FORTY-FIVE

A Feather

Paul

I usher Vivianne into the gathering with her hand tucked into the crook of my arm. I protectively place mine over hers. In this way, I keep her close so that I can steer her through the crowd.

Far in the back, across the room, Urakov keeps court at one of the bars surrounded by thickset men with killer faces and barely legal girls held tight in their arms. Like most of those gathered, I will avoid the Russian contingent, but not because I fear the FSB operatives.

The success of my business with Urakov depends on no one connecting us.

Instead, I bring Vivianne along a winding course through the crowd. This is one of the larger auctions of the year, with well over a hundred in attendance. Land tycoons and industry moguls form most of those gathered. There’s a smattering of celebrities brave enough to show their faces.

Nearly all players are men, and the latest trophy wives, mistresses, or paid escorts adorn their arms. Most of the women drip with glittering gems. Those with the mistresses will be brokering back-door deals, and I look to them now, much as Urakov studies the crowd, wondering who plans on purchasing Dr. Gachet .

The men with the wives are here for the thrill. None of them have been invited to the back room. The ones with escorts deserve special attention and an even wider berth.

And then there’s the ice queen, Isabella, famous for the number of men she’s put into the ground. Her fortune increased with each matrimonial acquisition, making me wonder what man would even go near her icy clutches.

I avoid her out of habit and can’t afford the distraction that getting embroiled in a conversation with her will cause.

Larson gave Vivianne a folio on those individuals the American embassy is particularly interested in and had the poor thing memorize insignificant details. I dismiss that intelligence and count on her years of experience socializing at similar events to see her through.

Her innate charm will draw the men like flies, and her subdued personality and quiet voice will encourage the women not to run. I hate using her but haven’t been given much choice. Interpol needs their inside man, and I find myself in the uncomfortable position of being unable to refuse.

I grab a champagne flute from a passing waiter and hand it to Vivianne. She arches a brow and whispers.

“Is it safe?”

Safe?

I use the moment to nuzzle her neck in front of those who watch. “The house is not in the habit of drugging its patrons. The champagne is safe, as is all the food.”

She leans into me, a soft sigh escaping her lips as I nip along her neck. “You’re making it very hard to concentrate.” She wobbles against me.

“Then, my mission is a success.” I grab a flute for myself and continue making the rounds, giving false smiles to those we pass but never stopping to strike up a conversation.

Her face flushes red. To hide her embarrassment, she cranes her neck and allows her gaze to dart around the room.

“Where are the paintings? Do we have a chance to look at them before the auction begins?”

“Let’s find out.” I move toward the edge of the room and approach one of the event staff. “Excuse me.”

The petite brunette glances up from her clipboard. “May I assist you, sir?”

“We arrived late and wondered if we’d missed the viewings.”

“Oh no, sir.” She gestures toward a double set of doors leading out of the room. “Out that way. All of the art is displayed along the halls.”

“And where might the private collection be?”

We will make the rounds. I’ll give Vivianne the stage she needs to demonstrate her proficiency, and then I will take her to the private display.

Without batting an eye, the woman hands me a brochure. Tonight, there will be two auctions: one public and one private. Vivianne and I will attend the first. Then, when the signal is given, we will move to the private—and quite illegal—secondary auction.

“The first bid doesn’t begin for another hour. Did you receive your e-mail?”

“I did.” The e-mail contains the code phrase to grant us access to the private areas. I’ve secured a similar phrase for Urakov with little difficulty.

“If you need any help, please let me know.”

“ Merci ,” I say. “If you have some free time, I’m told the view from the boat house is exquisite.” I slant my head, letting the woman know I understand. The pieces up for bid in the legal auction will be down the hall, but the piece I’m most interested in will be outside.

With a hand on the small of Vivianne’s back, I lead her toward the double doors. We stroll down the long hall and pause at the first painting.

Vivianne’s face twists into one of puzzlement. A couple admires a nearby sculpture. She tugs on my arm.

“An interesting piece, but not for you.”

“Why?” I cock my head, curious as to how she came to such a quick conclusion.

“The tones in this painting are muted.”

I glance at the placard. “It’s a Monet.”

“No, it is not.”

“How can you be certain? You’ve barely glanced at it.”

“Look at the strokes. They have the same smudging quality Monet is famous for; it makes the image look watery, like a reflection in a rippled pond. It’s his signature look, but the tones lack the vibrancy of his palette. I would advise against this one.”

I can’t deny her eye. Monet is not my favorite artist, precisely for the reasons Vivianne expresses. Capturing the distinctive smudge isn’t hard, but the pigments used are as much Monet’s signature as the strokes on canvas.

The couple beside us move on, but they linger long enough to eavesdrop.

I lead Vivianne to the next painting, noticing how the couple positions themselves closer, cocking their ears to overhear what Vivianne has to say.

The next painting reveals a scene in a street, perhaps in London, with umbrella-bearing pedestrians battling a downpour while red double-decker buses and black cabs rumble by.

She smiles. “This one reminds me of Oxford Street. Look at the people,” she says. “They look harried.”

“Harried?”

“Yes, but it’s more than that. See how the artist placed them? They’re pushing against one another, jamming up at the crosswalks like a dam in a river. The artist is telling us we’re nothing more than flotsam at the mercy of nature.”

“I love how you see art.” I pull her close to nuzzle at the corner of her ear.

Another couple enters the hall, and they watch my affectionate display. I move her to the next painting, noticing how the first couple takes a step back but doesn’t move on. The woman has her phone out, probably placing an initial bid, but the man grips her arm. He gives a sharp shake of his head and gestures toward Vivianne.

“And this one, ma chère ?”

“It’s unique, but don’t you think the painting is too small? I wonder why that is.” She leans close. “It makes me think the artist was short on supplies, as if they didn’t have enough canvas to work with or ran out of oils. It’s hurried and rushed.”

I glance at the tiny scene of a small boat abandoned on the sand. Parts of the keel have rotted out, victim to the abrasive sand, damp air, and the ever-present tides. The image invokes a sense of melancholy.

“I like it,” I pronounce. “But I’m not familiar with the artist.”

“I can do a quick search.”

I shake my head, enjoying putting on a show for the two couples, now taking a closer, more critical look at the painting. “Never mind. Let’s see what else is available. You’re right; it is too small.”

Out of my periphery, the first woman places a bid on her phone. Vivianne and I move on, discussing each painting in turn, and slowly, a crowd grows around us.

She doesn’t let the press of those gathered deter her from her assessment. She glows, her enthusiasm evident in her gestures and descriptions of the pieces, and she grows more animated with each new presentation.

In turn, I increase the overt nature of my touch, caressing her arm, gripping her waist, pulling her close, and nuzzling at her neck. My display of affection is made with deliberate intent.

Vivianne naturally draws a crowd, and I need a reason to slip her outside and find the boat house before we have to return for the beginning of the auction.

After a particularly prominent display of affection, I pull her toward an exterior door facing the river. “Ah, ma chère , let’s enjoy the night air.”

I tug her outside with little discretion, leaving the milling crowd to disperse as they see fit. Walking down the short path to the stone dock, I press her against the wall, loving the opportunity to steal a kiss.

“Paul, we shouldn’t…” She places a hand on my chest.

I don’t allow her to finish her thought because I press my lips against hers, silencing whatever she meant to say. As I nip a sensual path to her neck, a door opens, spilling light outward into the night.

A couple exits and hurries past us, headed to the boat house. I don’t mind the intrusion. It will be good to parade Vivianne in front of potential back-room buyers.

I savor her taste with one more lick, but we have a job to perform. With great reluctance, I pull away from Vivianne.

“I can’t seem to get enough of you.” I interlace our fingers, “but alas, we must hurry.”

“Where is—it?” she asks.

I tug her down the dock, following the path of the couple. “This way.”

“I’m nervous,” she admits.

“Don’t be,” I soothe. “This is no different than any of the hundreds of events you’ve attended before.”

“But I’ve never been to a secret auction.”

A smile bows my lips. “Just think of it as an exclusive members-only event. Surely, you’ve been to a few of those.”

She nods, reassuring me that I won’t have to worry. With a squeeze of her hand, I reassure her as we approach the heavy stone door barring entrance to the boat house. I rap smartly on the door, using the heavy wrought iron knocker.

A peephole opens. All I can see are the rugged features of the guard.

“Sorry, sir, but this area is restricted,” the man says with a low rumble.

I swipe at my phone and hold it up to the door. “I have an invitation.”

Urakov has a similar invitation, given courtesy of my connections.

I was able to get him an invitation under the ruse that he wants to see if the auction house can attract a crowd worthy of bidding on a piece estimated to bring in well over a hundred million, if not more.

“One moment, sir.” The man checks my code against a list.

A few seconds pass, but instead of fidgeting, I take the opportunity to reward myself with a languid kiss. Beginning at Vivianne’s ear, I nuzzle a path to her jaw and lick at her lips until she allows me to drown in the exquisiteness of her kiss.

The locking mechanism turns, interrupting our moment. Bolts slide aside, and the heavy wooden door swings inward—the thickset man who answered and scanned the code in my phone steps aside.

“Viewing is open for another half hour,” the guard says. “Then, we ask you to return to the house proper for the main event.”

“And when does bidding open here?”

“You’ll receive an alert on your phone. That will be your signal to return. After ten minutes, no further entry will be allowed. The auction will begin promptly afterward.”

I turn to Vivianne. “It looks like we need to be quick. I know you wanted to take your time…”

She places her hand on my arm. “It’s okay.” Vivianne avoids eye contact, playing her role with a natural ease that almost has me fooled. “I know the piece you have your eye on. Thirty minutes should be enough time for me to—verify…” Her eyes widen, realizing she may have said too much.

I jump in, rescuing her from the hesitation, and kiss her brow. “I trust you implicitly.”

Guiding her across the threshold, I place myself between the guard and Vivianne, unwilling to allow the man too close to what I already consider mine.

Somehow, I’ll find a way to free her from her father’s control.

We wander down a short hall and enter an open space. Several couples mill about, speaking in hushed tones; none converse with the others. These are competitors forced into proximity, which creates an uneasy atmosphere.

Vivianne pulls to an abrupt halt. “Wow,” she says. “Now, that is something.”

A painting dominates the far wall. Every color has been boldly placed and painted with such precision that it reminds me of a mosaic. Some lines curve out of the harsh angles, creating geometric shapes that form a free-fall tumble on the canvas. It makes my head spin.

I’m not a fan of abstract art; it isn’t a medium that interests me, but I can admire the skill of the artist who sets brush to canvas.

“Look how the colors are both precise yet have a chaotic motion.” She tents her hands beneath her chin and pulls away, stepping close to the painting. “It’s different up close. Stable with a sense of permanence.”

“Do you like this one?” I enjoy her exuberant reaction nearly as much as those gathered around us.

“Oh, yes.” She claps her hands. “Take a few steps back, and it’s a little disorienting. I love how it changes depending on where it’s viewed. I like this one. Quite a bit.”

I make a show of lifting my cell phone from my pocket and tapping on the screen. One of the men to my right discreetly copies my movement.

“Paul,” she says, gripping my arm and preventing me from completing my fake bid.

“Yes, ma chère ?”

“Did you know nearly half of the art in circulation is fake?”

Several gasps sound from behind us. Vivianne lifts her voice and breaches the uneasy silence. She smiles at a few of the women in the crowd while avoiding the eyes of the men. She couldn’t play this crowd better—pride wells in my chest at her perfection.

“Oh, yes, the art of fakes and forgeries is almost as impressive as the works of the masters themselves.” Now, she lectures to them, doing exactly what I hoped she would do. “For example, the Fine Arts Expert Institute, located in Geneva, says between seventy and ninety percent of all the pieces that go through their laboratory are revealed as fakes. I visited their lab when I was finishing my thesis. It’s quite extraordinary.”

I pull her to me, reining in her excitement. “ Ma chère , let’s not bore these kind people with the details of technical analysis.”

“Oh,” she says, glancing around. “I’m sorry. I often let my enthusiasm carry me away.”

I huff a soft laugh, making a show for the men as if to say I adore my date but have humored her long enough.

Besides, we’ve accomplished our first two objectives. Vivianne established herself as the expert she is, but more importantly, she cemented her role within the subtleness of our dynamic.

Rumors will spread. Speculation will rise. Interested parties will struggle to discover as much about Vivianne Faulks as possible before the silent auction begins.

Meanwhile, I guide her away from the crowd, spending less time on the remaining pieces up for auction until we approach Dr. Gachet . She pauses in front of the portrait of Van Gogh’s physician.

“Do you know,” she says wistfully, “while regarded today as one of the most iconic painters who ever lived, he only sold two pieces while alive? I wonder if his life would have been happier if he sold more.”

A few stragglers join us, but they keep their distance, allowing Vivianne to admire the painting.

“When he painted this, he thought painting a prominent figure in a French village would bring him more work. There are two paintings of Dr. Gachet , nearly the same size, except the props are different. He made an etching too.” She heaves a sigh. “He is perhaps my second favorite artist of all time.”

“Really?” I say, feigning interest. “Who, then, is your favorite?”

She makes a dismissive gesture, waving her hand. “Oh, you wouldn’t know him. I’ve only recently discovered his work.”

Turning to me, her face glows with the hint of a tease. What will she think once she sees The Swan for the first time? Perhaps the growing affection in my heart is mirrored in hers? I would love it if that were the case.

I pull her to me and kiss the top of her head. “I would love for you to introduce me. We should obtain a few pieces if you like his work.”

“I would like that very much,” she says. “I hear he’s a fan of collections.”

A woman approaches, someone unknown to me. “You seem to know a lot about art,” she says, speaking to Vivianne.

Vivianne’s gentle laughter brings a sense of peace to those gathered. “It’s my passion, but this piece is quite famous. I’m curious to know which one it is, although I assume it’s from the Musée d’Orsay.”

The woman whispers, but it’s loud enough to carry through the room, “Oh, yes! I’ve been following the news. And we’re the lucky few who might profit from that event.”

“Indeed,” Vivianne says.

I tighten my grip on her waist, concerned, attempting to rein her in as her smile slips.

“I didn’t know there were two of them,” the woman says. “Did I hear that right?”

Vivianne nods. “Both are called The Portrait of Doctor Gachet . He’s in the same outfit, he has the same melancholy expression, and both were painted in the final year of Van Gogh’s life. This one appears to be the unsigned version, so it’s most definitely from the Musée d’Orsay . ”

The woman peers at the painting. “It is?”

“Yes, there’s quite a bit of debate in the community as to whether this one was painted by Gachet instead of Van Gogh. The signed copy broke auction house records in recent years.”

“Really?”

“Oh, yes. It was a turning point for the art community. Eighty-two-point-five million was paid for the signed version. Unfortunately, it now sits in a private collection in Japan. This piece,” she gestures to the painting, “is controversial. Van Gogh never mentioned painting a second version, and it’s not signed.”

“So, is it real or not?” the woman asks.

“It’s believed to be, but you’ll always find those who debate its provenance. This one won’t come near fetching a price tag of eighty million, but at least we can see it, bid on it, and perhaps take it home. That’s exciting. The other one has been carefully crated and warehoused. It’s safe and protected, but for all practical purposes, it’s disappeared from those who might appreciate its brilliance.”

“Oh, that’s so sad,” the woman says. She extends her hand. “My name is Annabelle LaCroix. This has been a fascinating discussion. I would love to speak with you further and perhaps extend an invitation?—”

I cut the woman off, “Mademoiselle Faulks is in my employ.” Perhaps a bit curt, but I make my point. Vivianne is mine, and I won’t have others attempting to poach her.

“Oh, of course, Monsieur de Gaulle. I didn’t mean to overstep.”

“Madame LaCroix,” Vivianne soothes, “it has been a privilege discussing art with you, but I work exclusively for Monsieur de Gaulle until further notice.”

“Well, that’s a shame.” Her eyes cut to me. “If things—change, my invitation remains.”

“That’s very kind,” Vivianne says.

The lights flicker overhead. “Oh,” Annabelle says, “I think that is our signal. The auction is about to begin.”

Vivianne turns to follow the crowd flowing back into the main house and reception area, but I pull her aside. I need a closer look at the frame.

Easily overlooked, I hiss when I see it. A black downy feather is tucked into a crevice at the corner of the painting.

Nicholas!

Another taunt?

My mind races, calculating the implications of this discovery.

Is Nicholas here?

Is he following us, or is this merely a message left for me to find?

The feather adds a new layer to an already intricate game. I must tread carefully, keeping Vivianne close while maintaining our cover.

As we rejoin the crowd, I scan the faces around us, searching for any sign of Nicholas or his associates. The auction is about to begin, but I have a new objective: uncover the meaning behind this feather and determine if our operation is compromised.

I guide Vivianne back to the main room; my hand placed possessively on the small of her back. The game has changed, and I must adapt quickly. Whatever Nicholas’s plan, I intend to stay one step ahead.

After all, in this world of forgeries and deception, I’m the master.