Page 54 of Married in Michigan

He nods. “Absolutely.” He laughs, but it’s tinged with bitterness. “Which made boarding school and military school absolute hell, because there’s no such thing as alone time.”

“You really got sent to military school?” I ask.

He laughs again, this time less bitterly. “Yes, I really did. I’ll tell you about it sometime.” He waves at the house. “I’d offer you a tour, but it’s pretty self-explanatory. You saw my study; my bedroom is obvious, as are the guest bedrooms. Take your pick, and make yourself at home.”

“What if I pick the master bedroom?” I ask, smirking, not sure why I feel the idiotic need to play with fire like this, especially so soon after an anxiety attack.

He grins, a wide, bright, amused flash of teeth. “Then you’ll be sharing with me.” He breezes back inside. “Find me if you need anything,” he says, tossing the words over his shoulder.

And just like that, I’m alone, on a massive terrace overlooking the jeweled heart of Washington DC.

My new home.

I shake my head, unable to fully comprehend what that means. It doesn’t feel like home. It feels like I’m visiting someone.

I can’t go home.

I don’t have a home to go to.

Shit, shit, shit—the panic starts to rise again, and I grip the railing and force it away, focus on the traffic below and the view of the Potomac. Once I have it under control again, I decide to go inside and explore a little. It’s about half the size of the penthouse suite at the hotel, but that makes it cozier and homier. I don’t know if cozy is the right word, though. It’s every bit as luxurious as the hotel, every bit as expensive as his parents’ home, but somehow seems more personal. I go back to the foyer and look at the art on the walls; he’d told me he had some original pieces here, and I’m wondering what they are.

The art decorating the foyer hallway walls are black and white landscapes, of trees and mountains and ocean surf exploding over rocks. In the living room above the mantel over the fireplace is a glass case much like the one at deBraun’s home in Michigan; within the case is an oil painting of a young woman pouring milk into a bowl.

“Recognize it?” I hear Paxton ask behind me.

I snort, glancing at him. “Hardly.”

He stands beside me, staring up at the painting with me. “That was an incredibly difficult piece to procure, and if it was widely known in art circles that I own it, there would probably be quite an outcry.” He grins, pleased. “It’s Han van Meegeren’s forgery of Vermeer’sThe Milkmaid.”

I hear the expectant pause, and just roll my eyes at him. “I hope you’re not waiting for me to faint in awed shock.”

He groans, annoyed. “You know who Vermeer is, don’t you?”

I shrug. “Sure. A classic painter. He did that one painting with the girl wearing the blue scarf?”

“Girl with a Pearl Earring, yes. Among others.” He gestures at the painting. “That is a forgery of another famous Vermeer painting.”

I frown. “Why would you be proud to own a forgery?”

Another of those sighs that seem to indicate long-suffering patience with the hopelessly uncultured. “Because Van Meegeren’s forgeries are famous and valuable in their own right. It’s quite a story, really. Short version is, Van Meegeren was a painter and wanted to be famous, so he started copying the style of the masters, Vermeer, Frans Hals, van Baburen, and other mostly Dutch painters. He started gaining attention for how closely his paintings resembled the work of the Old Masters, and this earned him a lot of criticism. He felt misjudged and that his genius was being underestimated, so he set about forging the works of the masters, rather than merely copying their style. It took him years to figure out the process, and he eventually got an art expert to accept a forgery of a Vermeer as authentic.” He pauses, thinking. “Honestly, this could be a movie. Anyway. One thing led to another, and Hermann Göring, the famous Nazi and art collector, was sold one of van Meegeren’s paintings as an original Vermeer, which eventually led to van Meegeren’s arrest and subsequent trial by the Allies after the war, when Göring’s hidden collection was discovered. He was actually compelled during the trial to produce, in front of witnesses and reporters, a copy of Vermeer’sJesus Among the Doctors, simply to prove that the painting owned by Göring was his work.”

I stare, blinking. “Wow. So…this painting is one of those forgeries.”

He nods. “Yes. He produced quite a few, and this is considered one of the best.” A sigh. “Eventually, I’ll let one of the museums somewhere put it on display, but for now, I just want to enjoy it myself.”

“Why not an actual Vermeer?”

He snorts. “Because there are only thirty-five authenticated original Vermeer paintings in the world, and they’re all in museums, with one being in private hands, and the other having been stolen from a museum in Boston in 1990.”

I bite my lip to hold back a grin. “Well. Thanks for the art history lesson.”

He sighs. “Wasted on you, was it?”

I shrug. “No. I know something now that I didn’t before. And it’s a cool painting with a cool story.”

“That’s why I wanted it. Yeah, an original Vermeer is worth hundreds of millions of dollars, but the story behind that one is way more interesting.” A self-conscious laugh. “Plus, they look pretty much the same.”

“How do you go about telling an original from one of those fakes?” I ask, figuring I’m probably getting myself another lecture.