Текст книги "The Art of Stealing Hearts"

Автор книги: Stella London

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I head back out to the table determined not to let my insecurities ruin the sparks between St. Clair and me, but my heart sinks when I see him standing by the exit, his phone in his hand. The table’s been cleared, and he has an apologetic look on his face.

“I’m terribly sorry, but I’m going to have to cut our evening short,” he says. “Something urgent has come up at work.”

“I understand,” I lie, forcing a smile. “No worries.”

The waiter comes over with bags of food, packed up in to-go boxes.

“I didn’t want this delicious feast to go to waste,” St. Clair says. “My driver will take you home. It’s the least I can do for disappearing on you.”

As we take the elevator down together, I wonder if there really is a work emergency. But St. Clair seems genuinely regretful for bailing like this. “At least you didn’t spill coffee on me,” I say, trying to lighten the mood. “I’m still waiting for you to get even.”

“Damn! That was on the agenda for later.” He grins and moves closer to me. “I guess we’ll just have to do this again sometime.”

I let my body drift closer. “I might be into that.”

St. Clair rests a hand gently on my arm, and then he’s leaning into me, so close I can feel his breath on my lips the moment before his mouth finds mine.

He kisses me slowly, taking his time as if savoring me like a fine wine. His lips roam over mine, and then he grazes my lower lip, biting lightly. My whole body comes alive, demands to touch him, and I press against him, eager for more. He eases my lips open and slides his tongue into my mouth, and I melt at the sensuous feel of him—

Ding! The elevator doors open and I blink back to reality, the spell broken.

St Clair. clears his throat. For a moment he looks dazed, before regaining his composure. “My, uh, driver, will take you home and get your number.” He lands a brief kiss on my forehead. “Sweet dreams, Grace,” he says and then he’s gone.

His driver appears and leads me to the limo, but I barely notice a thing all the way home. I’m lost in the memory of his kiss. Our first kiss.

I only hope it’s the first of many.

CHAPTER 7

Oh, the joys of a day off!

It’s still early when I awake to the familiar sounds of the restaurant downstairs. I make myself coffee and get back in bed. I roll under the covers and replay pieces of last night’s date over and over in my mind: when we talked about art, when he understood and took my hand across the table, when he kissed me in the elevator.

God, that kiss knocked me for a loop. Talk about hot. I mean, I don’t have a ton of experience, but I could barely walk after a ten-second kiss. Imagine what he can do with the rest of his body…

My phone pings. It’s him.

Apologies again for ending our date so abruptly. I had a great time and hope you did as well.

He had a great time! I feel like doing cartwheels, like I’m back in middle school.

Be cool, Grace, be cool.

I did, I text back. Paige would be proud.

It’s a beautiful sunny Sunday morning, a rarity for North Beach, so I throw back the covers and get out of bed. I’m feeling good, basking in the warm glow of this week. Even if things didn’t go exactly as I’d planned, I feel happy and hopeful about my new opportunities, Carringer’s and St. Clair too. After feeling trapped under a dark cloud for so long, it finally feels like there are blue skies ahead.

He texts again as I’m getting out of the shower. Looking forward to seeing you again.

“I want to see so much more of you next time, preferably out of your clothes” is not an appropriate response, so instead I write back, Can’t wait. I give up on removing the sappy grin from my face, and decide to use this positive energy for more good.

I get dressed and pack my sketchbook as well as some of the leftover dim sum from last night and take the bus up to the Legion of Honor Museum, one of my favorite places in the city. The bus takes a winding dirt road up a steep hill overlooking the San Francisco Bay and drops me off in front of the gorgeous museum building, done in the French neoclassic style. There’s a big white stone archway with intricate carvings, huge stone lion heads with majestic carved manes on the pillars as guards, columns ringing a courtyard with Rodin’s The Thinker poised atop a pedestal in the center.

The other tourists all head into the museum, but I wander through the archway that leads out back to the lawn. Here, the cliffs overlook the bay and the Golden Gate Bridge: one of the best views in the city. I stop as soon as I see the blue expanse of the ocean. It takes my breath away every time—and today is a rare treat, shimmering sunlight dancing on top of the cerulean water, sparking like fireworks under the massive orange bridge.

It was winter when I scattered mom’s ashes in this exact same spot. Mom didn’t want to be buried. She always said she didn’t want to be put in some grave in the middle of nowhere that I would feel obligated to visit, so she left instructions in her will to be cremated, and for me to scatter her ashes in a place I loved. I could almost hear the unspoken suggestion: someplace we both loved, somewhere we loved going together.

I deliberated for months after the cancer finally took her. It happened so fast, Mom didn’t even tell me about the diagnosis at first, she thought she’d have more time. I was already away at college on the East Coast, settling in to the demanding schedule and trying to keep up with my classes and my part time job. Mom didn’t want to ruin my college experience, so she kept quiet about it during our phone calls, delaying the inevitable as long as she could.

But she couldn’t put it off forever. Near the end of my freshman year, a neighbor called me and said Mom had collapsed while out grocery shopping, that she was too weak to keep taking care of herself alone. I was so confused. “What do you mean?” I asked.

“With the cancer, dear,” she said.

I couldn’t even say the word out loud. “She’s sick?”

I was on the next plane back to Oakland that same day. But the cancer was already advanced too far to treat. “There’s nothing the doctors can do,” Mom told me, looking so pale and weak, laying on the sofa. “There’s nothing you can do.”

But she was wrong. I could be with her for the time she had left, so she wouldn’t go through it alone. I came home, giving up my summer abroad in Italy. I did my best to care for her body and keep her spirits up. I would drive us up the Oakland hills to vista points so she could see the view from the car windows when she was too weak to walk, and take her on trips into the city for architecture tours. I fed her clam chowder in bread bowls at the pier, and listened to the bark of the piles of sea lions, let the sun warm our faces while the wind cooled our fingers. We sat for long stretches, just watching the world: the beauty, the art in the everyday movement of light on water, of birds in flight, of love on people’s faces – all the way to the end.

Now, I look out at the ocean, and know she’s somewhere there, a part of her at least, forming the beauty that we all enjoy every day. “I love you, Mom,” I whisper and blow a kiss to the air I like to imagine is still swirling her ashes along in beautiful faraway places.

I almost imagine I hear her say she loves me back. Even if it’s just a trick of the wind, it makes me smile.

“You’re it!” a kid behind me yells, pulling me out of my painful memories. Several more children run by, laughing and calling “not it!”

I’m reminded that the past is resting now; that it’s a beautiful day, and I can’t let a moment of it go to waste. So I head back inside to immerse myself in the gorgeous art, revisiting each room like old friends: the Monets and Cezannes, the mottled brushstrokes and bright vivid colors, the flowers and garden scenes like something out of a fairy tale, and of course, the sculpture garden. I have a seat under Rodin’s masterfully emotive sculptures, faces that look like real people. He manages to evoke the feelings in his subjects, the expressions frozen in place in a way that is only possible with the utmost attention to detail and skill with his hands.

I unpack my picnic, which thanks to St. Clair is a cut above my usual sandwiches. The leftovers from dinner are still moist and delicious, and as I eat, I find myself thinking about St. Clair again. He was thoughtful to have the wait staff wrap this food up for me, but that’s him to a T: always the gentleman, even texting today despite his busy lifestyle.

I can’t imagine what goes into running a massive successful corporation like he does. How can a person ever feel settled with his hectic schedule? Always traveling, hardly ever sleeping in his own bed, never able to just veg in his pajamas and watch TV or have dinner with a girl without getting called out for a work emergency.

I can still feel his lips on mine.

I wonder what he’s doing now, if he’s thinking of me. He’s probably handling some financial transaction worth millions of dollars, but I’m glad to have the opposite of that lifestyle right now: a free day with my sketchbook and yummy dim sum, salty ocean air and vista views, and art all around. What more could a girl ask for?

I lick some plum sauce off my fingers and pull out my pencils, and soon I’m busy shading and sketching the statues, the white stone columns of the Legion of Honor building, the iconic golden bridge above the shining blue bay. The world melts away, and for a moment at least, I’m totally at peace.

CHAPTER 8

Monday morning, I arrive at Carringer’s to find police cars parked out front, their red and blue lights still flashing. The huge doors are propped open and police officers are milling about on the front steps.

“You can’t go in,” one of them says as he blocks my path.

“I work here!” I protest, digging out a security badge. He studies it suspiciously, then finally stands aside and lets me pass.

Inside, the scene is even more chaotic. There are at least a dozen more cops in here, speaking into walkie talkies, standing around looking official. There’s even a German Shepherd cop dog sniffing around.

What the hell happened?

I see Chelsea rush by, a panicked look on her face. “Hey!” I catch her arm. “What’s going on?”

“You didn’t hear?” She blinks. “There was a robbery, Saturday night, they think.”

“Oh my God,” I gasp. “What was stolen?”

“The Judgment of Paris,” she says as two cops pass us, carrying boxes of files.

“But what about security?” I ask, confused. “This place is like Fort Knox.”

“I know, right?” Chelsea leans in, whispering, “There’s no sign of forced entry, nothing suspicious on the tapes. It’s a total mystery.”

“The police must know something.”

“They have no idea what happened,” she says, looking around. “Everybody’s being interviewed, they were quizzing me for like, an hour.” She suddenly seems to realize who she’s talking to. “But they probably won’t bother with janitorial staff,” she adds with a smug smile. “It’s not like you’d know anything.”

We’re interrupted by Stanford, looking stressed.

“Chelsea,” he says. “Get back upstairs, now. Those papers need to be dealt with. And Grace, there is still filing to be done.”

“But…” I gesture at the police presence. Everyone is whispering, but the voices and footsteps echo through the big rooms and columned lobby. “Are you going to just pretend all these guys aren’t here investigating?”

“We are going to work as long as we can,” he says, shaking his head at me. “Now, get!”

I head downstairs. The basement is crawling with cops, too, and I have to squeeze through four different uniforms and show each of them my badge to get to the giant filing room. To my surprise, Lydia is here, directing the traffic flow of file boxes being carried in and out by policemen and Carringer’s employees. I’m about to ask if she needs help when a tall, rugged-looking man walks in. He’s wearing dark jeans and a crisp shirt, and although he looks casual, he’s clearly in charge. “Nick Lennox,” he says to Lydia, flashing some kind of badge. “Interpol, special projects.”

She doesn’t hide her impatience. “How can I help you?”

He clears his throat and plants his feet wider on the floor. “I need all your security footage from the last month as well as blueprints for the buildings. Plus a list of all employees and delivery drivers, and anyone else who had contact with this building in the last thirty days.”

Lydia looks stricken, and under better circumstances, I might enjoy her squirming. “Is that all necessary?” she asks. “I, uh, well, we’d like to keep this as quiet as possible.”

“Your company’s reputation isn’t my concern.” He stares her down. “The only thing I care about is finding that painting. Are we going to have a problem here? Because if I need to call your boss…”

I brace for Lydia’s rampage, but instead she backs off. “No, that’s fine. I’ll do whatever is necessary to help the investigation.”

“Good. You can start by providing a client list of who bid on the painting at the auction. Who had the winning bid, in the end?” Lennox asks.

“That would be Charles St. Clair.”

Lennox quirks an eyebrow. “Interesting. I’ll need to speak with him.”

“You, and our insurance agents too.” Lydia looks pale. “The deed transfer hasn’t gone through. We’ll take the full hit for the value of the painting.”

“Like I said, not my problem.” Lennox shrugs. “Let me know when you have the information I need.”

He turns and catches me watching them, so I quickly slink away back to work. I find a corner to avoid everyone’s frayed nerves and get into the groove of filing again until Stanford finds me amid the dust motes. “Where have you been!?” he demands.

“Where you told me to be,” I say. “I live to serve you.”

“Save the humor for a day when we don’t all face total ruin.” Stanford sighs. “Come on, it’s your turn to face the inquisition.”

He leads me upstairs to Lydia’s office. I notice three cop dogs sniffing around the lobby and hallways now. People are still on edge, jumpy, and when I enter the office, I find the agent from the basement looking comfortable behind Lydia’s desk.

“Umm, hi. They said you wanted to speak with me?” I hover, uncertain. I don’t know what I can offer to help with the investigation.

“Thanks, take a seat.” Lennox flips his little leather notebook open and skims a few pages. “I’m the lead agent on these cases, so I just have a few questions.”

Cases? As in more than this one? “Have there been other robberies?” I ask, sitting across from him.

He looks up, eyebrows raised. “That’s confidential for now.”

“Sorry.” I flush.

He smiles suddenly, and I realize he looks way more handsome when he’s not scowling. “There’s nothing you need to worry about. Now Miss…” he glances at his notebook, “Bennett. Some routine questions. How long have you been employed by Carringer’s?”

“I just started last week, so I’m not sure how much help I’ll be.”

He looks at his notes again and seems to get focused. “I heard that you were the one who bid on the stolen painting?”

“Yes,” I answer, suddenly a bit anxious. “Mr. St. Clair had to take a call and asked me to bid in his place.”

“Were there other high bidders who seemed upset to lose?”

“Just one. This guy Andrew Tate. He seemed angry, but more about losing,” I say, remembering his sexist jokes. “Maybe about losing to a woman. But he didn’t actually care about the painting.”

Lennox jots a few things down. “Did you have access to the storage area?”

“No.”

“You were seen down there on Friday before the auction.”

“Oh, that!” Crap. God, interrogations are definitely harder than they look on TV. Who remembers every detail of their days? “I was sent back there to get chairs.” I shrug. “I’m the help. I do what I’m told.”

“Did you see anyone else back there?” he asks.

“Just Lydia and Stanford, a few photographers and clients…” My hands start to sweat. Now I’m really nervous. “What do you think happened? Do you think it was an inside job?”

Lennox leans back. “It’s too soon to tell, and I’m not at liberty to share details, but it looks like it could be linked to other high-end art heists we’ve encountered in Europe.”

So there have been other robberies. I doubt he’d tell me what was stolen so I don’t bother to ask. “Well, good luck,” I offer. “I wish I knew more.” The thought of all that stolen art makes my stomach clench.

Lennox nods, going over his notes with a frown. He glances up as I stand. “If you think of anything else, remember any details…” He pulls a card out of his jacket pocket. “Call me anytime.”

“I really hope you find this painting,” I tell him, taking the card. “It’s too beautiful to be hidden away in some thief’s lair.”

He smiles. “We’ll find it, Miss Bennett,” he says. “No matter what it takes. You can count on it.”

Outside, Stanford tells me that the auction house is closing for the day and we can all go home. The lobby still looks like a crime scene—I mean, I guess it technically is a crime scene—so I try to go unnoticed through the hubbub. Then I see St. Clair, standing with some older men by the doors.

I pause, hanging back out of sight. Suddenly I’m nervous, my stomach turning a slow flip. My cheeks burn as I think about our kiss, but I’m not sure if I should go over to him and his friends. God, it’s like I’m in high school. Is it awkward to go say hi?

“Grace!”

I look up. St. Clair has seen me, and is waving me over.

“Hi,” I say as I get closer, wondering how to greet him—a hug, kiss, handshake? I settle for a smile. “I’m so sorry about the painting. It’s such a shame.”

He gives a rueful smile. “These things happen. I have every confidence that the police will find it and return it to me.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Because I choose to be.” He grins. I’m surprised; I was expecting him to be angry or upset: a six million dollar masterpiece is a big thing to lose, but instead he’s focused entirely on me. “Where are you off to right now?”

“I’m going home,” I tell him. “Carringer’s is closing early for the investigation.”

“Well if you’re free this afternoon, perhaps you can help me with something? Lend your expertise?”

I laugh. “I’m not really an expert in anything…”

“I beg to differ.” St. Clair smiles at me again, turning on that megawatt charm. “I’m considering purchasing a painting and I would love your opinion.”

“Really?” He’s messing with me, right? “Why?”

He lifts an eyebrow like, Come on. “Why do you think?”

“I have no idea,” I admit, confused. “I’m not really qualified, like a certified appraiser or consultant. I don’t know if—” He puts a finger to my lips and the shock of his touch makes me fall silent.

“I don’t care about qualifications,” he says, staring into me with those deep blue eyes. “You have a good eye and great taste. That’s what matters to me.”

I gulp. “Well, okay…” I say. “But you can’t blame me if I tell you to spend millions on a kid’s crayon scribble.”

He chuckles again. “I’ll have my fusty official advisors there, too, but I really want your passion. Your gut reaction.” He takes my hand, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Your attention to detail.”

Oh my God, I am tongue tied. All I can think about are the details I’m noticing right now: the tingle of his fingers on my skin, the excitement of his asking for my advice, the validation. And, oh yes, the line of his abs under his shirt.

“So what do you say?” he asks. “You feel like taking a ride with me?”

My heart does little flips in my chest, but I manage to keep my voice from sounding like a Muppet. “Yes. I’d love to.”

CHAPTER 9

Heading across the Golden Gate Bridge in the passenger seat of Charles’ luxury car, I’m blown away again by this city’s beauty. Tufts of fog and low clouds drift by the thick orange cables and metal towers. When I was a kid and saw it from the ground, it so often looked like it was floating, which is kind of how I feel now. Light-headed, nervous, and dreamy.

“It’s so gorgeous here,” I say. “I want to paint this bridge someday from up there.” I point to the Marin Headland hills above the bridge on the north side, rocky outcrops covered in sage. “The perfect angle.”

“Let’s do it,” he says, glancing at me. “I’ll have to steal you away another day.”

“This might be enough playing hooky for me for a while.”

“Not much of a rule-breaker, are you?” he jokes. “No secret history of skinny dipping or sneaking out your windows?”

“Not unless you count almost failing school as rule-breaking,” I say, thinking of my C average, my struggles to pay attention. “I behaved, I just never stopped sketching.”

Sailboats take advantage of the bay’s winds below and dozens of tourists brave the blustery day to enjoy the amazing views of the city from the bridge.

“Like this,” I say, gesturing to the whole world of life and art right outside. “How can I not want to capture this?” Couples kiss and kids ride bikes, and it’s a perfect portrait of San Francisco.

When I look back at him, Charles is staring at me. “What?” I ask, self-conscious.

“Nothing,” he gives a secret smile. “I just like the way you look at the world, that’s all. So many people never take the time to see what’s right in front of them, but you see the beauty in everything.”

I flush. “I got that from my mom,” I confide. “She was the most observant person I’ve ever known.” I watch him, curious. “How about your parents?”

“I spent most of my childhood in boarding school in England.”

I make a face—I can’t help it—and he laughs. “It wasn’t all bad. Not what you’re probably thinking. I learned discipline and independence and loyalty, but I did miss my family, my home.”

“I’m sure they missed you, too,” I say, imagining what it would have been like to be away from home for most of the year, away from my mom. “Are you close to them now?”

He hesitates. “Well, we get on fine, but in my family, even if you hated your cousin, you would smile and offer them the last roll at the family dinner table because that’s just good manners.”

I laugh quietly. “Sorry,” I say. “That’s not funny. It’s sort of sad.”

“It is indeed both, and that’s the way it is. Old British families, you know? Tradition and upholding the family name are paramount.” We cross the bridge into Marin County, lush green hills on both sides, layered with moss and dripping from the mist. I don’t know if I should say something. His whole life feels so foreign to me. “After we lost Robert…” St. Clair pauses. “He was older, the heir apparent. Suddenly, all the family pressure landed on me.”

I don’t know what to say, so I reach over and squeeze his knee. “I bet they’re so proud of you now, with all your international success.”

“I’m not so sure,” St. Clair’s tone is light, but I see the shadow on his face. “They’ve never once said anything about it.”

“It’s just the stiff upper lip of Britain, right?” I say, hoping he doesn’t take that the wrong way. “I mean, isn’t that, like, a thing? You Brits don’t know how to show affection?”

Charles looks at me, his eyes sending little sparks through my blood. “I beg to differ.”

I feel heat spreading low in my belly and I look away before he can see the desire he’s ignited written all over my face. He turns back to the road and I watch his profile, the perfectly shaped features. I remember our kiss, the charge that passed between us, and how badly I want that spark against my skin again.

“So,” I say, hoping my voice doesn’t sound like I’ve just been picturing his lips on mine, his skin on mine…Stop it, Grace! “Where are we heading?”

“The artwork is at an estate in Napa,” he replies. “An original Manet was apparently unearthed in the cellar of this house when its owner died a few weeks ago. The family is looking to sell it.”

“You’re kidding!” I exclaim. “A find like that…”

“I know,” he says, the same awe in his voice. “If it’s real. My associates are here to verify its authenticity, but I never buy anything sight unseen.”

The lazy hills have turned into vineyards, and a few farms with cows and horses roaming in the fields. Huge puffy clouds drift across a bright blue sky, hawks and crows soaring in great looping arcs. He turns off the highway, and the road leads us into a grove of oak trees with an expanse of vineyard beyond, all the green leaves turning gently in the breeze. At the end of the driveway sits a huge stone estate, the size of four normal houses with a stone tower on one side.

St. Clair pulls up beside another car. “Excellent, they’re already here.”

Inside, the house looks like it hasn’t been redecorated since it was built over two hundred years ago. Two older men are waiting in the foyer.

“Gentlemen, thanks for making the trip. Grace, this is Mr. Pemberly, and Mr. Coates. Grace Bennett is a friend of mine,” he explains, and the men shake my hand politely.

Pemberly has an actual monocle tucked into his front pocket instead of a handkerchief. “How nice of you to join us, Miss Bennett.”

“It’s an honor to be here,” I reply, stifling a grin at his old fashioned fanciness.

We walk past a grand staircase as we move into the drawing room. Floor to ceiling bookshelves line the room, and several plush armchairs face a gigantic hearth. A writing desk sits in the corner, with an ink bottle and quill resting next to a piece of paper like someone was writing a letter and never came back.

The broker, a brisk woman who clearly takes a page out of Lydia’s book, shows us to the corner, where the painting is set on an easel by the windows.

“And here we are,” she says grandly. “Sailboats at dusk.”

I stand there, staring in awe. The painting shows a boat bobbing gently on the Venice canals. I did a unit on Manet at college, and I recognize the signature striped poles and blue water in the foreground and the white walls and lighted windows of the city buildings of Venice in the background.

Coates claps his hands together. “Remarkable, just remarkable. I assume the canvas and paint have been age-tested?”

“Of course.” The broker presents a folder filled with authentication paperwork, photos, official looking seals and other documents as Pemberly steps up to the masterpiece, pulling out his monocle.

“It’s breathtaking,” Pemberly says, examining the canvas up close. “Breathtaking.”

Coates examines the paperwork, nodding. “Everything looks in order.” He moves in for his turn at the canvas.

Pemberly beams. “Definitely a Manet. What an exquisite find, Mr. St. Clair.”

Coates looks up from the painting. “Absolutely. A dream find. A dream investment.”

Pemberly says, “We’ll have an unveiling in the city in a few months, build the buzz before then.”

I expect Charles to charge ahead and celebrate, but instead, he’s watching me. “Grace?” he asks. “What do you think?”

I’m not sure what else I can add, but I step forward to take a closer look. The painting really is beautiful, and the rest of the room seems to melt away as I absorb the painting, take in its intricate brushstrokes, Impressionist work at its best.

It looks authentic, and everything about the movement of the paint and the indentations in the canvas says it’s from Manet’s time period, and yet…

I pause.

“What is it, Grace?” Charles says, coming closer. “What do you see?”

“Well…” I look up and find all those expectant eyes on me, the looks of skepticism on the older men’s faces. I step back and shake my head. “It’s probably nothing.”

St. Clair gives me a look. “Tell me.”

I really don’t want to, but when I think of the alternative – him buying this possibly inauthentic painting – I have to speak up.

“Okay.” I sigh. Here goes. Please don’t hate me. “I think…it’s a forgery.”

The broker gasps. “Never!”

Coates laughs out loud. “Who is this girl?” he says. “I assure you, the paperwork is sound.”

“I’m probably wrong,” I say quickly, embarrassed. “Sorry.”

St. Clair takes my arm and draws me aside. “What makes you think it’s not authentic?” “I don’t know, I just feel it in my gut.”

Coates interrupts, “The tests have all been conclusive.”

Pemberly shows St. Clair the file. “The pigments in the paint, the composition of the canvas threads—it’s all from 1850-1890, which fits the timeline for Manet.”

“But those are the best forgeries,” I say, unable to stop myself. “Right? Forgers would paint fakes during the same time period and hand them down through the generations until someone could finally pass it off as the artist’s actual work.”

“But the signature is perfect,” Permeberly says, pointing it out in the bottom left hand corner of the painting. “Flawless.”

“Actually,” I go on, feeling my pulse quicken. Why stop now? It’s all or nothing. “It’s the signature that makes me wonder.”

The fussy men still look skeptical, but I have St. Clair’s attention, and he’s the only one who matters.

“Show me,” he says, leaning in.

I point at the T. “See how the brushstroke that crosses the T goes left to right? Manet’s real signature has the T crossed from right to left.”

The art advisors are unconvinced. “That’s not confirmed on every piece,” Coates says.

“It’s a tiny detail,” I agree, “but this painting doesn’t have the usual provenance. Just being discovered after all this time? It’s a one-in-a-million chance.”

“So either I’m really lucky, or someone wants me to think I am,” St. Clair says slowly.

He leans back and surveys the painting, thoughtful, then finally announces, “I’ll take it.”

The broker lets out a sigh of relief. “Wonderful.”

“Excellent choice,” the others pitch in, but I feel his words like a betrayal.

He doesn’t believe me.

I’m crushed. Tears are forming in my eyes, and I’m too close to embarrassing myself even further, so I say, “Excuse me,” and walk through the old house and out into the sunshine.

It’s okay, I tell myself. So what if he believed those experienced art advisors over me? Wouldn’t any smart person do the same? Especially with a large investment like that?

“Grace?” I jump at the sound of my name, but it’s Charles, looking concerned. “Are you okay?”

“I’m so sorry,” I flush again. “I feel like such an idiot.”

He sits beside me. “Don’t be. I believe you—you were right about the cross on the T.”

I jerk my head up in surprise. “You think it’s a fake, too? Then why did you buy it?”

“Because it’s still a beautiful painting.” He smiles. “Why should one painting be worth more just because it’s by a certain person and not another? Isn’t it still amazing, regardless of who painted it?”