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THREE

The Lovers

Vivianne

I curl in my seat, twisting away from the imposing stranger.

Two empty seats separate us, but I feel every inch between us. I should face away, and I try, but I keep turning to steal a glance of the raven-haired stranger out of the corner of my eye.

Genetics bestowed grace and beauty upon me, the product of a profitable pairing between my father and mother. I’m no stranger to the way men look at me—their eyes sliding over my skin, lingering where they shouldn’t.

But his gaze?

It’s different. It doesn’t skim the surface. It feels like it delved deep, drawing out something deeper, something I’m not ready to give.

There’s an undeniable pull, an invisible tether that makes my pulse quicken, even though every instinct tells me to resist.

I don’t like it. Not at all.

He’s seated both too far away and much too close for my liking, his presence suffocating the air between us.

It makes me hyperaware of everything—of how my skirt rides up too high on my thighs, how the fabric suddenly feels too revealing. I tug it down over my knees, but it does little to ease the heat crawling up my neck, searing my skin from the intensity of his gaze.

I can’t look at him, but I feel him, like a current in the room, a heat that makes my stomach tighten. His interest burns against the side of my neck, and I swear he watches every move I make. Heat creeps into my cheeks, spreading like wildfire, and I focus on not fidgeting, but that only makes things worse.

My fingers pick at the hem of my skirt, a nervous, betraying gesture, as if I can’t keep still under his silent command.

His touch. It still lingers. I resist the urge to rub at the spots on my arms where he held me, but the memory of his fingers pressing against my skin won’t fade.

It’s maddening how I can still feel the warmth and weight of his hands, as if they’re imprinted there, haunting me.

I’m torn between the primal instinct to escape and the nagging curiosity that wonders what would happen if I let myself be pulled closer.

The innate magnetism between us is undeniable—and it terrifies me.

My father ingrained an enduring lesson during my formative years: physical attraction leads to poor choices and comes at a price. From my friends to the very few boys I was permitted to date, my father handled those granted access into my social circles.

He even orchestrated the loss of my virginity, choosing an appropriate partner to usher me into womanhood. That was the first and last time I allowed physical attraction to override my thinking. I thought I was in love, only to discover my lover was nothing more than a hired hand paid to teach a foolish daughter a difficult lesson.

My entire life is one long string of orders and arguments I never win.

I’m destined to marry the man my father chose because love isn’t a commodity a Faulks can afford. Like a supple willow, I’ve learned to bend over the years. It’s the only way to endure my upbringing.

I dare a quick peek over my shoulder and immediately regret it when the heat of the stranger’s gaze makes my skin burn.

This is what I’ve been missing, but my father’s lesson remains. There’s no room in my life for passion.

With no suitable male heir, my father negotiated an arrangement to ensure the Faulks name endures. My future was taken from me, hammered out in the details of a business agreement of an arranged marriage.

Any children resulting from the union will bear the Faulks name and carry on my family’s heritage. Until then, I have limited freedom but not the ability to explore what the man sitting two seats down so clearly offers.

Not that I have time for a fling. Desperate to cement my reputation within the art community, I need to focus on garnering the respect of those gathered in this room. For once, I understand the value of my father’s lessons.

I lean toward Dr. Phillips and whisper in his ear, “Have you looked at this crowd?”

Those assembled represent the world’s preeminent experts in Van Gogh’s vast body of work.

“Don’t worry. None have your eye.” Dr. Phillips pats my thigh, a gesture he’s used many times in the past to reassure me.

If he continues on his quest to certify the painting, his reputation will be destroyed. I can’t let that happen. As my mentor, he means everything to me, and he’s too close to retirement to lose everything over this mess. Not to mention, I would ride his coattails to ruination.

“How many of them do you think have seen The Lovers up close?” I ask.

“A handful at most.” He pulls out a piece of paper and runs his finger down the agenda. “We’re scheduled for the second viewing today.”

Bailey completes his overly long speech and the wall pivots on cue.

The Lovers: The Poet’s Garden IV reveals itself to a collective gasp of awe. My skin has cooled, and I spare a glance at the stranger.

He no longer looks at me. Instead, he shifts forward, elbows on knees, chin cupped in his hands. The painting rivets his attention.

The piece glows under the spotlight, the vivid paint shifting with an imbued vitality embedded in the pigments. Van Gogh painted with urgency, using bold strokes and an even bolder palette.

Light and shadows dance on the canvas, spinning in an esthetic wonder, which calls forth an emotive response from those gathered. The room hushes.

I bite at my lower lip, struck as always by the primal response evoked by a Van Gogh. In this case, however, there’s something more.

Whoever forged this piece captured the same vitality and energy of Van Gogh himself.

Improved upon it.

Fascinating.

I place a hand on Dr. Phillips’s arm. “Wow.”

“Impressive indeed,” a voice murmurs beside me.

I startle and turn to the man who caught me in his arms. He leans toward me, his charcoal eyes mesmerizing with their flecks of gold beneath a dark crown of hair.

My breathing hitches. “Excuse me?”

He stretches out a hand and cocks his head in greeting. “Paul de Gaulle.”

Dr. Phillips takes the handshake meant for me. “Did you say de Gaulle?”

The man nods.

Dr. Phillips scoots to the edge of his seat. “An honor to meet you.”

How does Dr. Phillips know this man?

I press myself against the seat, allowing the two men to complete their meet and greet. I need to get away from the man and want to see the painting up close.

Some of the other attendees stand, filing toward the front of the room. We’ll all be allowed an initial look before being invited back for a private analysis.

“Who’s your lovely assistant?” He has an unusual voice.

Deep and fluid, he speaks with a lusty tenor, the words practically dripping off his tongue. A French accent curls around his phrases, imbuing them with a potent sensuality.

My stomach flutters, but I rein in the reaction, turning my focus away from the proximity of de Gaulle and the racing of my heart.

Dr. Phillips clears his throat. “This is Vivianne Faulks, my protégé.” His brows draw together, looking concerned. “I understood there were no living heirs who might claim this piece. Are you here to retrieve it for your institute?”

De Gaulle turns the intensity of his gaze on me. “ Il me fait plaisir de faire votre connaissance, Mademoiselle Faulks. ”

While schooled in several languages, I’m far from fluent in French.

Damn, the sounds spilling from his tongue tunnel straight to my core.

He offers his hand, and I hesitate. When his fingers brush the back of my hand, a pulse of electricity rushes through my body. Not as jarring as when he caught me from my stumble, but potent nonetheless.

Now, his grip is smooth and soothing despite the incipient buzzing beneath my skin. The contrast surprises me and has me staring at our joined hands.

Four years of French stutter in my mind, but I pull up what I hope will be an appropriate response.

“ Tout le plaisir est pour moi, Monsieur de Gaulle. ” And, indeed, the pleasure is all mine.

“You speak French, ma chère ?”

A bit presumptuous of him to call me his dear . I tug back and curl my fingers, rubbing my palm where our skin touched, bringing a flash of something wildly inappropriate for an engaged woman.

He shifts his attention to Dr. Phillips and continues as if nothing had happened.

Maybe he didn’t feel it?

“I’m merely overseeing the authentication process. Unless a new claimant comes forward, my foundation is happy to see this piece bequeathed to the Metropolitan.”

“You wouldn’t rather have it returned to France?” Surprise curls around Dr. Phillips’s words. He scratches at the stubble on his chin, his brows pinching together.

De Gaulle shrugs. “ Ah non , transporting it to the Louvre or the Van Gogh Museum in Amsterdam might expose it to unnecessary risk. Sometimes, the enemy of good is better, n’est-ce pas? ”

Damn, he is even sexier when he speaks French.

“Excuse me, please.” I stand and turn toward the aisle. “I want to get a quick peek before they take it back for the examination.”

Paul rises from his seat, towering over me, and presses his long legs against the folded seat to give me more room to pass in front of him. I do not wobble this time and work my way free of the exciting stranger without tripping. I move to the front of the room, feeling the intensity of his gaze the entire time, and then lower myself into a seat in the front row.

I clasp a hand over the fluttering in my belly. Only half of that reaction is due to the engaging Paul de Gaulle.

Before me, a masterpiece glows in the light and steals my breath. It is a brilliant counterfeit crafted by someone with impeccable skill.

Now, how will I prove it as the forgery it is?