Page 26 of Canvas of Lies (Spruce Hill #3)

Chapter Nineteen

Nico

T hings moved quickly after that. At Kat’s request, I sent an anonymous email with a link to the interview, along with a few pertinent details, to both her mother and the lawyer she’d run away with following the divorce.

After the way the former Mrs. Willoughby’s lawyer had raked her former husband over the coals during that process, there was no doubt the two of them would know exactly what to do with this new information.

If our only choice was to make Willoughby’s life miserable, the man’s ex-wife would serve as the perfect proxy.

Kat arranged for Erin to handle things at Kat’s Keepers while she was away and booked our flight to Avignon for that weekend. I was stupidly proud of her for being willing to take that time off, even if I felt guilty for pulling her away from her livelihood.

Though I would rather have stayed in a hotel, I contacted one of my cousins about the trip and we were offered a guest room with the family.

Jér?me was the cousin closest in age to me and we’d kept in touch over the years, especially after we met up on my sixteenth birthday trip, but I couldn’t for the life of me remember our exact relation. Second cousins? Third? Twice removed?

It didn’t matter. I only knew that our fathers had been some degree of cousins but had grown up as close as brothers. The last time I saw Jér?me and his father, affectionately called Uncle Philippe despite the confusion over how we were actually related, had been at my father’s funeral.

Finishing out the week and getting things ready for her absence barely made a dent in Kat’s excitement.

It radiated from her like a palpable aura, shimmering around her in a halo of joy.

Despite his riches—and his recently purported love of art—Aidan Willoughby had never been the type of man who wanted to spend his vacations exploring museums instead of schmoozing on a golf course, so this would be Kat’s first trip to Europe.

She’d never met any of my extended family, either, and I was looking forward to seeing things through her eyes.

There was nothing like Kat Willoughby’s sense of wonder to make everything more enjoyable.

Of course, I was also nervous. Part of me felt like I was going home to announce my own failure. I’d hoped our next conversation about the painting would be to inform them it was safely back with the family, not to confess it might be lost to us for good.

Even though I’d always considered myself an American, at least since I started kindergarten here in Spruce Hill, France was my father’s homeland, spoken of with such affection that it developed into a magical place in my mind, a haven of love and laughter and the kind of family ties that didn’t exist for me in the States.

The prospect of admitting defeat hung over my head, threatening to drown me in shame.

Having Kat at my side was the one thing that held me together. She shone like a beacon in the darkness, sparkling in her usual way and keeping me sane through it all.

On Friday night, I picked her up after work, stopped by her place to get her luggage—all of which she’d decorated with glittery rainbow kitten stickers that made me guffaw when I saw them—and brought her back to my apartment for the first time.

It was located in a slightly more modern section of town than hers, one of a dozen apartments in a nondescript brick building.

When I opened the door to let her in, she took two steps inside and halted so quickly that I bumped into her.

“This is where you live,” she stated, looking around.

The place was spacious enough, but I knew it was bland, devoid of color and lacking, as far as one could tell from where we stood, a single personal touch. Sad beige furniture, blank white walls, shining but bare wood floors .

“Yes. Home sweet home.” I skirted around her to set the suitcase off to one side, then studied her critical expression. “What’s wrong with it?”

“Nothing, I guess, if you like generic and cold.”

I laughed and wrapped my arms around her middle, drawing her against me so I could bury my face against her neck.

“Does this feel cold to you?” I asked softly.

Though she gave a soft hum of pleasure, she refused to be distracted. “I want a tour. Let’s see the rest of this pitiful bachelor pad, hmm?”

I acquiesced only after twirling her around and kissing her soundly. For the most part, the remaining rooms were more of the same, though the master bedroom showed evidence of at least a few strokes of color, thanks to the plaid comforter I kept on the bed.

The second, smaller bedroom had been turned into an office where I spent the most time, and as such, it was the only room in the entire apartment that looked remotely lived in.

“This is rough, Nico,” she said, shaking her head. “When’s the last time you brought a woman back here?”

I considered it, then shrugged. “Four years, maybe.”

Kat’s jaw dropped and she said, “You cannot be serious. When did you become a monk?”

The smirk on my face had color rising in her cheeks before I even spoke. “I didn’t say I haven’t gotten laid in four years, just that I don’t bring women here. And before you ask, it’s been almost a year since I did even that much, okay? ”

“No wonder you’re such an enthusiastic lover,” she quipped, smiling brightly at me.

My smirk widened into a teasing grin just before I picked her up and tossed her over my shoulder, letting her helpless laughter wash over me like a balm.

“No wonder,” I drawled. “Now let’s go add a personal, enthusiastic touch to my nice big bed.”

B eneath the bright veneer of Kat’s excitement, the fact that she was nervous about the flight flared into evidence several times before we finally settled into our seats on the plane.

I laced my fingers through hers and leaned over to peer out the window beside her.

When I drew back, I frowned at her tense posture.

“Kitten,” I said gently, “are you afraid of flying?”

Her forehead wrinkled in an expression that looked more troubled than thunderous. “No, I’m not afraid. I just don’t like it.”

“I could distract you,” I offered, angling myself toward her to block the view from the aisle.

Now her expression darkened enough for her eyes to shoot daggers at me. “Or I could disembowel you. That would make a good distraction. You just keep your filthy hands to yourself. ”

When I feigned offense and tried to withdraw my hand from hers, she tightened her grip and laid her head against my shoulder.

“Except this one. I’m keeping this one.”

I laughed and kissed her temple. Though her fingers squeezed mine painfully tight as the plane took off, she relaxed enough to enjoy the view once we rose above the scattered clouds and into a brilliant blue sky.

For the first part of the flight, we chatted in low tones about random topics—nothing pertaining to the painting or Kat’s father, nothing that might bring back her tension—and then dozed for a few hours with our arms linked and heads tilted together.

By the time we landed, I was fairly sure her nerves had faded into the background, leaving that starry-eyed excitement front and center. Christ, I was ready to offer her the world just to keep it there.

It wasn’t until we found Jér?me outside the airport that I suddenly realized Kat had greeted my cousin in beautifully spoken French.

I cocked a brow when I caught her eye, but she only grinned at me.

Since she insisted I sit up front with Jér?me during the drive out to the house, I didn’t have a chance to question her until we were unloading our suitcases from the trunk.

“When did you go and learn French?” I murmured against her ear.

Mischief sparkled in her eyes. “I actually minored in French in college, thank you very much. Seriously, your stalking skills are crap. Besides, my father might not have cared to communicate with your dad in anything other than English, but I’d learned enough to stumble through conversations with him by the time you left for college. I’m just a little rusty.”

“You don’t sound rusty. I’ve barely spoken any French since I was in high school, so I’m sure I’m even rustier. You, however, sound hot as hell.” I chucked her under the chin, then the introductions began.

While Kat was swept off by Philippe’s wife, Camille, to get settled in, I sat down in the kitchen with Jér?me and Uncle Philippe.

The older man, more gray than blond at this point, didn’t look much like my dad, but he had that same knowing expression in his dark eyes.

It even inspired the same response in me as it had from my father, so I straightened my shoulders to steel myself for the third degree.

“Tell me why you’re really here, Nicolas. You were vague enough on the phone, but we all know this isn’t a social call.”

I rubbed my hands over my face. Though Kat spoke fairly fluent French, she always pronounced my full name the American way.

Now, though the conversation was in English out of deference for their poor American relation, hearing my name as my father always said it filled me with a wave of grief so overwhelming, I needed a minute to gather myself before I replied.

As succinctly as possible, I relayed the story of how Aidan Willoughby had gotten the painting before my father’s funeral, our suspicions that my father might have revealed the truth about its origins, my long quest to get it back, and the hurdles still before us.

Then I described the night my father hid his “leverage” in the back of the frame.

Philippe and Jér?me listened without a word, nodding here and there. When the tale was over, my uncle regarded me steadily for a long, quiet moment.