The Chase

by Vanessa Fewings

  “This is scandalous, isn’t it?”

  “What is?”

  “We should be drinking tea.” He raised his eyebrows. “As you know I’m a bad influence.”

  “Tea would be lovely.”

  He raised his hand for the waiter and when the man approached he asked for English breakfast tea.

  The waiter scurried off.

  “Where in America are you from?” I said.

  “Massachusetts. Originally.”

  “It’s pretty there?”

  “Beautiful in the fall.”

  “You miss it?”

  “I travel a lot for work but love to go back when I can. I have a home there as well as an apartment in New York, Washington and, as you know, in Oxford. I call LA home.” He frowned as though regretting sharing that with me.

  A pot of tea arrived and was placed between us. A teacup was set down to my left, and I poured a little milk in.

  “Where is your family now?”

  Having read about his parents, I wanted to stay far away from that kind of painful conversation. There’d been no mention of siblings when I’d read up on him.

  “My only living relative lives in Paris.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Actually, he’s my favorite uncle.”

  “So you’re a bit of a science buff?”

  “I’ve always loved science.”

  “Because science shows you how to control things?”

  “Just the opposite. Science proves just how unstable the universe is.”

  “It is?”

  “It was created by the big bang.” He demonstrated an explosion. “Humanity is against the clock. Unless we change our ways.”

  “I recycle.”

  “There’s hope for us yet.”

  I perked up. “It must be wonderful owning your own gallery.”

  Happiness swept over his face, making him look younger, and those traces of tension lifted. “Yes.”

  I smiled. “Who was your first?”

  He set his glass down.

  “My first was Madame Rose Récamier,” I said softly.

  He nodded, appreciating my cheekiness.

  “She hung on my bedroom wall,” I continued. “Felt like she was watching over me.”

  I knew every angle of her face, every shadow thrown on the canvas, every delicate brushstroke. There came a rush of guilt I’d not returned to The Otillie to visit her.

  Tobias’s gaze met mine. “Fuseli, The Nightmare.” He watched my reaction. “Painted in—”

  “1781.” A chill washed over me.

  Johann Henry Heinrich Füssli had stunned the art community with his painting of a woman sprawled out on a bed seemingly asleep, or even unconscious, with an incubus crouched on her chest and his sinister glare peering out at us. The only other witness was a horse, nostrils flaring, emerging from behind a veil to witness the monstrous act of control the beast had over the woman.

  “Why that one?” Uneasiness rose in my chest.

  Waiting for him to answer, I downed the rest of my wine.

  He lowered his gaze. “It represents entering another’s dreams.”

  “Yes, it does.”

  “It offers uncertainty. Drama. Possession.”

  My mouth was still dry, but I was too shaken to reach for my water. “How old were you?”

  “Ten.” He slipped into a warm smile. “When the realization hit me that art was capable of stirring a visceral response. Alighting the soul. Awakening a person consciously. That Fuseli haunted my dreams and terrified my days. There came an awareness of the inherit power of art to terrorize.”

  “You didn’t love the painting?”

  He grinned. “If I did, what would that make me, Zara?”

  “Fucked up.” I let out a laugh.

  “And some. I felt driven to save the damsel and kill the beast.”

  I breathed a sigh of relief, and my shoulders relaxed from where they’d been holding their tension.

  “You asked me for my first,” he clarified. “Not my first love.”

  “True.”

  He looked thoughtful. “Goya.”

  “Which one?”

  “Ferdinand Guillemardet.”

  “Of course, The French Ambassador, any young man would be struck by his confidence.”

  “And later, I understood the profoundness of the portrait, the life radiating off the canvas, the ambassador’s calculated pose to exude intelligence.”

  “You admired his power?”

  “Actually, it’s what’s captured in Ferdinand’s eyes. They reflect that he’d seen so much. Goya understood his pain and the wisdom that had come from that. Goya’s bright palette was truly remarkable. I wish you could see it up close. He believed this was his finest painting. To be honest, there are too many of his great works to choose from.”

  “I’m sure Goya enjoyed the vibrant conversation while the ambassador posed for him,” I said.

  “Most definitely. A shame he later lost his hearing.”

  “Where did you see The French Ambassador?”

  “The portrait hung in the living room of my uncle’s villa in Reims. I stayed with him for a while.” Tobias brightened. “My uncle bequeathed the painting to the Louvre.”

  “No wonder you were willing to go to any means to see the Goya.”

  “To know she was real—” He placed his palm on his chest to say the rest.

  “I’m happy I could help. Do you speak French?”

  “Oui.” He continued to speak, his tone poetic as though reciting a sonnet.

  Making my toes curl. “What did that mean?”

  “I was thanking you for brightening my day.”

  He made me smile, his flair for language adding a sexy dimension to the already heady Tobias Wilder.

  “I’m grateful for your talent, Zara. And your continued discretion.”

  “Adley was okay with it.”

  “Of course he was.”

  “I wanted to get lost in that palace. Spend the night running from room to room and savor every second.”

  “Art should be shared. It’s a travesty to hide them away.”

  Looking down, I hid my shame. My father’s legacy had been all about hoarding the paintings and keeping them just for him.

  A legacy of secrecy that I too was guilty of now.

  That elegant hand reaching out across that ancient canvas...

  “There’s a beautiful mystery to art.” Tobias reached for his glass. “I see myself as a steward.”

  “I feel the same way, only I’m honoring its authenticity.”

  “You didn’t need to come here and apologize,” he said. “I’m the one who put you through a difficult ordeal.”

  “I liked seeing the painting.”

  “I meant stripping you naked and dressing you in next to nothing. To ensure we’d mingle.”

  My cheeks burned from the warmth of the wine.

  Not the wine...

  I let out a deep sigh. “It felt like an awakening...”

  The silence was no longer a threat and as his stare reached all the way inside me, I was sure he too felt this electrical pulse between us, this thrill, a familiar shiver, and these stirring memories of when he’d kissed me passionately and forced my surrender in his arms.

  “I’m leaving for LA tomorrow,” he said softly.

  I dug my fingernails into my palms. “Going home?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s...” Probably a good thing. “It’s been lovely meeting you.”

  “Likewise.”

  “Maybe next time you visit London we can have drinks?”

  He looked away and then those gre
en eyes locked on mine, and with that one look he’d shut down my embarrassing suggestion.

  Though he was hard to read as his jaw tensed and relaxed.

  The men in my life had more than proven I didn’t make their impossible grade.

  “Zara, seeing you again would actually be—”

  “I’m dedicating myself to my career right now.” I took a bite out of a muffin and munched away, remembering he’d already shut down there being an us back in my flat.

  Tobias placed a sandwich on his plate and glanced inside the slices of bread. He nudged his plate away.

  I felt like that sandwich, never destined to be good enough.

  That subtle check of his wristwatch proved I was either boring or keeping him from something far more important.

  “Do you have to return to work?” he said.

  “Yes, I should go. I have a meeting. I’m being brought in on this very important case.” I reached for my coat. “Thank you for the bonsai tree.”

  “I’m glad you liked it.”

  “Card was pretty. What do the Japanese symbols mean?”

  “It was a thank-you for all you did. You almost executed every requirement flawlessly.” He quirked a smile.

  Almost?

  I rose from my seat and pulled on my coat. “I’m glad we’re leaving each other on good terms, Mr. Wilder.”

  “And breathtaking memories.” He waggled his eyebrows playfully. “You stun in Coco de Mer. A gorgeous Russian princess.”

  My cheeks burned again.

  “Your impressive ancestry was noted in the file Adley gave us.”

  As if any of that mattered now.

  He ran his fingers through his perfect hair. “You were an erotic delight to the senses. Impossible to forget.” His gaze locked on mine. “Zara, I—”

  I scoffed. “I’d not be surprised if you had royal blood too.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “You looked quite at home at Blandford Palace.”

  He folded his arms across his chest. “More interesting still, so did you, Zara Elizabeth.”

  It was too late to hide he’d gotten to me.

  My full name had probably been noted in the report Adley had given him during our meeting.

  “Forgive me,” he said.

  “What for this time?”

  “I lied about what was in that note that came with the bonsai.”

  “Oh.” I fisted my hands and rested them on my hips and they slid off my parka.

  “It actually states in kanji you’d make an incredible geisha.”

  I sucked in my breath at his cheek.

  “Now you need to read up on Japanese culture if you think that’s an insult.” He narrowed his gaze. “Oh dear, did I just upset your Jane Austen sensibilities?”

  I plopped down next to him and leaned into his ear. “It’s a good thing you and I are saying goodbye.”

  He looked taken aback. “Why is that?”

  I lowered my voice to a whisper. “Because, Tobias, you’d never withstand the hard fucking I’d deliver.” I gave a look of defiance.

  High five, chardonnay, my loyal wing-wine.

  I pushed myself to my feet and walked away. A few tables down I realized—

  And stopped in my tracks as my eyelids squeezed shut with the ridiculousness of having to go back.

  Rallying my resolve I returned to our table. “I’m meant to pay.”

  He gave a wry smile. “I’ve got this one, Leighton.”

  11

  It was strange to miss a man I hardly knew, I thought, wrapping my hands around my coffee mug as I tried later that day to stay warm in the overly chilled conference room.

  I refocused on Danny Kenner, a relatively new hire to the firm like me but with a background in security.

  “There are cameras in the Jaegers’ Holland Park home,” he said. “But each one was disabled prior to the theft of the Edvard Munch.” Danny’s eyes scanned over each of us.

  Elena had given me the scoop on everyone here before I headed on in. I was grateful to be included so soon on such a high-profile case, especially as it had been Adley who’d invited me.

  This was a tight-knit group with Abby Reynolds at the helm, a forty-year-old who was considered a highflier in the company after leaving the Met at the rank of inspector. Her African heritage had given her those sharp cheekbones and her intelligent eyes sparkled with insight and highlighted Abby’s pretty complexion.

  Her rugged counterpart was Shane Hannah, an ex-policeman too, though he’d spent his years in Special Branch, and a back injury had apparently forced his early retirement. That cane he walked with was testament he’d put his job first.

  Beside him sat Brandon Forbes, Huntly Pierre’s senior techie who hailed from Wales and was rumored to be able to hack into anything.

  They talked over each other with the ease of friends.

  Everyone seemed relaxed around Adley, proving this was their stomping ground. They avidly listened to Danny and at times threw in even more relevant details. Their notebooks were open in front of them as they each waited a turn to present their own findings.

  Adley leaned back casually at the head of the table and scribbled away, taking his own notes. “The family was in the house?” he asked. “Asleep upstairs?”

  “Yes,” said Abby. “They had silverware out in the same room, but nothing else was taken.”

  “The thief didn’t get greedy,” said Shane.

  “Insurance won’t match the worth of the painting,” said Danny, “so it doesn’t look like insurance fraud—” He looked over at me. “Shall I bring you up to speed?”

  I gave a nod of appreciation.

  He continued for me, “The theft was a quick break-in. No alarm was set off and nothing else touched. However, there was a partial fingerprint, but whoever left it isn’t in the National DNA Database. We’re running the staff right now in case it came from them. None of them are suspects but their prints will be all over the house and we need to eliminate them. The Met’s Arts and Antiques Squad are leading the investigation but, with their resources short, they’re happy to share updates and join resources. I have a meeting with them right after this over at New Scotland Yard. We’re going to compare the Chelsea theft of a Henry Raeburn with this latest case.”

  “That burglary involved Raeburn’s 1815 Portrait of a Lady,” Abby said as she continued to update me on this robbery.

  Free-flowing information had proven beneficial in other cases, she told me.

  “How the hell does a man get into a house, steal a painting and leave no evidence?” said Brandon. “I mean nothing. Not one lead.”

  “And we know it’s most likely to be a man,” Abby threw in.

  “Statistically,” said Shane, “women are more likely to be arrested for theft.”

  “Apparently,” said Abby, “the entire power went out on the Jaeger house in Holland Park right before the theft.”

  “The thief didn’t stop there,” said Shane. “The Holland Park neighbors had wall-to-wall cameras, which were also affected by the outage. That cuts the chance of our guy being caught on film entering or leaving the premises.”

  “The thief knew the painting was there. It wasn’t random,” I realized. “He’s done this before.”

  Adley slid a file over to me marked Jaeger/Confidential.

  I rifled through it, taking note of the paperwork full of proof of ownership, the legalese, including a Christie’s tracking number for the painting. From a quick glance the family had inherited an Edvard Munch. A trip to Christie’s would be all it would take to verify the provenance and validate their story. The investigation might not turn up the painting, which was quite possibly stashed away in a private collection by now, but at least it would
assist with their insurance claim.

  The meeting ended with an agreement for all of us to reconvene at five. This team knew each other well, from the way they huddled in a group and chatted away, forming a circle of trust that excluded me.

  I felt like an outsider.

  Taking the hint, I carried the Jaeger file back to my office and set about making an appointment with Christie’s appraisals and evaluations department. They’d be able to authenticate the family’s ownership of the Edvard Munch and confirm the painting had indeed come through them. The paperwork went back as far as 1902.

  After a few clicks on Christie’s website I’d secured a 7:00 p.m. with Andrew Chan, their senior documentation curator.

  A blur of movement in the doorway.

  My eyes rose to meet the startling gaze of Tobias’s—

  I shot to my feet, wondering how long he’d been there.

  I felt like I’d been struck by lightning, a storm soon to follow in its wake.

  He walked in with the stature of a man who owned any space he entered, turning briefly to close and then lock the door before heading over to the window. His fingers curled around the thin pole of the blinds, twisting them closed and throwing shade on the room.

  My heart rate took off and my breathing stuttered as I watched him move across my office.

  “I want to talk with you,” he said huskily, “about our last conversation.”

  I rounded my desk and leaned against it with my arms folded and I tried to feign I was unaffected by his ardent stance. “Me paying for lunch?”

  He chuckled and came over to stand right in front of me. “Before that.”

  Racking my brain, I ran through our last interaction, trying to guess which one of my snappy retorts might have riled him up and caused his expression to become so imposing, his posture straight and his presence commanding. His height easily intimidated, his stance proving a fierce determination.

  My cheeks blushed with the realization...

  Tobias watched my reaction. “May I clarify your statement?”

  “Yes,” I said in a rush, my breath stuttering as he crushed his lips against mine. That first shock of his hold weakened my defenses, proving my inability to deny I’d wanted this more than life itself.

  I reached up and grabbed a fistful of hair and held him to me.