Page 31

THIRTY-ONE

Cache

Vivianne

The soft glow of candlelight flickers across Paul’s face as he traces lazy circles on my skin. Our bodies are still entwined, the echoes of our passion lingering in the air. My mind drifts, floating in a haze of contentment and curiosity.

“Can I look around?” The words slip out before I can stop them, my gaze drawn to the shadowy expanse beyond our intimate haven.

Paul’s fingers still for a moment. He props himself up on one elbow, his eyes searching mine.

“Of course,” he says softly, a hint of amusement in his voice. “Just don’t get lost among the treasures.”

I slip from the bed, wrapping a silken sheet around my body. The cool stone floor sends a shiver up my spine as I pad across the cave. Lights flicker to life as I move, illuminating row upon row of shelving packed with art and artifacts.

And there it is. The Lovers .

I stand before it, my heart pounding. Every brushstroke, every subtle blend of color—it’s exactly as I remember.

But that’s impossible.

The original hangs in my father’s bedroom, a constant presence throughout my childhood. It has for three generations.

My fingers hover inches from the canvas, aching to touch but knowing I shouldn’t. Paul’s words echo in my mind: “That is no copy.”

But how can that be?

The painting I grew up with, the one I’ve studied countless times, is the real thing. I know its provenance and its history as one of the misappropriated pieces stolen during World War II.

I glance back at Paul, still lounging on the bed, his eyes following my every move. He can’t know about the painting in my family’s estate. Just as I can’t reveal why I’m certain this one can’t be the original.

My gaze returns to The Lovers , drinking in every detail. No matter how perfect this version is, it has to be a forgery.

Doesn’t it?

As I stand there, caught between two versions of the truth, one thought echoes through my mind: he’s not the only one keeping secrets.

What bothers me more than anything about the upcoming auction, the fate of Dr. Gachet , or even Paul’s dealings with the Russian mob, is what’s hidden in Paul’s cache.

I turn my attention back to Paul’s cache. According to him, these pieces will be returned to their rightful owners.

Someday.

“How do you determine who the pieces go to?” I spin around, startled to find Paul directly behind me.

My heart skips as his presence consumes the space. He stands there, barefoot, in nothing but his dark slacks hanging low on his hips, his chest bare and glistening in the faint light. His skin, still warm from the heat between us, radiates like a magnetic force, pulling me toward him even when I want to stay guarded.

Before I can react, his strong arms snake around my waist, wrapping me in his embrace. The sheet clings to my body as he pulls me back against his chest, my bare skin tingling where we connect. His warmth, his strength—it’s impossible to resist. I don’t want to.

Paul’s lips graze the curve of my shoulder, a soft breath teasing my skin, sending a shiver down my spine. He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he holds me tighter, as if the silence speaks more than any words could.

“It can be challenging.” He kisses my neck, driving me insane with need. “These are all recovered art, but unfortunately, few from that generation are still alive. We try to return it to their families.”

“If the original owners are dead, how do you decide which child receives the art? And, if those children are no longer living, there are no heirs to sift through—children of children. Who gets it then?”

“It’s a laborious process.” His lips brush my ear. “We begin with any wills that might have survived that period and follow the bequests written there.”

I tilt my head, considering his words. Paul takes the opportunity to trail soft kisses down my neck, sending a pleasant shiver through me.

“If none are found, it’s a discreet conversation with the family.” His voice is low, intimate. He gently turns me to face him, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear.

“Sometimes, the surviving family gives it to a museum. When that fails, it becomes problematic.” He sweeps his arm toward the long rows of shelving extending down the cave. “Most of what you see is awaiting the completion of that process.”

“What if you never figure out who it goes to?” There’s a quiet hitch in my breathing as he traces the line of my jaw. “Like you said, some families were completely wiped out. If there are no living heirs, what happens next?”

Paul’s eyes meet mine, serious despite his tender touches. “We search the family tree and try to find an equitable solution.” He lifts my hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to my knuckles. “But sadly, too many times, we are left with a painting that belongs to no one.”

His honesty, combined with his affectionate gestures, leaves me conflicted. I lean into him, seeking comfort even as worry gnaws at me.

“You could have done the research first,” I say. “If there was no one to return it to, you could have left it where it was found.”

His face twists into a grimace. “Leave it with those who profited from that plunder? Never.” Paul’s arms tighten around me, his expression darkening.

A sinking sensation fills my gut, making me stagger. If he ever discovers my family has The Lovers , we will be on opposite sides of a very uncomfortable conversation.