Page 46 of Forging Caine

“Meaning… You said when we were visiting Giovanni that he could use his new conservation studio to facilitate his smuggling.”

I stowed the scalpel in its holder and scanned the ultraviolet photos, finding only the expected patterns of retouching. No blood splatters. “I don’t think he is, though.”

“Not my point.” Her speech hit a sharp staccato as her excitement grew. “I mean, what if Fiori is doing exactly that? He tries stealing the fresco from you in Pompeii, and the piece is eventually re-stolen and returned, so he fails in his attempt to hurt Giovanni by stealing from you. What if his new approach to hurting Giovanni is recruiting you? What if this is a simple job, so you work together under completely legal conditions?”

“I don’t think that’s it, bella.” If that were true, he wouldn’t have insisted I do the work myself before we leave. Like Cristian said, Fiori was patient. He could have sent it to the company and still requested I do the work. That would have accomplished the same thing. He wouldn’t have played the secrecy game. “I think this is about everything I said earlier. This is about you.”

Her body deflated, clearly not prepared for this theory yet. Or perhaps disappointed I’d not jumped onto her first idea.

“Think about it.” I returned to the table with the painting and flipped it over to look at the front. “He insistsIwork on it, but not at the studio. Here. Because who will be here with me?”

“Me.” She stood next to me, but didn’t touch me, too busy thinking. “Because what will I do? Ask questions.”

“Ask away.”

She placed her hands flat on the table, on either side of the painting. “If you’re right, my first step would be to assume it’s either stolen or a forgery. That means I need to find out where it was stolen from or what it’s a forgery of.”

“That settles it. I’ll continue my work, in case we’re wrong. You work your magic.”

“Well,shit.”Samanthalaughedto herself, hidden from my view behind one of the giant monitors on the office desk.

“Find something?” I stretched my arms over my head, twisting at the waist. After eight months of working in Pompeii on vertical surfaces, my back was not ready to resume working over horizontal ones for so long. It had been over an hour, and we’d both been so engrossed in our tasks, we’d not spoken.

“This painting is actually calledThe Music Lesson—notThe Music Studylike he said, although I could almost chalk that up to a translation issue. But the interesting part? It’s apparently owned by the Getty in Los Angeles.”

“And missing?”

“Nope.” She beckoned me with a finger, and I obliged. On her screen, she displayed an email message with a photo of the painting hanging on a wall. “I’ve done some work with the Getty—called in by their insurers for consults—and have a few contacts down there. When I tracked down where the painting was supposed to be, I emailed one of them, and she informed me it’s still on the wall.”

“That means Fiori’s painting is either a copy or a forgery?”

She cupped her chin in one hand and chuckled at her screen. “Or the one in the museum is.”

“Can your friend send us any documentation? Provenance? Imaging?”

She nudged me with her shoulder, not even looking up. “I love it when you talk conservation to me.”

We were discussing potential crimes, but I couldn’t help the flood of joy rushing through me. Every ounce of my body wanted to pick her up and swing her around to celebrate working on something like this together.

“And, yes, I already asked her.”

As though called simply by our desire to access the information, Samantha’s email inbox updated with another message from the Getty.

“How many galleries and museums do you have contacts at like this?”

“Dunno.” She opened the first attachment, a close-up of the tutor’s face. “If we kept it to major museums, over a dozen, but when you throw in smaller ones and galleries, I’d have to spend some time figuring that out.”

“It matches. I’d like to say perfectly, but that would require comparing them side by side.” I stepped closer to the monitor, examining the area where Fiori’s version of the painting had been cut. “Do they have…” I took control of the mouse and switched between attachments. Stretcher. Stains on the back of the canvas. Provenance.

She eased out of my way, first with her shoulders, then her entire chair. “Feels like déjà vu.”

The last time we’d done this, she was wearing a tank top and her motorcycle pants, which hugged her luscious ass in a way that made my heart cry for joy. “Can you imagine if I’d done this that day?” I kissed the side of her head. In fact, that day, I’d tried to kiss her, but she rejected me yet again.

“Probably not this.” She snaked her arm between me and her chair to pinch my ass.

I tsked, which elicited a laugh from her, and I resumed inspecting the documentation. Once I found a black-and-white infrared image of the original, I nodded. “I think I’ll start with this. It’s simple. I can compare any underdrawings, and I have a camera specially fitted for that here.”

“Geez, you barely ever need to leave this place. All the equipment to do your job, an awesome gym downstairs, people who deliver your groceries—”

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