Page 28 of Don't Look Back

So, the other man was her lover, which meant she’d turned elsewhere for patronage. Smart woman.

Kulik offered his hand, and when Kira took it, he brought her fingers to his lips. “Dr. Kira Hanson, it is my pleasure to meet my dear friend’s daughter.” He held her hand in front of his mouth a beat too long.

She extracted her fingers and studied him. He was handsome, with tanned white skin, fine lines around his eyes, and a slight smattering of gray. Like most of the men here, he was dressed in a bespoke suit, but it was his wristwatch that marked him among the super-rich. She had worked in the world of wealthy art collectors long enough to spot the signs of the merely rich to the stratospherically wealthy, and this guy could launch a rocket.

She considered his words, which matched the mysterious letters to her father, but surely he was too young for thirty years of correspondence? Plus, his accent was neither Russian nor German—though his name could be either—but that of a native Maltin. Of course, he could speak Russian and English with a local’s accent if he’d grown up in both places.

“Mr. Kulik, I’m afraid you have me at a loss, as my father didn’t tell me much about his visits to Malta.”

“Now that I’ve introduced you, I must circulate.” Again, the artist left her alone to work the room in which she had several pieces on display with price tags that ranged from twenty thousand to two hundred and fifty thousand euros.

It was kind of her to spare any time for Kira, who couldn’t afford even the cheapest knickknacks in the display case by the register, but from the look on Kulik’s face, he’d requested this introduction, so the artist hadn’t done it for budget-limited Kira, but for the gallery owner sponsoring her show.

“Call me Reuben, please,” he said once they were alone. “And while I don’t imagine he would wish to speak of his work in Malta, I’m crushed he didn’t tell you of our friendship.”

“I’m sure our hurt goes both ways. Please share how much he told you about me.”

His dark head dipped down. “Fair point. I did not know he had a daughter, let alone one so beautiful.”

She would have rolled her eyes if she thought it would go unnoticed. Flattery without feeling was unconvincing at best. Creepy at worst.

“How long did you know my father?” Given the letters and his apparent age, this was a key question.

“I was a student of his, but we first met over thirty years ago.”

That surprised her. “You were a student at the college in Pennsylvania?”

“No. Here. In Malta.”

Her father had taught classes in Malta? How was that possible? Had he ever been gone long enough to teach a summer term? He’d never taken a yearlong sabbatical—she’d remember an absence that long. But maybe he’d been gone for a quarter term when she was still being homeschooled?

Kulik leaned forward and whispered in her ear. “I know what you’re thinking, and the answer is no. He wasn’t my professor. I was his apprentice. I learned everything I know about stealing from the master.”

ChapterFourteen

Rand spotted Kira the moment he stepped into the gallery. She was talking to a man on the far side of the room, and she sparkled like a diamond.

Her dark hair was worn up in some sort of twist. Elegant. Beautiful. She wore a tight blue cocktail dress that hugged her curves—and showed she had more than he’d imagined. The pencil skirt she’d worn at their first meeting had been covered to mid-hip by a long, loose top. He’d only gotten glimpses of her spectacular ass and hadn’t realized the blouse hid a perfect hourglass shape.

Tonight, Kira looked like a Valkyrie—a sexy, brilliant, mythical being.

She laughed, and his heart squeezed. He wanted to be the one to make her laugh like that.

But then, he just wanted her, period.

He stepped deeper into the room and took a drink from a passing tray. An older man approached and introduced himself. Philippe DeAngelo, the gallery manager.

“Thank you for the invitation,” Rand said.

“It’s my pleasure. A friend of Gillibrand is always a friend of mine. He mentioned you’re interested in acquiring the work of one of our local artists.”

Rand nodded. He’d spent his flight memorizing names and dates, but his cover allowed for some ignorance. “I’m new to collecting. My interest first sparked when I was researching a book last year.”

“Ah yes. Gillibrand mentioned you’re an author. What do you write?”

“Thrillers. I’m afraid I can’t reveal my pseudonym for legal reasons.” He considered claiming to be a ghost writer, but could offer that excuse later if needed. He had to possess a certain level of wealth and success for this role—which some ghost writers could claim—but he didn’t need to be Stephen King.

“Now, of course, I’m eager to know.”

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