across the field. I told Rhys about Sophie’s badass skills as a forger.
“She is working on a copy of Water Lilies right now. It’s incredible. Nobody would be able to tell the difference,” I said quickly, gesturing wildly. “I mean, it’s kind of genius. She could technically authenticate her own forgeries and pretend she is selling it for a silent partner.” My heart pounded in my chest. “We’re going to make so much money with her.”
Rhys hesitated. “Did you get her to…”
“What?”
He glanced at me. “Did you get her to trust me?”
Not really. Didn’t really come up.
“Of course!”
“Did she explain the plan to you?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
I let my head roll over onto my left shoulder. “I can’t believe I’m going to say what I’m about to say.”
Rhys raised a curious eyebrow at me.
“We need to find some disguises,” I said. “Before eight o’clock tonight.”
Practically giddy with excitement, Rhys took out his phone and went to his contacts. “I had a feeling we’d need Margot. When I’m right, I’m right.”
I shook my head. “You get way too excited about costumes and dressing up in disguises, you know that, right?”
Rhys had bought Margot a plane ticket to Paris from London, just in case we needed her assistance. She agreed to meet with us at the hotel at six. That way she could fit us with some prosthetics and have time to make my hair all pretty and throw some makeup on us as well.
But until then, Rhys and I had time to kill.
“What are we going to do, sit here and discuss the plan for five hours?” Rhys crossed his arms. “No. We’re going to go out and explore the city. You said you’ve never been to Paris before.”
“So?”
“So, let’s see Paris.”
“We’re working. We’re here on business.”
He shrugged. “It’s always good to mix a little pleasure in with business.”
I could feel my face burning.
Rhys fished the car keys out of his pocket. “Come on. I know a place that’s perfect. Call it work-related research.”
* * *
I stood in the middle of the crowded courtyard, looking at the photo of myself Rhys had just taken. I looked so happy, standing in front of the enormous glass pyramid in front of The Louvre.
Rhys grabbed my phone. “Hey, let me take another one.”
Without warning, he threw an arm around my shoulders, squeezed me against him tightly and took a selfie of us. Although unexpected, the photo wasn’t terrible. I looked surprised, and my mouth was mid-laugh. Rhys was undeniably photogenic, smiling wide at the camera. The top tip of the pyramid and a sliver of the Louvre were visible in the background.
I bet he practices selfies for an hour every day. That seems like the Rhys brand of meditation.
“I look good in that picture. Text that to me, would you?”
“We probably shouldn’t be photographed together,” I mumbled as I pressed ‘send’ on my phone.
“You worry too much, kid,” he said. “Do you ever just live life, or are you just constantly looking over your shoulder?”
“I live. I live life fully. I’m loco, amigo!” I insisted. “I steal Wi-Fi from my neighbor and eat cereal right out of the box, ’cause that’s how I roll!”
“Being a slob and living life are kind of different things, just so you know.” He smiled at me. “Shall we go in?”
We bought tickets and roamed the halls of the massive building. The extravagant exterior was only outdone by the lavish interior—gorgeous painted ceilings, marble archways and gilded frames almost stole focus from the art itself. Almost. I felt like a kid in a candy store, except I couldn’t grab a fistful of M&Ms and take it home with me. Or steal some gummy worms and sell them for a hefty fee.
Every few rooms, a particularly astounding masterpiece would catch our attention and we’d hang back and away from the crowd. At one point, we were admiring a van Eyck painting. Rhys side-stepped closer to me and whispered in my ear, his eyes locked on the painting.
“How would you get that painting out of here safely?”
I didn’t look up at him. “Maybe not the best place to discuss that.”
“Hypothetical question, kid.”
I bit my lip as I thought about how I would do it. Some rooms had a skylight that could potentially be of use to me. Some of the security guards looked more alert than others, but there were far too many of them to make a safe getaway.
“Fine. I’ll go first,” Rhys said. “I’d wait until it was being restored or cleaned or whatever and figure out how to get it out that way.” He nodded to the security guard strolling by, his hands folded behind his back. “Not terribly creative, but I’m sticking with it. And you?”
I considered for a moment. “I wouldn’t.”
“What?”
“If I’m going to go through all the work of stealing something from the Louvre, it’s going to be something I can actually sell later on. I’d never be able to get rid of a van Eyck.”
Rhys crossed his arms over his chest, his eyebrows up. He looked at the painting and then back at me. “Coward.”
Later on, we found an amazing sculpture of a headless, robed woman with huge, outstretched wings—The Winged Victory of Samothrace.
As we stood back from the line of people waiting to have their pictures taken in front of the statue, I nudged Rhys in the side.
“Alright, you,” I said quietly. “How would you get her out of here?”
Rhys glanced at me with a smile. “You picked the easiest thing in here.”
“Did I? Then how would you do it?”
“I would climb up onto her back, hold onto her wings, whisper sweet nothings into her, um, shoulder and then we’d fly far, far away from here.” He nudged me with his elbow. “Obviously.”
The thievery schemes were all talk. Despite having a few laughable thefts in its past, The Louvre was too high-profile for both of us. Too many security guards, too much risk and fencing a painting from The Louvre would likely be way too difficult for all that effort.
After a bit more wandering and a stop at a nearby café for an early supper, we headed back to the hotel, where Margot worked her magic on us, dusting away my freckl
es with some powder and giving us each a new nose. She somehow reshaped my eyes using some makeup tricks and cemented a long golden blonde wig to my head.
“Thanks, Margot,” I said into the mirror as I slipped on some dangly earrings. “You’re the best.”
“I know,” she said in that thick accent of hers.
One day I’ll figure out where that accent is from. One day.
* * *
“You look nice,” Rhys said, sliding into the back of a luxury car after me. “Why don’t you dress up more often?”
“Sure. Like you wear a tux every day.”
“I would wear a tux every day,” he said, smiling. “But you might find me irresistible and we’d never get any work done.” He shamelessly gave me a once-over. “That dress is … very flattering.”
I did feel kind of sexy in this dress. It was one of Ruby’s hand-me-downs she’d forced into my closet. I’d grabbed it when I was packing for this trip without realizing how sexy it was—black, knee-length with a three-inch slit on one side, it hugged my butt, and the back was bare except for a few thin strips of fabric across the shoulder blades.
Rhys gave the driver the address. As we pulled away from the curb, he straightened his bowtie.
“Hopefully we don’t run into any more of your European girlfriends,” I said. “Although it would be entertaining to watch you get verbally abused in French.”
Rhys scoffed and adjusted his cufflinks.
I looked at the beautiful city lights as we waited in traffic. The Eiffel Tower was lit up, a majestic symbol of France gleaming in the distance.
I crossed my legs, and Rhys glanced at my thigh. I sheepishly tugged at my dress. Rhys smiled at me and opened his mouth, but his phone buzzed, interrupting him before he could speak. He responded to the text and slipped his phone back in his pocket. I went back to looking out the window.
“So you don’t really look Spanish to me.”
I looked over at Rhys. “Pardon?”
“Google tells me ‘Miranda’ is of Spanish or Portuguese origin. And you don’t look Spanish.”
“Ah. Yes. I’m told one of my ancestors was from Spain and married an Irish woman. So, I now have the Spanish surname and the Irish freckles.” I uncrossed and crossed my legs again, mostly to see if Rhys would glance at my legs again. He did. “And what about your last name? Where is it from?”
“Graham. It’s Scottish.”
I grinned. Rhys furrowed his eyebrow at me.
“What?”
“You’ve never given me your last name before now.”
“You never asked.”
“Fine,” I said, looking up at him through long, fake eyelashes. “What’s your middle name?”
Rhys snickered. “That I’m not going to tell you.”
“Is it something embarrassing?”
“Maybe. Maybe not. Too bad you’ll never know.”
I crossed my arms over my chest. “Fine. I won’t tell you mine either.”
“It’s Georgia.”
Dammit.
We eventually arrived at our destination—a very fancy art gallery. We gave our fake names to the guy at the door, and he checked his list. Sophie knew the event organizer, of course, so getting our (fake) names on the list was a breeze.
Once inside, we got a drink and carefully scoped out the place. It was very different from The Louvre. It was all bright white walls and meandering halls, except for a wide-open room in the middle. Most of the artwork on the walls was modern and minimalist. White stools here and there showcased small sculptures.
Rhys handed me a cocktail—my second—and we looked at a sculpture of an octopus who appeared to be pleasuring a woman. I raised my eyebrows at Rhys.
“It’s a sculpture based on the famous Japanese painting by Hokusai.” He sipped his drink coolly.
“And how do you know that?”
“I’m an art enthusiast, my dear.” He smiled. “Plus, it says it right there.” He pointed to a small label on the pedestal featuring a paragraph of French text.
I rolled my eyes and admired the gorgeous light fixtures hanging from the high, industrial ceiling.
Figures, in a pretentious place like this, I’m more impressed by frickin’ light fixtures than I am by the art.
My usual habit of listening to bits of conversations around me was difficult, given that they were all in French.
Rhys slid his hand down to the bare small of my back and guided me through the crowd, over to a large canvas on the wall, a chaotic mass of paint splatters and spots. I nudged Rhys when I saw it, happy to finally see some art that suited my personal style.
“Wow,” I said. “They have a Jackson Pollock. Very impressive.”
Rhys squinted at the label plaque at the other end of the painting. “You can read that from here?”
“No. I just know it’s a Jackson Pollock.”
He frowned at me, checked the label closer and sipped his drink.
“You got lucky.” He smiled, quickly surveying the room as he re-joined me in the corner.
“Sophie,” he whispered. “Nine o’clock.”
I did not look directly at her, and she didn’t look directly at us, just as we planned. We were not to look at her, go near her, talk to her or talk to anyone else at the event.
A man came out from the upper level and clinked his glass to get everyone’s attention. Conversations hushed as everyone looked up at him. As he spoke, Rhys translated for me.
“Welcome,” he whispered. “Thank you for coming. Tonight is a special night. Blah, blah, blah… They’ve recently received a new painting to add to their collection… This painting will be great for the gallery… It’s by a famous Spanish artist.” Rhys and I exchanged glances. “This painting was hidden in an attic in Paris for many years but is ready to be seen by the world.”
The man gestured to a wall where a canvas hung, covered by a cloth. A security guard stood on either side of it, keeping the crowd at a safe distance. One of the guards lifted the cloth, unveiling the painting beneath.
Measuring about two and a half feet high by a foot and a half wide, the painting was a portrait of a woman, her body and head made out of bright, colorful rectangles and triangles. Its lines were dark and defined. The background behind her was bright blue, like a crayon. The woman looked out at us with one big eye, her oversized hands crossed in front of her.
The crowd clapped enthusiastically. Everyone in the room tried to get a closer look at the painting, oohing and awing at it.
“Oh my god,” I whispered, my eyes glued to it. “That’s a Picasso.”
The man on the upper floor spoke and Rhys, once again, translated. “It is a Picasso. Likely dates from his Cubist stage.”
While the rest of the event guests huddled around this newly discovered piece of art, Rhys and I used the washrooms. Or that’s what anyone who saw us would say. We were actually checking for back entrances, windows we might be able to unlock and surveying the place for cameras and other security measures.
Rhys called our driver, and we waited for him on the sidewalk. The cool night air was nice after being in that packed, stuffy room. Rhys was quiet. Distracted, even.
“What’s wrong?”
“I’m a little nervous.”
“About stealing the painting?”
“No. I’ve stolen paintings before. That’s not the problem.” He frowned at me. “That’s not just any old painting in there. It’s a Picasso. Do you realize how much security they’re going to have in there, especially since it’s a brand new addition? Stealing that painting is going to be a little different than what we’ve done before.” He stuffed his hands into his pockets. “I don’t know, Molly. This might be too big for us.”
“Speak for yourself,” I said as our car pulled up nearby. “I’m doing this. We just can’t go in guns blazing. If we follow Sophie’s plan, everything will be fine. Trust me.”
Rhys slid in after me and the driver closed the door behind him. “I trust you. Not sure
if I trust Sophie at this point.”
“Audrey wouldn’t pair us up with someone who isn’t trustworthy.”
“Wouldn’t she?”
“She may seem a little cold at times, but getting us into trouble is not in her best interest.”
Rhys sighed and slid down slightly in his seat. “Fine. We’ll stick to the plan. But I’m not going to prison. Look at me. I’m far too pretty for prison. Plus, I look terrible in orange.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
We prepared our gear early the next day at the hotel. A half hour before the gallery closed that evening, we came in as curious gallery patrons. Rhys tugged on the strap of his touristy-looking shoulder bag, surveying the crowded gallery, now full of people who didn’t make it onto the guest list at the event the night before. Again, we saw Sophie but did not talk to her or make eye contact.
The gallery closed at eight. According to the schedule on the supply closet, a janitor would be by at quarter after eight, and going by the sign-in and -out times, they usually stuck around for an hour.
Sophie provided us with a floor plan of the gallery, including spots where the security guards would likely be. One guard watched the security camera feed in a small office on the second floor. As a friend of the gallery owner, Sophie would go in for some free coffee, add a strong sedative to the coffee maker, and later that night, the guard would fall asleep on the job. Perfect. She’d also leave a little present in there for us that would be very helpful later on.
While I applied face paint in a bathroom stall in the men’s room, Rhys tapped away at his laptop in the next stall over. I’d worn all black to the gallery because I knew I wouldn’t have a chance to change my clothes, and I couldn’t leave my clothes here. And hey, artistic types wear black, right?
“How’s it going in there?”
“Good,” he said. “We’re all set. I’m watching the security footage right now.”
I hopped up on the toilet and peered over the stall. Sure enough, six square video feeds of the museum played simultaneously on his screen.
“I’ve already deleted the footage of you and I going into the bathroom,” he said. “So, we’re… What the hell? That’s super racist.” He looked up at me.
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