Beauty & Her Billionaire Boss. Barbara Wallace

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      She paused while the waitress brought his espresso and she placed her order.

      “Complicated how?”

      “The artist died in an accident a long time ago. According to Ana, he would have been huge—like Picasso huge—but then Theodore Duchenko went and bought up...”

      “Wait...” Frederic needed to go back a step. “Did you say Theodore Duchenko?”

      Piper nodded. “That’s right. Patience works for his sister, Ana Duchenko.”

      Unbelievable. Duchenko Silver was world renowned. Frederic knew curators who gushed over adding a piece of the famed Russian silver to their collections. As for the late Theodore Duchenko, the man had been considered one of the most ruthless tycoons of the twentieth century. “You’re saying that you’re trying to track down a portrait of Ana Duchenko.”

      “Not just a portrait. A nude,” Piper replied. “Nigel painted a bunch, and they were supposedly pretty racy, which is why...”

      “Duchenko wanted them destroyed,” he finished for her. “This is astounding. The Duchenko name, it is...well, let us say that if a portrait still exists, the significance in terms of pop culture alone would be immeasurable.”

      “I don’t think Stuart cares if the painting has any kind of value—he just wants to give his aunt back a piece of her history. The way my sister tells it, Ana truly loved the man.”

      The waitress returned with her café au lait. “It’s all very tragic, really,” Piper said, taking a sip.

      Tragic but exciting. Frederic found his curiosity piqued in a way he hadn’t felt in years. Not since his university days. “There is nothing like the thrill of discovering a new artist,” he told her. “The euphoria, it hits you like a...” The sexual metaphor was too crude to share with a woman. He settled for saying “There are few pleasures like it. I envy you.”

      “The whole thing is probably a long shot.”

      “Perhaps,” he said, reaching for his drink. It quite probably was, in fact. “But long shot or not, the chase is always exciting.”

      “Want to come with me?”

      Frederic set his cup down with a clink so he could focus his gaze on her. “Pardon?”

      “You just said you envied my going on the hunt. Besides, I don’t know anything about art. What if there’s a giant painting of Ana hanging on this woman’s wall? How will I know if it’s worth Stuart’s money?”

      And she thought he was the best person to evaluate? “You just said the painting wasn’t about value.”

      “It isn’t.” There was silence as she shifted in her chair. When she spoke again, Frederic heard a change in her voice. It became lower, with less spark. “Never mind. It was only a suggestion.”

      “No, I’d love to join you.” Unsettled by the sadness he thought he heard in her voice, he spoke without thinking.

      The smile worked its way back into her voice. “Awesome! I’ll finish my coffee and we’ll go.”

      A visit to a retirement home, Frederic said to himself as he sipped his espresso. To meet with an old woman. No harm in that.

      Why, then, did he feel as if he was getting involved in something more?

      * * *

      There wasn’t, of course, an undiscovered painting hanging in Marie’s apartment. Only a very tall, pinched-looking woman wearing a velvet tracksuit. She greeted the two of them with a wide smile. “A professor. How exciting,” she gushed, squeezing his hand. “Please come in.”

      “I knew you’d be a hit,” Piper murmured as she stepped inside.

      Frederic grinned in response. His insides were feeling the thrill of the hunt.

      While he still wasn’t entirely sure why Piper had asked him to come along, he’d decided to embrace the opportunity. Who knew when another chance would cross his path? Or, for that matter, come with such an attractive package. Piper was far enough into the room that he could finally see her figure. She had curves a sculpture would love. Soft and supple. The kind meant to be traced by a person’s hands.

      That’s it. He was getting rid of the maid’s uniform.

      “What period do you study, Professor?” Marie was asking. The older woman was already limping across the sitting room en route to the bookcase.

      “Medieval. Pre-Romanesque mostly.”

      “Nigel would have called you stuck in the past, but then he prided himself on being antiestablishment. We all did back then. Please, have a seat.”

      She gestured to a sofa barely large enough to deserve the label. Feeling overly large, he perched on the edge of the seat and wondered how a woman Marie’s height could ever sit comfortably. The cushion dipped and Piper sat beside him. Vanilla and spice teased his nostrils again. It was like walking into the most pleasant bakery on earth every time the woman sat down.

      “He had such promise, my brother. My mother used to brag he knew how to paint before he could walk. An exaggeration, I’m sure. Come to think of it, though, I can’t remember a time when he wasn’t drawing or painting or something.”

      Reaching up, she pulled out what looked like a large plastic binder and opened it up. “This is him here,” she said. “Five years old and he’d already won his first competition.”

      She set the album on Frederic’s lap. The old photo was too small and blurry for him to focus much on, but he leaned forward and pretended all the same. Piper leaned in as well, her left knee knocking against his as she shifted angles. Frederic sucked in his breath at the awareness shooting up his thigh. Even with two layers of material, he felt every bump and bone pressed against him.

      “Impressive,” he murmured. Although he wasn’t sure if he meant Nigel’s childhood art or Piper’s knee.

      “He could have done so much,” Marie said. “We all told him to stop riding that motorbike, but he was stubborn.” A crack worked its way into the end of her voice. “I’m sorry,” she said, pressing a fist to her lips. “It’s been a long time since I’ve talked about Nigel at all.”

      “We’re sorry if we’re bringing up bad memories,” Piper remarked.

      “That’s all right. They aren’t all bad. In some ways, I think Nigel wanted to die young. He once told me that art only reached the masses once you were gone.”

      “I could name a few living painters who might disagree,” Frederic replied.

      Her resulting smile was watery, but strong. “I never said his theory made sense. In the end, it didn’t matter anyway, because his work never reached anyone.”

      Because Theodore Duchenko ordered it destroyed.

      “That is why we’re here,” Piper said. “My sister works for Ana Duchenko.”

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