Page 21 of Vienna Bargain

“Why?”

“Why what?” Alexander crossed his arms, looking a little uncomfortable.

“Why did you buy it?”

“Because I liked it.”

She glanced back at the painting, which showed three figures—two men and a woman, walking alongside a wagon being pulled not by horses but by cows. It wasn’t any kind of realism, but it was compelling.

What about this had called to Alexander Wagner, billionaire?

“And you decided to display it here in your gallery?”

“Gallery? No. This place is just a…” He glanced around, then frowned.

“It walks like a gallery and talks like a gallery…”

“What?”

“The framing and displays are all gallery or museum quality.”

“Absolon insisted.”

“I’m sorry?” She cocked her head in faux puzzlement even as her heartbeat sped up.

“Dr. Absolon Blanchar. The art historian who manages my family’s collection.”

“You have enough art that you need your own PhD art historian?”

Could he hear that her questions were based on a lie? The lie was that she didn’t already know the answer.

“Most of it is on loan to museums, and keeping track of requests and exhibits is a full-time job.”

“But you had him frame this as if it were going into a museum.”

She walked to the next piece. A carved wooden panel, but unlike the double doors this one was painted and gilded.

Panel from Vardo living wagon. Anonymous. Great Britain.

One by one she went to each piece of art. All but two were credited to anonymous, and most were small pieces, not the larger canvases that the space could have handled. More pastorals, several depicting a religious festival, and even a set of three pencil sketches of Alexander himself.

Alena looked at the three drawings which had been mounted beside each other. The first was a rough and loose sketch of a man in a suit with his face partially visible. The perspective was low looking up, and from the back, as if the artist had been sitting on the ground behind Alexander.

In the second, Alexander had turned around, and his features were clear and recognizable, despite the hasty lines.

“Who is Marcela Miklovan?” Alena asked, pointing to the tag under the center painting.

“The daughter of one of the contractors. The one who built this wing.” Alexander frowned. “She would tuck herself into the corner and sketch while her father worked. I asked to see her sketch.” He pointed at the middle one.

“And you agreed to sit for, pose for, this last one?”

“Yes.”

The third painting was a much more detailed sketch of his face. His eyes were serious, gazing out at the viewer, but there was the hint of a smile around his mouth.

Alena wanted to reach out and grab the piece off the wall. She wanted to take it, to have it for herself, because the Alexander in that sketch wasn’t “Alexander the Dom,” or the current version—“Alexander the Betrayed and Terrifying.” That sketch was of the man she’d enjoyed talking to. The man who’d invited her to dinner in his home, and washed his own dishes—the black knight in his battle-scarred armor, serious but satisfied at the end of a successful quest.

“I bought the paintings from her. Her father told her to give them to me, but she didn’t want to.”

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