The Chase

by Vanessa Fewings

  I’d crushed on him back when Lady Zara Leighton had a nice ring to it. Right before I’d actually met him.

  We made our way over to Liza, and she smiled with relief when she saw us. I got her talking about her favorite subject, modern art, and she soon relaxed as she chatted away about the latest piece she was working on.

  Together we mingled with the other guests, sipping champagne and popping back way too many caviar hors d’oeuvres.

  Clara arched an amused brow when I reached for another flute from a passing waiter’s tray. I’d never tolerated booze well, very often getting tipsy on merely one glass. Still, this night was the first real evening I was letting myself go in what felt like ages, and I soon found myself having fun. With Clara’s mischievous insights into the other guests, she had me and Liza struggling to keep our laughter down.

  Nigel nudged up against Clara. “You’re looking lovely tonight.”

  “Thank you.” She offered him a polite smile.

  “You didn’t bring your camera?” he asked.

  “Taking the night off. The staff get nervous when they see a photographer taking photos of their priceless paintings. Something about copyright.”

  His overly critical gaze found me. “I was sorry to hear about your father.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “I appreciate that.”

  Those difficult few months were behind me now and for the first time tonight I’d felt that wedge of pain in my heart lifting. I swallowed my grief with a sip of champagne and broke Turner’s gaze, hoping he’d talk to Liza.

  “I hear a rumor you’re hiding away more paintings?” he said.

  I shook my head, not wanting to go there.

  “One step at a time,” Clara whispered.

  Nigel narrowed his gaze. “Your skills could be put to good use.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “That fire at your father’s home?” he said.

  “I don’t remember much.” Other than the bitter taste of ash.

  “She was ten,” snapped Clara. “For goodness’ sake.”

  “Interesting that Walter William Ouless’s St. Joan of Arc has turned up in Venice?” he went on. “Have you heard?”

  My throat tightened. “That’s impossible.”

  “And yet.” He smirked.

  A wave of panic circled my stomach.

  Part of me wanted it to be true. Needed to believe our beloved Joan of Arc had survived that fire. But with that revelation would come a truth so vivid I wasn’t sure I’d survive it. All I’d known would be proven a lie.

  I’d missed her terribly; Ouless had masterfully painted one of France’s most beloved heroines. Her legacy included visions of Christ that inspired her heroic reclaiming of France from the British. Of all my father’s collection she’d both inspired and scared me the most, perhaps because some part of me knew I’d never be capable of that kind of bravery.

  Clara piped up, “Maybe Ouless painted more than one?”

  Nigel tutted. “How likely is that?”

  “Sounds very likely,” she said. “Probably loads of them out there.”

  I cringed too soon, revealing I knew all too well this remarkable British painter was known for his one-of-a-kind masterpieces. Ouless was considered one of the nineteenth century’s best known portraitists and his Joan of Arc had been sought after by too many collectors to count. My father had rejected every offer.

  Nigel lit up with triumph. “There’s a chance it wasn’t destroyed as alleged.”

  “I’m afraid it was,” I said through clenched teeth.

  Clara sounded distant. “Really, Nigel? This is Zara’s evening to celebrate her dad’s legacy.”

  “What’s left of it,” he muttered.

  I reached out to the marble pillar to steady my legs.

  “Any plans to visit the painting?” he added. “If that piece is real—”

  “Of course it’s not,” I said.

  “It’s coming to London for final authentication apparently,” he said.

  My legs wobbled with the unsteadiness of my feet.

  “Are you sure?” asked Clara.

  “That’s the rumor.” Nigel frowned his disapproval.

  Dread shot up my spine. “Who is this mystery dealer?”

  Who was the outrageous person willing to put his or her reputation on the line?

  “Have no idea,” said Nigel. “I’m sure you’ll want more answers?”

  “Yes.” No.

  I want to forget.

  The resurfacing of that old lie proved jealousy for my father’s collection still went deep. I wasn’t ready to give up the others, not yet.

  Black spots flashed across my vision—

  Tobias Wilder strolled out of the crowd toward us carrying two glasses of champagne, and I sucked in a sharp breath of surprise. He offered one of them to me; bubbles rising to the surface, the chilled glass making my fingers tingle as I accepted it from him.

  Soothed by his beautiful striking face and that rugged stubble clashing with his styled locks he’d since run a comb through.

  “Thank you,” I said, amazed my underwear fiasco hadn’t scared him off.

  “My pleasure.” Tobias gave a self-possessed nod and then gestured to the waiter beside him. The young man handed out more champagne flutes to the others in our group. Two more waiters hurried forward and held out their trays laden with china plates full of hors d’oeuvres.

  Nigel, Liza and Clara all helped themselves to the assorted small bites of food with obvious glee, seemingly recognizing him too. With a wave of my hand and a kind smile, I declined an appetizer.

  “That’s awfully nice of you,” Nigel said.

  “Mind if I join you?” Tobias showed off that dazzling smile. “What a fantastic venue. Love this place.”

  The staff hurried away.

  Dragging my teeth over my bottom lip, I tried to think of something to say, perhaps draw his attention to the Raphael directly behind him. In that painting the Italian artist had captured the beguiling image of a young lady with a unicorn on her lap.

  “You like that one?” Tobias asked me with his back still to the painting.

  “Yes.” I loved it and adored the crisp gold and burgundy of the subject’s dress, her delicate beauty, her eyes exuding innocence and the way she held that small animal on her lap so very carefully.

  “Is that a unicorn?” asked Clara.

  “A conventional symbol of chastity,” I told her.

  “The allure of High Renaissance.” Tobias turned to take in the portrait and then spun round and fixed his gaze on mine—

  Liquefying my insides and making my chest tighten.

  Oh, bloody hell.

  He was still staring at me.

  At least when I’d met him briefly in the basement there had been some distance between us, but now, with that intense green stare locked on mine and that delicate waft of heady cologne reaching me he’d made my thoughts freeze.

  “Mr. Wilder?” Nigel proffered his hand. “It’s such a pleasure to finally meet you.” Tobias turned toward Nigel and reached out to shake.

  “I was in LA when The Wilder hosted the Samurai collection,” Nigel told him. “Japanese art is my specialty.”

  “That was five years ago.” Tobias turned to us. “The Taka Ishii Gallery generously loaned us a few of their most treasured pieces. First time in the US.”

  “I’d have loved to have seen that,” said Clara. “Will it come to London?”

  “Afraid not,” said Tobias. “The collection is at home in Tokyo now and won’t tour again in our lifetime. Though we are hosting a collection by Sandro Botticelli.” His face lit up with happiness. “It’s quite something.”

  Sighs of admiration rose from everyone circling
him.

  “You’re all invited of course—” his gaze fell on me “—if you’re ever in the neighborhood.”

  My heart fluttered at the thought of seeing those early Renaissance pieces by an artist who’d captured the deepest emotions in his subjects’ eyes.

  Who was I kidding? My heart was fluttering over this hottie.

  Tobias smiled wistfully. “Seeing La Primavera up close is a privilege.”

  I wanted to tell him how much I’d always wanted to visit The Wilder Museum, but held back, not sure if that would come over as a little forward.

  Tobias slipped into a smile. “Nigel, may I call you Nigel?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “I enjoyed that piece you wrote about the Tate.”

  “The one on Anna Lea Merritt?”

  “That’s the one,” he said. “Very insightful. Love her work.”

  “She married her tutor,” I muttered.

  Tobias looked my way, his eyes narrowing in interest, and he made me blush.

  Clara’s eyebrows popped up, and I hoped she was the only one who’d caught my visceral response to this man. For some reason my mouth had stopped working and this was unusual for me. I loved taking part in this kind of conversation and Clara knew it.

  “So what brings you to London?” asked Nigel.

  “Business,” he replied.

  With Tobias conveniently distracted, I took a breath and admired him discreetly. He moved with such refinement, and yet his earthiness made him less threatening. I kicked myself that I’d had him all to myself down in the basement and not taken the time to talk with him and get to know this enigma better.

  Tobias tucked his left hand into his trouser pocket casually and took a sip of bubbly.

  That lick across his bottom lip, that tilt of his head, that intensity in his expression as he listened to Nigel.

  God, he was gorgeous.

  A rush of excitement flooded my chest as I realized he was still hanging out with us.

  I let out a wistful sigh.

  And earned a flicker of amusement in Tobias’s expression; his eyes crinkled into a subtle smile.

  Oh no, he’d sensed me staring.

  Reason kicked in as I recalled my first instinct had been to run when I’d met him. He’d no doubt have a slew of women chasing after him and all of them from his world of beautiful socialites. The European supermodel types who took perfection all too seriously.

  And based on the passing glances from the other guests surrounding us, many of them seemed just as enamored and more than proved my glum musing that men like this could only be enjoyed from afar.

  There was an evening of Googling Tobias Wilder ahead of me when I got back to my Notting Hill flat. See what he was up to now and perhaps find a clue to why he was in London. I’d dig up some dirt on him, no doubt, some article to confirm my gut feeling about him. Tobias Wilder was out of my league for all the right reasons.

  He stepped forward to shake Liza’s hand and then Clara’s, his smile reaching his eyes. Their faces lit up in delight at meeting this charismatic man.

  “Pleasure’s all mine.” He turned to me and took my hand firmly in his. “Tobias.”

  “Zara.”

  His smile faded and he blinked at me.

  “Zara Leighton,” I said brightly.

  His hand slid from mine and he looked away as though distracted.

  “Tonight’s a celebration for Zara,” explained Nigel. “She’s given her painting to the gallery. It’s quite a find. Have you seen it?”

  “She’s beautiful,” said Tobias. “The painting. Well, I should go. Thank you for the great company. It’s been...insightful.”

  “But you only just got here?” said Clara.

  “I have an appointment across town.”

  “Where are you staying?” asked Nigel.

  But Tobias was already weaving his way through the crowd and heading fast for the door.

  That masterful stride carrying him away from us.

  We all swapped wary glances with each other at his quick exit, and I felt Clara’s arm wrap around my waist to comfort me.

  Tobias’s attention had been short lived and someone or something had drawn him away all too briskly. Taking another sip of champagne, I feigned there had never been any hope it might have been me.

  3

  With my morning latte in hand, I wound my way up the fourteen-story staircase of The Tiriani Building toward the top floor. My fear of being late clashed with my claustrophobia. Taking the elevator was impossible, though, but as every building had stairs it was never an issue and on the positive side it was great for my bum.

  During my interview three weeks ago I’d been wowed by the sprawling view that stretched as far as Canary Wharf, and the interior’s decor of steel and silver solidifying its cutting-edge reputation.

  Pausing between floors to catch my breath and take delicate sips, careful not to spill my drink on my new blue silk blouse or Ralph Lauren skirt, I was close to being late for that 9:30 a.m. staff meeting. My first introduction to Huntly Pierre’s elite crack team of investigators had kept me up all night with a mixture of excitement and nerves.

  I patted myself on the back with how well I’d already coped with disaster this morning. My curling iron broke seconds after switching it on so I’d had to shove my wayward locks into a neat chignon.

  Huntly Pierre took up the top six floors and was a modern masterpiece of architecture smack-dab in the middle of The Strand, and the kind of real estate that proved the company was thriving. I’d been brought on for my special brand of expertise garnered from that art history degree I’d earned at Courtauld. This was truly my dream job. I would soon be hanging out at galleries all day, chatting with other art lovers, and my nosy personality would get its daily fix.

  My face flushed as I recalled last night’s highlight at The Otillie, meeting the enigmatic Mr. Wilder. I’d fallen asleep with my laptop open on his pretty boy face.

  One thing was for sure, he was the outdoorsy type and had a thing for motorbikes and sports cars, or any kind of speed, for that matter.

  Soon after I’d gotten home from the gallery I’d sat riveted to my screen as I’d watched what was hailed as a rare insight into his life filmed last year and aired on national television. He’d taken the interviewer on a private tour of his Los Angeles gallery. As they’d strolled through The Wilder, perusing his fine collection of paintings, Tobias had sincerely expressed his passion for seeing art education continued in schools.

  I’d let out a sigh as I’d watched him express his belief that students benefited greatly from learning to see beyond the ordinary—

  “They must be taught to look closer,” he’d fervidly expressed. “They must be shown how to peer through the enlightened lens of art and develop the skills that will lead them to experience creative lives.”

  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.