Flirting With Forever (40 page)

“But how … ?”

“Have faith.”

“Faith, huh?”

“And self-confidence, aye?”

She nodded uncertainly, and he kissed her again, pushing her gently on her way. As he watched her climb the long staircase, he thought that though he’d seen more than one queen crowned in glory at the head of a court, he’d never seen anything to match this Cenerentola with her breathtaking fal of flame-kissed curls, soft olive bodice and skirts trailing behind. If she lost a slipper as she rose higher and higher, he would not have batted an eye.

When she disappeared, he turned to the guard. “Where might I find a woman named Anastasia? I need to speak to her. ’Tis a matter of great import.”

“This is a disaster, Cam.” Lamont Packard stood at the window, gazing out at the rol ing hil s of Schenley Park, fists stuffed deep in the pockets of his tuxedo.

“But it doesn’t make sense. The painting passed every review, including mine.”

He turned, sighed and lowered himself onto the edge of his desk. “Experts make mistakes al the time. You know what happened to
Andromeda Chained to a Rock.
”

She did. The painting owned by the Los Angeles County Museum of Art, supposedly by Van Dyck, had been attributed to him and then de-attributed so many times she didn’t think anyone believed what the title card read anymore, including the staff.

“But that was different,” she said. “That painting had a very sketchy provenance. Bal bought this one from an earl whose family had forgotten it had been stowed in their cel ar for the last two hundred years. For God’s sake, they stil have the bil of sale for eighteen guineas, eight shil ings from when the first earl bought it from Van Dyck’s agent right after Van Dyck’s death. Can you let me see the letter?”

Bal shrugged, reached across his desk and handed her a fragile sheath of vel um.

Her heart sunk. The writing was in Van Dyck’s hand.

She’d seen it enough times on paintings and letters to recognize his distinctive script anywhere.

“It’s Van Dyck’s.”

Packard nodded. “The paper fits the period as wel .”

She unfolded the note careful y. It appeared to be a page torn out of a diary.

I have made the Decision to close my
Studio for a fortnight. Until the Fevre which
rages in the city passes, I will take no more
commissions. ’Tis a bitter potion, to be Sure,
but my Luck this year has been Strong and,
with the recent Commissions from His
Majesty, I can easilee bere the pause in
Income. To pass the Tyme, I have given my
Apprentices leave to practice under my
Watchful Eye. One, Albertus, a most skylled
man of Mantua, has taken the opportunity to
attempt a Portrait of his dear wyfe, Sarah.

Albertus’s lady will be pleased. Albertus’s
ability to compose a Van Dyck countenance
is most pronounced, and the ladye is more
comely than even I could render, tho
Albertus adds a Lamb and shepherd’s hook
in a fit of Metaphore that is a distraction to
my eye. The ladye beres a Strong
resemblance to the new bride of Baron
Milton, which pleased Albertus when I tolde
him, tho why I could not say. Albertus shall
have the painting when—

The entry ended. Cam flipped the page over, but the other side was blank.

Bal tapped his finger. “‘Albertus shal have the painting when …’”

“‘I die’?” Cam said, seeing exactly where goddamn Van Dyck was heading.

“‘… he finishes’?” Bal suggested. “It almost doesn’t matter, because instead of Albertus giving it to his lady—”

“He keeps it until Van Dyck can no longer disclaim it and then sel s it to Van Dyck’s agent as a real Van Dyck.”

“Who then turns around and sel s it to Baron Milton.”

“Crap.” Cam felt an iron weight drop in her gut and sunk into a chair. “I guess Albertus wasn’t quite the romantic Van Dyck would have liked us to think.”

Packard gave her a weak smile. “Perhaps he used the money for a pair of diamond bobs.”

Cam tried to summon the painting in her head. Much of her examination technique relied on intuition, intuition based on years of study and admiration. She thought of the ringlets framing the woman’s forehead, the sharp, clear expression in her chestnut eyes and the stippled fur tippet that hung over her shoulder. It was a Van Dyck. She had absolutely no doubt—not then, not now. Not that her certainty would carry much weight here, not when her career was the one that would benefit from the decision, which is why she’d taken such care to have others establish its authenticity.

Packard took off his glasses and massaged his temple.

“We’re in trouble, Cam. Bal ’s down there waiting to be honored for his generous gift. The museum’s already issued the press release. Hel , the gift’s going to be the cover story in the paper tomorrow. No matter what we do at this point, it’s going to be a huge embarrassment to everyone involved.”

Ever the gentleman, Packard made a point not to bring his eyes to rest on her, but Cam realized she was going to be sucked into the quicksand of this debacle as wel . In fact, her shoulders were going to be where everyone else would try to find a toehold. She knew what she owed Packard. She knew what she owed the museum.

“I’l tel Bal .” She held up a hand to stop Packard’s protest. “He’s a good guy. He’l be disappointed, but he’l understand. And,” she said sadly, “I’l resign.”

Packard sighed, and she knew it was over.

“Hate to see it, Cam.”

You and me, both, pal.
“Best thing, I think.” She fought back the wave of disappointment that seemed intent on drowning her tonight. “I’l work the gala—er, unless you’d prefer I didn’t.”

He clapped her on the shoulder. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.” He stood to rebutton his jacket and gave her a sly grin. “Too bad, real y. I was sort of looking forward to seating an executive director most of the world would have seen nude. Would have knocked the board biddies on their asses.”

“
Ack!
You saw the paintings?” She felt her face turn six shades of crimson.

“Of course. Bal cal ed me for advice. Who do you think helped quash the story til Monday?”

“Gosh, thanks.” Not that the delay made much difference now.

“Of course, the price was an exclusive. Sam Arnofsky from
Pop City
wil be here Monday at nine for an in-depth interview. I left the contact info and a sheaf of photos he dropped off on your desk—Oh, and I also left a note Bal wrote on how he thinks they’re going to frame the story. He thought it might help.”

“Super. Appreciate it, boss.”

“Boss no more. Just an admirer. Tel you what, though.

This Peter guy’s a hel of a painter. Starkly postmodern, yet this undeniable reference to classical proportion and light.

And the scale … Jesus, it’s like walking into a room and finding yourself face-to-face with the Taj Mahal or the top of the Chrysler Building.”

“Or the Jumbotron from Madonna’s Truth or Dare Tour.”

“Cam, it’s a hel uva tribute. I don’t think the Taj Mahal is too far from the mark. Wil I get to meet him?”

“Ah, yes, actual y,” she said, feeling her heart skip. “He’s

“Ah, yes, actual y,” she said, feeling her heart skip. “He’s here tonight.”

“Interesting.” Packard nodded. “Then you’l be … al right?” His country club green eyes had softened to a grassy gray. He meant without her job.

“Yeah,” she said quickly. “You know me. Sure.

Absolutely.”

“That’s good. And you’ve got the book to work on, right?”

“Uh, no, actual y.”

“What? You’ve canceled another one?”

“Yeah, um, the Lely thing didn’t pan out.”

“Are you kidding? What about the muse? The woman he raised from the streets? C’mon, Cam. Sex, drugs and the King of England?”

“Um, you know me. I like to work with as clean a slate as possible. Turns out there’s more known about the woman than I realized. Facts, it seems, only complicate my stories.”

“Wel , the next one, then?” He gave her an encouraging look.

“You bet.”

Cam stood, too, dreading the thought of Bal ’s face when she told him the news, and handed the page back to Packard. Then it struck her.

“Wait a second. I total y forgot to ask. Where did you get this?”

“It arrived this morning in the mail.” Packard pointed to an opened envelope on his desk. “No attached note. No return address. Strangest thing. It was almost as if Van Dyck mailed it in himself.”

Mailed it himself?
Only one person could make it look like that.

“Cam? What is it?”

She ran for the door. “I need air.”

With the gala’s string quartet warming up as background music, Anastasia found herself nearly skipping down the administrative office hal way, though four-inch heels and her chain-mail tunic made the going a little tricky, even by her standards. By Monday she’d be director and Cam could go to London or not, it real y didn’t matter anymore. She checked her cel . Fifteen minutes before the first guests arrived. She’d just duck into her office to snag her mink poncho and then—

“Wel , howdy, stranger,” she said, covering her surprise in the most high-voltage smile she possessed.

Peter Lely sat at her desk, looking straight at her. He wore a charcoal suit in a subtle pattern that spoke of old money and swirled a generous Scotch, which meant he’d helped himself to the bare-bones bar on her coffee table.

That was okay. She liked men who helped themselves. In fact, she wondered if this unexpected visit meant he intended to avail himself of some of the office’s other charms, like a couch and locking door. She assessed the couch with a quick sideways glance and saw the poncho, which in itself offered some interesting possibilities. She let the door glide close with a quiet
click,
and he stood, though his movement felt more like a first move than a courtesy.

“Mind if I join you?” She tilted her head toward the decanter on the table.

“Suit yourself.”

His eyes were so smoky she wondered if they might actual y ignite. She made her way to the table and angled herself toward him over the bottle, offering the inquiring eye, should he possess one, a fine view of everything from her neck to her navel. Even with her eyes downcast, she could feel the presence with which he fil ed the room.

A notebook dropped into view.

She froze. It was his sketchbook, the one he’d had at Aldo’s that day. She picked up her glass, settled onto the couch and met his gaze.

“I guess you’re wondering about the letter.”

He didn’t reply, just stared.

She recognized the look in his eye now. It was a look she’d gotten a number of times over the years, mostly from women, rarely from men, and it left her feeling dirty and calculating.

“It’s too late,” she said. “Packard’s read it.”

“It’s a lie.”

“It hardly matters now.”

“Why would you do it?”

“Isn’t the more important question—and the one Cam wil eventual y ask: What were you doing with the letter?”

He slammed the glass into her wire wastebasket, where it exploded into a hundred glittering shards. “I expect your position is just as dependent as Cam’s on the ability to distinguish the authentic from the false. Know this: there wil never be a major acquisition in your tenure that wil escape doubt. Your word wil be poison—if it isn’t already.”

Though she had anticipated the brutality of the sentiment, she was surprised to find her eyes wel ing with wetness. “Who are you?” she demanded.