The Art of Loving a Vampire

by Jaye Wells

  Ok, that’s weird, thought Syd.

  “Are you telling me you waltzed in here expecting us to just hand the painting over to you without verifying your story? Really, Mr. Murdoch, did you expect us to gift wrap it, too?”

  Ha, take that! She gave herself a mental high five.

  “Miss Worth, apologize to Mr. Murdoch! That kind of sarcasm is not appropriate when speaking to such an esteemed member of our community,” chastised Stiggler.

  Syd rolled her eyes and then looked at Murdoch expectantly.

  His eyebrows knitted together, and his jaw clenched as if he was trying to remain calm.

  Well, tough, she thought. He’d better get used to being challenged. No one pushes this girl around.

  He cleared his throat as if needing time to regroup. “I admit my family and I were in shock when we saw the news. In my rush to get here, I failed to consider the need for evidence. Perhaps we could come to an agreement.”

  Stiggler's eyes lit up. Syd could almost hear the cha-ching echoing in the man’s head. She, on the other hand, was insulted.

  “Are you suggesting we would be open to bribery?” she demanded.

  “Hush!” said Stiggler as he slithered closer to his prey.

  “Please ignore her. She has no decision-making authority here. Now about that arrangement . . .”

  Murdoch looked at the man with distaste.

  “No, I am not offering a bribe. If we could go see the painting, I will explain what I have in mind.”

  Looking a little baffled, Stiggler nodded his toupee-covered head and crossed his hands respectfully over his gut. Syd often thought, with the designer suits his outlandish salary afforded him, Stiggler appeared half-politician, half-used-car salesman. Lord knew why the museum board kept the man on. Most likely it was his ability to finagle credit for his employees’ hard work while doing almost no real work himself. He really was a rat. Unfortunately for Syd, the rat also had the power to make or break her career.

  “If you’ll follow me, Logan,” said the rat.

  “You may call me Mr. Murdoch,” said the man who confused her more by the minute. He sure seemed like the enemy, but she couldn’t shake the odd feeling he was on her side.

  “Of course, Mr. Murdoch,” said Stiggler. “Miss Worth, please continue on with whatever it is you do all day. Besides throwing yourself off ladders that is.”

  Syd opened her mouth to protest being cut out of the discussions, but Murdoch beat her to it.

  “Actually, I insist Miss Worth be included.” Syd whirled to face him, her mouth hanging open with shock. Of course, she wanted to be included in negotiations, but she wondered why he insisted on her involvement. He calmly met her gaze. She took in his resolved expression but glimpsed a promise in his eyes. Syd tried not to focus on what the promise entailed because, given their interaction so far, she feared it would involve sticking her chest in his face again. Only this time it would not be an accident. She mentally fanned herself.

  Get a grip, girl. This man is the enemy, she scolded herself and raised her chin, which only seemed to amuse him. She scowled at him. He grinned back. Stiggler was so beside himself he didn’t notice the exchange.

  “Absolutely not. This is a museum administration issue, and she is only a curator,” the rat fink insisted, trying to assert some of his power. The grin immediately disappeared from Mr. Murdoch’s face.

  Syd almost felt pity for Stiggler. Almost.

  “Miss Worth is involved, or I call the lawyers.” From his tone, Syd suspected he was a man used to getting his way. Her suspicion became a conviction at the next words out of Stiggler’s mouth.

  “After you, Miss Worth.”

  Chapter Two

  Stiggler sucked up to their guest as they headed to the conservation studio, but Sydney didn’t pay attention to the words. After all, how many ways were there to kiss someone’s ass?

  She had bigger things to focus on—such as how to deal with Mr. Logan Murdoch. He had no proof with him, but the Murdoch name carried a lot of weight in these parts. It didn’t make sense for him to lay false claim on a high profile piece of artwork. Unless he wasn’t really a Murdoch.

  She considered the possibility. Maybe he was crazy or on drugs. She shook her head to discard those thoughts. The man was the picture of virile good health, not a dark circle or bloodshot eye in sight. Moreover, he didn’t have any of the signs she thought a crazy man would exhibit, like wild eyes or a habit of talking back to voices in his head. Although, the strangely intense looks he’d given her earlier were odd.

  On the other hand, she couldn’t deny he was a dead ringer for the man in the portrait. She would have to do anything she could to discredit him. After all, if the museum lost this painting, Stiggler would find a way to blame her.

  Sydney slowed and waited for Stiggler and Murdoch to join her at the elevator.

  “Miss Worth, is there a problem?” Stiggler asked as he brushed past her to punch the button.

  Sydney rolled her eyes before she could stop herself. She looked over and caught Murdoch studying her with a grin. Busted.

  “After you,” he said, gesturing for her to precede him into the elevator after Stiggler lumbered in.

  “Thanks,” she mumbled.

  Don’t be fooled. He isn’t a gentleman. He just wants to get that painting, she lectured herself.

  She tried to ignore him but failed miserably. His clean, masculine scent and powerful aura made the elevator shrink in size. She accidentally brushed his arm with her own. A tingle danced all the way down to her fingertips. While Stiggler rattled on about the museum, she glanced at Murdoch again and caught him watching her. She quickly looked away.

  The trip down was mercifully short. As Stiggler forged ahead of them into the corridor, Murdoch put a hand on her arm.

  “Miss Worth,” Murdoch said, “I realize this development was unexpected.”

  “You can say that again. By the way, can I see some ID?”

  He chuckled as he reached into his back pocket for his wallet and then flashed his driver’s license. He wasn’t lying about his identity.

  And damn him, she thought, even his driver’s license picture is hot. She frowned even more when she recalled her own, which resembled a mug shot.

  “Sorry, can’t be too careful,” she said. He shrugged off her apology with a smile. She looked up to see Stiggler impatiently tapping his foot in front of the entrance to the conservation area.

  “Miss Worth, did I just see you card our esteemed guest?” he demanded.

  “It’s no bother,” Murdoch said. “After all, I imagine you don’t let just any stranger off the street into this area of the museum.”

  “Of course, of course. I was going to ask to see your identification myself. Now shall we?” Stiggler said, motioning to the door next to him.

  When Sydney entered the studio, the smell of turpentine acted like a balm on her frayed nerves. She always loved coming down here when she felt stressed. The conservation department resembled a small warehouse. Easels holding artwork in various stages of restoration or cleaning stood at odd intervals along the outer walls. Large worktables stood end to end along the middle of the room. The jars of paint thinner, paint brushes, magnifying glasses, and various other tools of the conservation trade were strewn along the tabletops. The room seemed devoid of life except for the sound of a radio drifting from a small office in the far corner.

  “Lenny?” Syd called as she headed toward the head conservator’s office. When no response came, she shook her head. When Lenny listened to the blues, he was in the zone.

  Many of the museum staff found the conservation rats, as they were jokingly called, eccentric. But Sydney liked hanging out down here as they worked their magic. The conservation of priceless art was part science, part alchemy, and part luck.

  Only certain people were talented enough to harness all three and restore artwork to its original glory. Dr. Leonard Kunst was one of the best in his field.

  Reaching
the door to the office, she watched for a moment as Lenny painstakingly cleaned the bust of a Roman senator. She knocked on the doorjamb, but he didn’t hear her over the electric guitars whining from the radio on the bookshelf.

  “Lenny?” she said as she touched his shoulder. The man jumped three feet in the air. Only his ingrained skills prevented him from knocking the bust over when his hands flew up.

  “Jeez, Syd, give a man a heart attack, why don’t you?” he exclaimed. He turned and lowered the volume on the song.

  Syd smiled fondly at the man. His wild gray hair stood at irregular peaks, and his rumpled clothes added to his nutty-professor air.

  “Sorry, Lenny, but we need to see the Scottish portrait,” she explained.

  “The Hot Scot,” he said loudly and then chuckled. “This is the third time in two days. You got it bad for the man.” Syd cleared her throat to indicate the presence of Stiggler and Murdoch just behind her.

  “Oh jeez, sorry. Good morning, Mr. Stiggler.” Lenny caught sight of Logan and his jaw dropped.

  “Dr. Kunst,” Stiggler said with a frown. “The painting?”

  “Oh! Yes, sir.” Lenny stuttered as he stared at Logan. “Sorry, he looks just like the man in the portrait.”

  “Mr. Murdoch is here because the painting was allegedly stolen from his family two centuries ago,” explained Syd. To Murdoch she said, “This is Dr. Leonard Kunst, our head of conservation.”

  “I can’t believe it!” Lenny said as he shook Murdoch’s hand. “Have you ever seen the painting, Mr. Murdoch?”

  “Of cour—, that is, no, I have not. However, I know from family records Royce and I share a resemblance,” Logan explained.

  “That is the understatement of the century,” Lenny said. He shook his head and led the trio to a large easel set up in the corner of the room. He whisked the white cover off the painting with a flourish.

  “This, Mr. Murdoch, is more than a resemblance,” he said.

  “Dr. Kunst, that will be all,” Stiggler said, dismissing him. Lenny looked at Murdoch one more time before shaking his head and retreating to his office.

  Sydney had viewed the painting several times, but she still got a flutter in her stomach. The image was one of the most powerful displays of rugged masculinity she had ever encountered. However, now, with Murdoch standing next to her, the impact was amplified. Lenny had it right. The similarity was amazing. If she didn’t know better, she would believe Murdoch himself had donned a kilt and posed for the portrait.

  In the image, the man with black, wind-blown hair and indigo eyes sat proudly atop a midnight stallion. He wore a white flowing shirt over a green and red kilt. Muscular thighs extended from beneath the kilt to grasp the horse’s sides. Traditional green kilt hose extended to just below the man’s knees. The image was compelling, but the expression on the man’s face was somewhat out of place with the rest of the portrait. Although the composition was formal, the humorous tilt to his lips hinted he shared a private joke with the painter.

  “I can’t believe it is really here,” Logan said beside her. She thought she detected a hint of emotion in his voice.

  “I have to admit the resemblance is uncanny,” Sydney mused.

  “Yes, I suppose we do favor each other,” Logan said, sounding uncomfortable.

  “Alike? Hell, man, it looks like you posed for it yourself,” Stiggler said.

  Anyone with half a brain could figure out Logan Murdoch was a direct descendant of the man in the portrait. Sydney’s hope this was all some kind of mistake vanished. Seeing the resemblance up close made it impossible to believe he was a con artist looking to scam the museum.

  “I mentioned an agreement earlier,” Logan began and then held a hand up when Stiggler started to speak. “No, I do not want to give you any money. Instead, I propose Miss Worth and I work together to find adequate evidence of my family’s claim.”

  “Are you positive you wouldn’t prefer to involve your attorneys?” Sydney asked. “After all, authenticating art and proving ownership can get quite sticky. Surely you are aware of the cases of art stolen during World War II by the Nazis. In some instances it took years for museums to legally identify the rightful owners.”

  “Yes, but in this case my family is approaching the museum directly about a specific painting. In addition, I will give you access to my family’s archives. I am confident we can find the proof and handle everything with a minimum of fuss,” replied Logan.

  “What’s in it for us?” asked Stiggler. “After all, if Miss Worth finds the proof, you have your painting and we have nothing.”

  “You mean you have nothing other than good publicity for cooperating with us and knowing you did the right thing?” Logan retorted with disdain.

  “Of course that has its own rewards, but you will need to use museum resources, and they don’t come cheap,” Stiggler shot back.

  “Cut to the chase,” Logan commanded. His face showed strain, as if he fought the urge to strangle the man before him.

  “The museum will sorely miss this painting if your claim is valid, and we hope you will see it in your heart to compensate us for being so cooperative.”

  Sydney couldn’t believe it. The man could not be tackier. The museum had the painting for less than a week, and he wanted money? Outrageous.

  If Murdoch could provide legal proof of ownership, then it would nullify the contract the museum held with the deceased donor’s estate, thus they would have no right to any money.

  Logan gave Stiggler a hard look. But just when she thought he would rake the man over the coals for his impertinence, he surprised her by being civil.

  “We’ll discuss that when the time comes. Now, Miss Worth, when will you be able to begin?” he asked.

  Syd looked back and forth between the men. Things were happening so fast she scrambled to quickly come up with a plan.

  “First, I would need to check with Jorge to make sure he has time in his schedule to assist me,” Syd said.

  “No. Absolutely not. I forbid you to involve Jorge in this matter,” Stiggler said.

  “And why not? Jorge is an excellent researcher, and I would only need him to get the preliminaries out of the way. After the first day or so, I will need him here in the office to keep all our other projects on track,” Syd argued.

  “I doubt Mr. Murdoch would appreciate someone like that in his home,” Stiggler sneered.

  “You mean someone of Latin American descent? I am sure Mr. Murdoch is not as narrow-minded as some people,” Syd said meaningfully.

  “But that’s not what I meant. I meant that assistant of yours is a homos—”

  “Mr. Stiggler,” Logan cut Stiggler off, “I assure you no matter what ethnic, cultural, or other categories Miss Worth’s assistant falls under, he will be welcome in my home.”

  Syd let out a breath and sent a grateful smile to Murdoch, who nodded back.

  “Then that’s settled,” she said. “I will need a day or two to clear my calendar and do some preliminary research. Today is Monday, so why don’t Jorge and I start first thing on Wednesday?”

  “That works for me. I must warn you, our archives are quite extensive. I might be able to help narrow down the search, though, if you can tell me the type of evidence you will be seeking,” Logan said.

  “Generally letters and journals are the most common sources. However, until I have a chance to dig into your family history, it is difficult to guess where proof will be found.”

  “Dig into the family history?” Logan repeated, sounding troubled.

  “Yes, you said this painting was stolen two hundred years ago. I will need to know more about the circumstances surrounding its commission as well as the events coinciding with its theft. Usually, in cases where we have no records for a piece, our first step is to determine its provenance, or a record of ownership.”

  She was impressed as Murdoch nodded and listened attentively to her explanation. Most people tuned her out when she switched over to her art geek persona
. Case in point: Stiggler, who stifled a yawn. She ignored him and continued.

  “In most cases, we start with the most recent owner and work our way back. However, for Royce’s painting that information is not available since the owner is not only dead, but also stipulated anonymity in his or her will. So we start in the past and work forward.”

  “This process is much more involved than I thought,” Logan said. He ran his hand through his hair.

  “Mr. Murdoch, you can rest assured I will make every effort to expedite this process for you,” said Stiggler.

  Murdoch ignored the statement and turned to address Syd.

  “I suppose I should let you get to work. Heaven knows I will be taking up enough of your time in the coming days. If you require any special equipment or supplies, call me, and I will make sure you have them by Wednesday.”

  As he handed her his business card, their hands brushed. Again, that jolt of awareness zipped over her skin. He held her gaze a moment longer than necessary. Syd forced herself to look away before she did something stupid, like drool on him.

  “It was nice to meet you Mr. Murdoch. I look forward to working with you,” she lied. The man unsettled her, and the prospect of spending more time with him had her feeling a little panicky. But she was a professional, and she would put aside her hormonal reactions to get the job done.

  “I assure you, Miss Worth, the pleasure was mine,” he said. His smile was polite, but the glint in his eye left Syd convinced he was alluding to the unfortunate ladder incident from earlier.

  He turned to Stiggler. “I don’t need to remind you this matter should be kept quiet.”

  “Mr. Murdoch, I assure you, I am the soul of discretion,” Stiggler said with a trustworthy smile and a firm handshake.

  Murdoch said his good-byes and was gone.

  Stiggler slowly turned toward Syd, his expression turning from amicable to menacing.

  “I have one thing to say to you,” he growled. “If you mess this up, you will be out on your ass so fast you won’t know a van Gogh from a velvet Elvis.”