Page 9 of The Chase
Clara sounded distant. “Really, Nigel? This is Zara’s evening to celebrate her dad’s legacy.”
“What’s left of it,” he muttered.
I reached out to the marble pillar to steady my legs.
“Any plans to visit the painting?” he added. “If that piece is real—”
“Of course it’s not,” I said.
“It’s coming to London for final authentication apparently,” he said.
My legs wobbled with the unsteadiness of my feet.
“Are you sure?” asked Clara.
“That’s the rumor.” Nigel frowned his disapproval.
Dread shot up my spine. “Who is this mystery dealer?”
Who was the outrageous person willing to put his or her reputation on the line?
“Have no idea,” said Nigel. “I’m sure you’ll want more answers?”
“Yes.”No.
I want to forget.
The resurfacing of that old lie proved jealousy for my father’s collection still went deep. I wasn’t ready to give up the others, not yet.
Black spots flashed across my vision—
Tobias Wilder strolled out of the crowd toward us carrying two glasses of champagne, and I sucked in a sharp breath of surprise. He offered one of them to me; bubbles rising to the surface, the chilled glass making my fingers tingle as I accepted it from him.
Soothed by his beautiful striking face and that rugged stubble clashing with his styled locks he’d since run a comb through.
“Thank you,” I said, amazed my underwear fiasco hadn’t scared him off.
“My pleasure.” Tobias gave a self-possessed nod and then gestured to the waiter beside him. The young man handed out more champagne flutes to the others in our group. Two more waiters hurried forward and held out their trays laden with china plates full of hors d’oeuvres.
Nigel, Liza and Clara all helped themselves to the assorted small bites of food with obvious glee, seemingly recognizing him too. With a wave of my hand and a kind smile, I declined an appetizer.
“That’s awfully nice of you,” Nigel said.
“Mind if I join you?” Tobias showed off that dazzling smile. “What a fantastic venue. Love this place.”
The staff hurried away.
Dragging my teeth over my bottom lip, I tried to think of something to say, perhaps draw his attention to the Raphael directly behind him. In that painting the Italian artist had captured the beguiling image of a young lady with a unicorn on her lap.
“You like that one?” Tobias asked me with his back still to the painting.
“Yes.” I loved it and adored the crisp gold and burgundy of the subject’s dress, her delicate beauty, her eyes exuding innocence and the way she held that small animal on her lap so very carefully.
“Is that a unicorn?” asked Clara.
“A conventional symbol of chastity,” I told her.
“The allure of High Renaissance.” Tobias turned to take in the portrait and then spun round and fixed his gaze on mine—
