Page 13

THIRTEEN

Starry Night

Paul

From the moment I help Vivianne Faulks out of the town car and through the exhibits, I keep a hand on her body—the press of my palm against her lower back, a light grip on her arm, and I catch her when she trips.

Maybe it’s the faintest scent of lilacs and roses that draws me.

Lilacs are my favorite. Light of scent, they are beautiful yet understated flowers—perfect, really, how they match Vivianne.

Her perfume has me taking deep breaths, drawing her essence deep into my lungs, where a piece of her lodges somewhere near my heart.

I want more.

Her tentative nature stirs my possessive instincts, and it’s impossible to forget the moment we met.

But a Faulks? What the hell am I thinking, getting involved with a Faulks?

We follow René Brault past the displays. From the moment I was old enough to grip a brush, I practiced painting like the men whose artistic vision grace these walls.

I surpassed their skills at some point, but no one will ever find themselves spellbound by a de Gaulle masterpiece. That is not how the world works.

Vivianne stops in front of Starry Night Over the Rh?ne . She relinquishes her grip on my arm for the first time since entering the Musée d’Orsay.

I pause, letting Larson and René continue ahead. For a moment, the two of us are alone—at least until René figures out we are no longer following.

Stunning in a conservative pencil skirt and jacket, she doesn’t fool me, and while I can’t name the designer, the woman wears haute couture like she was born in style.

She’s probably never worn a hand-me-down in her life, whereas I scavenged for second—and third—generation rags until the age of seven and have seen the insides of too many dumpsters, searching for scraps of food.

I position myself behind her and admire the painting nearly as much as the tumble of the long waves of her sun-kissed hair. The overhead lights make her hair gleam like threads of gold, and I resist the urge to run my fingers through the strands. I’ve already pushed the bounds of polite behavior, touching her more than I should.

The painting captivates Vivianne’s attention and is one of my favorites. It’s also one of my earliest successes.

A masterpiece in its own right, Starry Night Over the Rh?ne challenged me for years. To see it displayed as an authentic Van Gogh makes my ego swell, even decades after its completion.

Will they ever figure it out?

I doubt it. That piece has been a part of this collection for over a decade, and there is no reason to suspect it isn’t the original.

Starry Night is a piece I freely claim, unlike Dr. Gachet . I painted that particular piece as practice, but my copy remains securely locked away. There is only one other person with enough skill to pull it off.

The Crow is back in action, and I need to discover what my foster brother, Nicholas, is up to.

Vivianne gasps, drawing me forward. Her demeanor shifts subtly. One moment, she admires the painting, and the next, she examines it with a critical eye.

Does her breathing hitch—or did I imagine it? Her eyes scan the canvas at a fevered pace. It can’t be. She couldn’t have discovered it so quickly.

Not possible!

But how exciting would it be to be pitted against someone with true skill? All the more reason to keep this Faulks close by my side.

René circles back, his voice rising with impatience. “Mademoiselle? If you please.”

Vivianne gives a start. Her ankle wobbles, and then she steadies herself in her too-high heels.

“Is everything okay?” I dip my head to whisper in her ear.

“No, it’s just…” She glances at the painting, her eyes darting about, but she shakes her head.

Her fingers slide under my arm, and I press a hand over hers, tucking her back to my side. Her brows pinch together, and then she gives a sharp shake of her head.

“A trick of the light, I think.”

Not for a second do I believe her. Something unsettled Vivianne. Now, what will she do with her newfound suspicions?

She glances at me, the blue in her eyes a near-perfect match to the evening sky of Starry Night .

“It’s breathtaking,” she says. “I’ve studied it, of course, but to see it in person…” She presses her palm against her belly. “It’s magnificent.”

What I wouldn’t give to trade places with her hand and feel the softness of her curves. Instead, I guide her toward René, eager to be done with the day’s business and move toward more pleasurable activities.

“It is mesmerizing, n’est-ce pas? ” René gestures for us to follow, but even his eyes linger over the starry sky. “But we have business to conclude.”

“Of course.” Vivianne’s soft voice curls in the recesses of my mind, stirring my desire to hear her breathy moans instead. “It takes the breath away. Van Gogh’s brilliance is in how he imbues his pieces with power and motion, using light. It’s not the same in a book. It’s like the whole world is bending, both in and out of the picture.” She places her free hand on my arm. “Does that even make sense?”

Absolutely, but all I get from that exchange is how her fingers grip my biceps. That slight contact has the blood surging in my veins, seeking an outlet for an energy I can barely contain.

I manipulated circumstances to force her near me, and now, I’ll manipulate her to get what I want.

For now, I’ll control my baser impulses and follow the script I’ve been given, enjoying Vivianne’s graces while I can.

René leads us further into the exhibit. I provide gentle pressure on Vivianne’s hand, urging her onward, even as her mouth parts and her eyes widen with each painting that is more magnificent than the one before.

Our private tour ends abruptly with a turn around a display wall.

And there it is.

Dr. Gachet: a forgery of great skill.

A much more challenging piece to copy, I struggled for years to match the unique hues of the original’s paints. The brushstrokes challenged me. I gave up and moved to other tasks, but that piece always drew me back.

Failure annoyed me. After years of chasing other tasks, I finally mastered that piece, but I have no desire to exchange it for the original.

Merlin’s work keeps me well occupied. My copy remains where it will probably always rest—in the chilly darkness of my cache.

Vivianne releases my arm once more and heads for the painting. Larson moves beside her, taking my place.

“It’s hard to believe it’s a fake.” The American was quiet during our walk. I nearly forgot Larson was there, but the abrasive American accent can’t be ignored.

“Technically,” Vivianne says, “it’s a forgery and not a fake.”

Larson draws in a deep breath. “True, not that it matters. Not with the original somewhere out there.” He makes a vague hand gesture.

The real Dr. Gachet is now all but lost, sequestered into a private collection. The original being sold at auction would be as much of a forgery as what hangs here on this wall.

Nicholas, what are you up to?

I haven’t heard from my foster brother in nearly a decade. For him to surface now? Something is brewing.

“There doesn’t appear to be any signs of struggle.” I pace the perimeter. All the other paintings hang in their frames, perfectly level and undisturbed. “I would think there would have been more of a fight. A bump into the wall or something that would have knocked a picture off its mounts. You believe the thief snuck in and killed a guard without causing a disturbance?”

“The Starling,” René emphasizes the name, “bypassed security, removed Dr. Gachet , and was caught by the guard before he could mount the forgery.”

Not exactly what happened, but I have been set up to take the fall for a murder.

“Odd. I thought the Starling was better than that.” I’m a little insulted.

The mess the Crow has made screams incompetence. For Larson to believe me capable of such ineptitude is difficult to swallow.

Vivianne circles the room, making the same pass I made. Her gaze sweeps against the canvases.

“Didn’t the guard sound an alarm? And, if so, how did the Starling escape?”

René moves to the center of the room, his toe stepping over two stripes of yellow tape applied to the floor.

“We think he used the ventilation ducts to escape.”

Not how I would’ve done it. Too risky, and dust in the ducts would destroy the painting and reduce its value.

“Seems complicated,” I say.

The best way into the Musée d’Orsay is through a defect in either of the massive clocks integrated into the architecture.

I’ve used that route several times. And the ductwork in this building has tenuous supports. They wouldn’t hold the weight of a man.

I’m certain a statement is being made. The Crow is sending a personalized message to me and starting a war.