The Chase

by Vanessa Fewings

  Rumors had reached the community that some of the wealthiest families in Paris had suffered at the hands of an art thief and that news had set the city’s private dealers and their customers on edge.

  “Let’s get some bubbly.” Clara led me back down the hallway. “You have some hobnobbing to do with these art-loving crazies.”

  “Thank you for being here.”

  “Wouldn’t miss it.”

  I forced myself not to look back.

  Making our way down the hallway, we continued to admire the collection, pausing here and there until I sensed Clara’s restlessness.

  “That’s a nice blouse,” she said. “Gold brings out your eyes.”

  I tugged on my pencil skirt. “Marks and Spencer.”

  “I thought you were going to say some posh designer. You’re getting close to that birthday.”

  Which was Clara’s tactful way of saying my inheritance would kick in on the eve of my twenty-third birthday. Pride had turned my thoughts away from it but these rising costs of living in London had me rethinking that. The idea of having to decide what to do with fifteen million pounds made me nervous. That decision wouldn’t come until next year and I still had time to nudge that thought far away.

  A wave of guilt settled in my gut that my inheritance came from my father’s will. I spun round to face Clara. “I got the job!”

  “What? Why didn’t you call me?”

  “I wanted to tell you in person.”

  “Oh, darling, that’s wonderful!”

  “I’m officially a forensic art specialist at Huntly Pierre.”

  I’d landed my dream job at a high-end firm in the middle of The Strand, and I couldn’t wait to start.

  “Zara, that’s wonderful.” She leaped forward and hugged me. “I’m so excited.”

  Years of studying art and I was finally being let loose.

  “They know about your dad’s penchant for collecting priceless art, then?”

  “No, I got this on my own merit.” I lowered my brow, hoping my family name of Leighton wouldn’t follow me around forever. “Have a knack for detecting forgeries apparently.”

  Within the texture lies the truth.

  Everything Dad knew he’d taught me; an education like no other. It wasn’t only studying at the Courtauld that had given me the talent for knowing the difference between an Uccello and a Masaccio, but my education had begun when my father had instilled in me his rare insight into art before I could even walk, hoping I’d follow in his footsteps.

  “It’s in my blood.”

  She winked. “The commission you’ll make when you confirm a piece is real should be quite something. These things are worth a fortune.”

  “You can’t place a value on pieces like this,” I said wistfully, admiring Constant Troyon’s oil on canvas A Clump of Trees, with its soothing layers of greens and yellows. “For the first time I feel like I’m putting my knowledge to good use.”

  “You know what else needs to be in your blood? Booze. More specifically, champagne.” We laughed too loudly as we neared the lift.

  Standing back a little, I watched Clara hit the down button and the silver doors slid open. Peering inside that gaping chasm of metal, I felt my haunting phobia of lifts returning, the light inside flickered to taunt me, and my feet refused to move forward as that familiar fear swept over me.

  Terror spiked my veins. “Let’s take the stairs.”

  She raised her left foot to show off her heels. “I’ll break my neck.”

  “You sure?”

  “Zara.” She sounded baffled.

  “Meet you down there.”

  “This is why you have great legs,” her voice echoed after me. “You’re always taking the stairs.”

  Her laughter followed me down the stairwell.

  I peeled off each shoe and in stockinged feet burst through the fire escape door. I descended fast, round and round, counting the floors as I went.

  Breathing in the chilled air, I rekindled the feeling that what I’d done tonight was one of my better decisions. Clara was right. The security was great and the responsibility of protecting all of Dad’s other pieces would soon be lifted as they made their way here.

  It made me happy to think of other people getting to enjoy them too, and my feet flew down with a bounce in my step.

  With a shove on the security rail I pushed open the heavy fire door and went on through into the dimly lit hallway.

  Realizing I’d gone too far I turned to go back. The door was locked from this side.

  Ouch.

  As if right on cue my garter belt snapped off my thigh-high stocking and I hurried onward to find somewhere private to fix it.

  My feet carried me away from the lift and along the hallway. At the end was a door stamped with a sign: Staff Only.

  I went on in and saw the long mirror right in front of me. I neared it and gave myself a reassuring smile. I looked pretty tonight and was actually a little less geeky than usual, having switched out my cardigan and flat heels for my favorite gold silk blouse and black skirt, and even my hair was miraculously behaving. After putting my shoes down, I eased up my hem and attempted to reattach my stocking top.

  Fiddly thing.

  My fingers slipped so I hiked my skirt higher to better work the intricate reclipping. With that accomplished, I straightened my eggshell-blue high rise panties.

  And then I spotted a movement across the room—

  I yanked my skirt down, my mouth forming words of apology but failing to say them. I bent over to scoop up my shoes and rushed toward the door, my hand reaching round to neaten my skirt.

  Oh no, my hem still exposed my bum.

  Cheeks reddening further, I grappled with the unreasonable material and sucked up my embarrassment so I could throw a wave of apology to the stranger.

  My gaze fixed on the living, breathing sculpture.

  Making it to the door, I tried to force my stare away from the strikingly beautiful specimen of a man who was looking at me with a mixture of surprise and delight.

  Finally exhaling, I was riveted by his sun-kissed torso with its finely chiseled abs, his black trousers low and revealing a hint of a V. An intricate tattoo on his left upper arm that vaguely reminded me of a Polynesian design, with its swirls in black ink and an image in the center.

  My heartbeat quickened as I searched my memory for where I knew him from. I was awestruck by this breathtaking Adonis, who was reaching for a white shirt hanging on the back of a chair. He was tall and devastatingly handsome in a rugged kind of way. Thirty, maybe? Those short, dark golden locks framing a gorgeous face, his three-day stubble marking him with a tenacious edge and that thin wry smile exuding a fierce confidence. His green irises were a startling contrast to his lightly tanned complexion; his intense, steady glare stayed on mine as he calmly pulled his arm through a sleeve and covered that tattoo before I could make out more.

  A gasp caught in my throat as it came to me that we’d never actually met, probably because this was Tobias William Wilder, a billionaire. He moved in the kind of refined circles one would expect from a business magnate and inventor who owned TechRule, one of the largest software companies in the world.

  And I’d given this playboy mogul his very own peep show.

  He’d popped up on my radar a year ago when I’d read an article on him in Cosmo, featuring his Los Angeles–based art gallery, The Wilder. It was an acclaimed museum that was one of the most prestigious in the world and it was also right up there on my wish list to visit.

  Wilder was even more dazzling in person.

  I’d imagined one day I might bump into him with the art world being relatively small, but never had I imagined a scenario as racy as this.

  Why the hell hadn’t I worn my sexy panties?
/>   “I’m looking for the stairs,” I managed.

  “That way.” His refined American accent felt like another blow to my reason.

  That alpha-maleness made him look like he’d just returned from a dangerous adventure in the Himalayas or even the jungles of Peru—

  Where he’d spent his days hunting in the wilderness, or naked while fishing in a fast-running stream, and then making a campfire at night with those elegant hands, and then saving his friends from beasties that attacked our campsite.

  His smile reached his eyes. A blush burned my cheeks.

  He arched an eyebrow, amused.

  Was he mocking me?

  “I was looking for a signal.” I broke my gaze to hide my lie. “For my phone. You know, Wi-Fi.”

  “Try the foyer. It’s a security issue.”

  “I know that.” Which made no damn sense.

  It was impossible to think straight because someone had made the executive decision to suck out all the oxygen from the room, or so it felt.

  With a tug of his shirt he hid that other tattoo to the right of his lower abdomen, a Latin inscription leading to his groin immortalized in italic black ink.

  “Excuse the—” He gestured to his state of undress. “I’m running late.”

  This kind of manly perfection obviously knew just how beautiful he was, the way he blinked at me casually: the way he firmly weaved that bow tie around his collar without using a mirror and making quick work of forming that silk into a neat knot, and all the while his eyes not leaving mine.

  Until I dragged my gaze from his to look around the room. On a table close by to him rested a black motorcycle helmet with its tinted visor down. Leather gloves beside it.

  He moved with a sophisticated elegance that had me doubting I’d caught his body inked so seductively. A waft of expensive musky cologne reached me with its sensuous allure and did something crazy to my body. Trembling slightly, I shifted my gait and leaned farther back against the door, spellbound.

  Nature might have bestowed this man with the ability to leave a trail of heartbreak in his sexy-arse wake but it had also provided me with the ability to detect danger.

  “You might want to put some clothes on,” I said firmly.

  “Well, now I’m dressed.”

  Yes, he was, and this was a changing room, apparently, and I’d not exactly represented a pillar of virtue.

  “Well, that’s good.” I swallowed my pride. “Please keep it that way.”

  His gaze lowered to my feet.

  And I remembered my strappy stilettos were flirtatiously dangling from my left hand, those spiked heels hinting at a sexy side I wished I had.

  Intrigue marred his face, and then his expression softened again as his jade gaze returned to hold mine and he broke into a heart-stopping smile.

  The seductive dazzling kind that threatened to melt my panties. I left in a rush—

  Shaken with just how this man had affected me merely with a smile, my heart racing, I reconsidered risking the lift to take me as far away from him as possible. Embarrassment scorched my cheeks and made me glad I’d not worn a coat.

  Taking a second, I leaned against the wall and stared back.

  That alluring inked-up vision had taken my mind off the reason I was here. I felt an inexplicable need to run back in and continue to bathe in the aura of the most enigmatic man I’d ever met.

  2

  “You all right?” Clara rested her palm on my forehead.

  “The stairs took it out of me,” I fibbed and gestured to get the attention of a waitress.

  She came over, and with a nod of thanks I lifted a flute of champagne off her silver tray and took several sips to quench my thirst.

  My thoughts drifted to the basement and my run-in with Tobias Wilder. These were the kind of moments I cherished—me dipping my toe in the dangerous side of life—but I knew the moment I saw reason, I’d pull it right out.

  The only romance I would ever indulge in again was the fantasy where everyone lived happily ever after.

  Oh no, I’d really embarrassed myself down there.

  Clara narrowed her gaze and it made me smile. It was the kind of smile you give when you doubt yourself beyond all reason.

  “Happiness is the best revenge,” she offered brightly. “I’m happy you’re here.”

  It was still difficult to accept Zach wasn’t coming back. He should have been here tonight and it hurt so bad that I’d had to tear up my invitation because it had his name on it.

  I tried not to think of the way his copper locks flopped over his deep blue eyes, or how his refined nose made him look so cultivated and that endearing way he emanated his free-thinking spirit.

  A month or so after my father’s funeral, Zach Montgomery, the man I had been destined to marry, complained my grief was causing him too much stress. With our finals looming he couldn’t be “distracted.” He needed a break from us, just for a little while. I’d lovingly given it to him.

  I’d seen my understanding nature pay off when he’d graduated with an MA in art curating.

  Afterward, when the intensity of our studies was over and I could see the strain lifted from his handsome face, I’d met him for dinner at our favorite pub, The Old Ship, and reassured him I’d pull back on all this unnecessary drama of grief. I’d truly believed he’d realize his mistake after our exams were over. Even with Clara’s disapproval I couldn’t have refused him had he changed his mind and asked to come back to me.

  Until the dreadful truth came out.

  That stark memory returning along with that knot in my stomach, and I felt like I was there again—

  Tucked away in my favorite corner of the Witt Library, with my head buried in a book. I’d been reading about Vermeer and how he’d painstakingly chose his expensive pigments. Colors I’d once run my fingertip over, acutely aware of the privilege of such intimacy that came with ownership. One of the few from my secret stash that not even Zach knew of.

  Snug in my oversize jumper to ward off the chill of the Witt, I’d been happily reading away until those familiar voices of my classmates had caught my attention. I’d placed my fingertip on the page to keep my place...

  Their hushed gossiping the catalyst that sent my life into a tailspin: Zachary Montgomery was now living it up all the way across the world in a little town called Tivoli, where he’d taken a job in an art gallery.

  The news came as a blow, not least because I’d had no idea he’d even left London.

  The whispers went on to reveal a few of the other students had received their invitations to the wedding of Italian beauty and fellow student Natalia Donate to Zachary Montgomery.

  Those late evenings Natalia had spent hours with us studying at my flat had provided her with access to more than just my art acumen. She’d made a play for my boyfriend and come out the resounding winner.

  If paintings taught me anything with their endless portrayals of human suffering, it was that heartbreak is inevitable and we are fools to be surprised by it. Trust is an ill-fated pursuit.

  Although Clara believed in true love and had no doubt found it, I questioned whether I was ever going to experience it again.

  Clara tutted. “He doesn’t deserve one more second of you.”

  I leaned in and hugged her. I’d tell Clara about my risqué adventure once I’d gotten control over this flush that threatened to rise each time I thought of him. I imagined over the course of the evening one of the many artists here or even sculptors would spot the infamous Mr. Wilder and try to persuade him to pose for them.

  Naked. Preferably.

  I treated myself to that thought.

  “So what do you think?”

  My attention snapped to Clara.

  “They’ve gone all out, haven’t they?”
she added as she looked around.

  “This is more than I expected.” Using a pillar for a shield, I looked for Tobias in the crowd. “Can’t get over it.”

  “They’re wooing you for the other paintings.” She turned to look at me.

  “It does look like it, doesn’t it?”

  “You never talk about them?” she said.

  “They’re all I have left of Dad.”

  She rubbed my back, knowing well enough not to push me. “He’d be so proud of you.”

  The black marble tile almost clashed with the pink marbled pillars lining the room either side. Along those pristine cream-colored walls hung the finest eighteenth-century Italian paintings, which were apparently on loan from the Vatican.

  Suppressing my melancholy, I vowed to enjoy tonight.

  The Otillie was one of my favorite places to visit and easily one of the most prestigious galleries in the world, with a unique collection of both modern and ancient art.

  Despite such grandeur, it was also famed for showcasing new and up-and-coming artists before anyone else had discovered them. Like the young painter Liza Blake, who stood alone in a corner looking a little forlorn. She’d been easy to spot with her blue hair, and her boho chic dress looked cute on her, those round rimmed glasses perched on the end of her nose. Artists were always so interesting, their perspectives so profound, and I admired their tenacity for following their hearts and sharing their emotional power. Perhaps it was the only way to find ours, through their vision of just what we were capable of.

  “Let’s go say hello to Liza.” Excitement flushed my cheeks that I was here again.

  I took in the other guests, a handful of well-known socialites, some I recognized from past events, the avid art collectors circling The Otillie’s rising new talent and ready to invest in their promising careers.

  “Look who’s here,” whispered Clara. “Your favorite person.”

  I almost coughed up my drink.

  A well-worn face and yet strangely handsome in a highly bred kind of way. The Right Honorable Lord Nigel Turner stood out in the crowd with his high cheekbones and overly refined nose. His tweed jacket with that perfect bow tie made him seem extra quirky and yet moneyed. His chin rose with an air of superiority as he perused the other guests. Nigel was apparently related to “the Turner,” or so he told us. He worked at The London Times as their senior art critic and wielded the kind of power that could make or break an artist’s career.