The Game. Vanessa Fewings

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СКАЧАТЬ and creating realism, her appearance accentuated by the remarkable contrast expertly melding her profile. This was the unmistakable technique of “sfumato,” one of the four canonical painting modes often used in Renaissance art. Painting in this mode was a rare skill mastered by Henner and proved his talent at layering colors and tones and shading them into one another to provide boldness and, when needed, a subtlety of form.

      A sigh of respect left my lips.

      What message had Tobias been trying to tell me by inviting me here to see her? Perhaps he’d wanted me to know he truly understood me and that this painting would somehow endear me to him more because of our mutual admiration for art. Perhaps he wanted me to know our connection was as deep as I believed it to be.

      A living, breathing masterpiece.

      Reluctantly, I drew my gaze away and glanced at my watch.

      I was right on time for my appointment with Mr. Wilder. Three days ago I’d reached out to Maria Perez, his senior curator, and informed her I’d be paying their gallery a visit.

      I’d texted Tobias and warned him he better meet me here or there would be consequences. As expected, he’d ghosted me, refusing to reply. Considering this was the phone he’d gifted me and it now served as a tracking device to my whereabouts, I was sure he’d gotten the message.

      He was wise enough to turn up.

      Back in the lobby, I made polite conversation with the receptionist to prove my credentials and confirm my meeting.

      The tall, young steward left her station behind the round desk and guided me briskly along, escorting me back through the foyer and a long hallway to the sprawling office space of the gallery.

      We continued all the way down until we paused before a door with his name and title carved into the opaque glass.

      She gestured for me to go ahead and with a nod of gratitude I turned the handle and stepped inside—

      He wasn’t here yet.

      Shame swept over me that I’d allowed my life to come to this, become so enamored that merely standing here I questioned my moral code. This office, this gallery, represented Tobias, and I hated him because I loved everything about it.

      How elegant and modern with that expensive central desk upon which sat the thin computer screen and a sleek keyboard beside it. The shelving behind was stacked neatly with books on art and others on travel; the one on American history had tipped on its side.

      His presence lingered like a dark dream that had once owned my soul.

      A rush of panic—

      No.

      Please, no.

      There, adorning the far left wall was a familiar painting; a ghost from my past.

      All air was gone from the room until nothing remained as I struggled to draw back on my dread, wrapping my arms around myself to hold off this stark chill soaking into my bones.

      Lips trembling, I neared the portrait of St. Joan of Arc.

      My Joan.

      I reached up, grasping either side of her wooden frame and lifted her off the wire.

      I’d grown up with Walter William Ouless’s St. Joan and couldn’t remember a time when her portrait hadn’t been part of my father’s collection. It broke my heart when I remembered his devastation when he thought she’d been destroyed in that house fire, along with most of the others.

      This very portrait had turned up at Christie’s auction house weeks ago in London, alighting a family scandal because she wasn’t meant to exist anymore.

      More recently, St. Joan’s disappearance from Christie’s had seen her included in the list of art crimes tracked by the police across Europe. And yet here she was placed to taunt me.

      Her message clear—

      My future in the art world was in his hands.

      I hugged St. Joan, clutching her tight to my chest, sucking in deep breaths of despair that she was no longer mine.

      Unless...

      To think of rescuing her and walking right through that foyer and out the front door was ridiculous. I’d never get away with it.

      No.

      Madness.

      My life was carved into two parts, before Wilder and after him, with each careful step leading me toward this complex, enigmatic man with the lines of right and wrong blurring. If I truly wanted to succeed, truly wanted to save him after risking so much, I’d have no choice but to push myself beyond anything I’d done before.

      Ironically, it was Tobias who’d shown me how to challenge myself and learn how to resist fear.

      He’s shown me the way.

       2

      Rising up and dispelling this temporary moment of stupidity, I saw a stocky security guard standing just inside the door and staring me down.

      “Miss,” he said, louder than needed. “Place the painting on the desk, please.”

      My breath stuttered. “I was just taking a closer look.”

      “Desk, please.” His fingers clenched around his handgun.

      With trembling hands I stepped forward and laid St. Joan faceup on the desk. Stepping back, I raised my hands in the air a little. “It’s not what it looks like.”

      Yet it is.

      Had there not been cameras, or guards, or any other state-of-the-art security, I’d have taken her away with me without looking back. From that guard’s expression he knew it too. With a wave of his hand he warned me to move farther away.

      My back met the wall and I froze.

      An ice-cold slither of fear spiraling down my spine.

      The door opened farther and in stepped a delicate-framed Latino woman, forty or so, those laughter lines now taut with worry. “Ms. Leighton?” Her tone was infused with tension. “I’m Maria Perez.”

      “We spoke on the phone?” I said.

      The awkwardness forced a shameful silence.

      She saw the painting and looked horrified.

      “I’m so happy to meet you.” It sounded silly now, my politeness negated by my suspicious behavior.

      “Take a seat,” said the guard. “LAPD are on their way.”

      My feet refused to move. “Who?”

      “We’ve called the police.” Maria’s gaze rose to the small camera set in the upper right-hand corner.

      Its СКАЧАТЬ