Page 14 of The Chase
“Of course,” I said, “Whatever you think is best.” Adley went on ahead into the conference room.
I glanced behind to take in one of my favorite paintings by John Singer Sergeant, affectionately known asPortrait of Madame X. A lifelike image of an elegant young woman wearing a long black evening dress, her hand casually resting on a small table as she stared off wistfully.
Virginie Gautreau had been an American beauty who’d garnered a notorious reputation for her rumored infidelities. The painting had caused a scandal during its 1884 debut in Paris.
My focus was captured by its guilty secret. This portrait was a brilliant forgery that could have slipped past the experts. It was that good.
“Ms. Leighton?” Adley called out.
Virginie Gautreau masked her true feelings so well. Like I was doing now.
My feet melting into the floor as my breath caught.
Adley had taken his place at the head of the table and beside him sat a stunning thirtysomething, her hair a striking platinum blond up in a neat chignon.
And sitting beside her—Tobias Wilder.
Now cleanly shaven, he’d outdone his last suit with this three-piece pinstripe number that highlighted his finely formed physique, his short dark blond hair perfectly combed and those striking eyes...were locked on mine.
What was he doing here?
There was no sign of that dashing warm smile. His mouth was fixed in a tense hard line of scrutiny and those irises were now a startling jade.
I dragged my gaze away from his and looked over at Adley.
He was studying my reaction. “Those forgeries have a knack of getting to you, don’t they?”
Catching my breath, I gestured to the paintings. “How do you ever get any work done?”
Tobias pushed himself to his feet and came over. “Miss Leighton.”
“You know each other?” asked Adley.
Tobias reached out to shake my hand. “Had the pleasure of meeting last night at The Otillie.”
Right after I’d caught him half-naked,I secretly mused, holding on to his hand for a second too long, the sensation of his touch temptingly addictive.
Cringing inwardly, I tried not to think about me unwittingly flashing him yesterday.
Casually, he tucked his hands into his pockets. “The gallery’s a favorite to visit when I’m this side of the pond. I’m good friends with Miles Tenant—”
“The Otillie’s curator,” said Adley. “Great chap. Knows his art.”
I went to ask him if it had been Miles who’d invited him to the party but thought better of it. Maybe later, when the formality of the meeting was over.
“Already broken the ice, then?” Alder’s gaze fell on me. “Good to hear.”
“One of my dad’s paintings,” I told him. “I’ve donated it to the gallery. They were kind enough to hold a reception in his name.”
“Of course,Madame Rose Récamier?” he said. “How was the reception?”
“Great,” said Tobias. “The usual crowd.”
“Got anything else hidden away?” said Adley cheekily.
I wore my best vague expression.
They didn’t need to know about my little secret stash of art gems. Amongst the collection was a tour de force from a painter who’d influenced the landscape of Western art. I’d already drawn too much attention, and what was left of our paintings threatened to disrupt the kind of peace I’d come to crave.
