Page 6

SIX

Radcliff

Vivianne

The following day, I pace the length of an understated waiting room on the thirtieth floor of a glass and steel monstrosity. I pause to look out upon the New York skyline. The city appears calm, quiet even, unlike the ball of nerves swirling in my gut.

None of the hustle and bustle of the streets reaches this lofty height. The morning sun climbs up from the horizon, racing toward noon. Its rays bounce off the tinted windows of neighboring skyscrapers, creating a dazzling display of color and light.

“You’re wearing a hole in the carpet, Viv,” Dr. Phillips teases. “Come, sit back down.”

Ten forty-two, twelve minutes past our scheduled appointment, and I’ve made ten circuits of the small waiting room. The magazines are at least six months old, news that no longer matters.

“I don’t care to read any more about the migration patterns of swans or the deforestation of the Amazon.” I point at the National Geographic, which I tossed on the couch.

Mike Haney remained somewhat tight-lipped the evening before, disclosing little behind his request, except he was adamant we needed to be in the FBI offices no later than ten thirty.

These men are definitely not museum guards; they work for the FBI Art Crime Team. The circumstances behind the discovery of the Van Gogh caught the attention of the FBI—or at least, that’s what Mike intimated at the bar. He refused to go into more detail.

With a new Starling discovered, I admit my curiosity for more information. What I don’t understand is why Mike requested my presence. Dr. Phillips’s reputation eclipses most within the art scene, and my foray into the art world as an expert has only just begun.

It takes years to build prestige within the community, but Dr. Phillips teaches well and credits my contributions, as he should. I’m grateful for his mentorship.

Too many scholars hoard recognition or steal it from their students. Dr. Phillips is not only a gentleman but also takes tremendous pride in my continued accomplishments.

Over the years, he’s become more of a father figure to me than the man who donated sperm to grant me life.

I step to the expansive glass window, and for the tenth time, I trace my fingers over the slick surface. Faint vibrations hum from the force of the wind blowing on the other side.

With my eyes closed, I imagine being one of those swans I read about in the National Geographic magazine. To soar, to float, and to glide upon the currents of air must be a rapturous experience. I yearn to be one of them, but my family name saddles me with the weight of obligation.

A door opens behind me, and heavy footfalls approach. The white leather creaks as Dr. Phillips stands, and I pivot to face our visitor.

“Good morning.” Mike Haney tugs at his tie and shakes Dr. Phillips’s hand.

“Good morning,” Dr. Phillips replies. “Viv and I are interested in finishing our conversation from last night.”

Mike strides over to greet me. “Miss Faulks, good morning. How are you doing?”

“I’m fine, and you?”

“Good. Good.” His hand engulfs mine, full of muscle and hardened with the calluses of a workingman. He holds my hand in a light grip and gives the slightest squeeze. Then, he gestures back the way he came. “If you would follow me, please.”

Mike leads Dr. Phillips and me through the open doorway into a spacious boardroom. A glass tabletop sits on industrial steel supports, the combination aesthetically pleasing despite the harsh angles and lines.

Nine leather seats surround the table, four to each side and one at the head. The sole occupant, an older man, occupies the dominant chair.

Bent over a stack of folders, he scratches a pen over a pad of paper, ignoring our entrance. To his left, an open laptop illuminates the lines of his face. He glances up, stands, and adjusts his tie.

“Dr. Phillips, we can’t thank you enough for what you’ve done.” The man’s sharp gaze latches on to me, disarming me with a penetrating intelligence brewing behind it.

With silver lining his temples and with his deep-set eyes, the image of an eagle circling in search of prey comes to mind.

While his suit is not an expensive design, it fits his stocky frame with tailored precision. A potent strength hides beneath that fabric.

“Oh, I can’t take the credit.” Dr. Phillips tugs on my arm, positioning me half a step in front of him. “Miss Faulks deserves all the recognition for this unfortunate discovery.”

The man pushes back his chair and walks toward me. As he closes the distance, some of the chill in his eyes dissipates. Unlike Mike, whose hand dwarfed mine, long, slender fingers wrap around my hand. The skin of his palms and fingers is buttery smooth, whereas Mike’s are roughened with calluses. Mike uses his body as a tool, whereas this man uses his mind.

“Please, take a seat.”

Once we’re seated, our host reclaims his position at the head of the table. Mike closes the door, sealing us inside. With a practiced flick, Mike unbuttons his suit jacket, revealing a shoulder harness and handgun strapped to his side. He lowers himself into the seat opposite Dr. Phillips.

“Thank you for agreeing to meet with me,” our host says with a heavy Southern drawl. Not something I expect in the middle of New York City. “I appreciate that you’re busy, and I’m grateful you took a moment out of your day. Please let me introduce myself.”

My curiosity is getting the better of me, and Mike hasn’t been forthcoming with answers, but Dr. Phillips and I aren’t overburdened with a schedule packed with activities.

Before my discovery, we planned on touring the Met together, student and mentor sharing a love for art. Another red-eye, our flight will be leaving after midnight. We have time to spare.

“My name is Special Agent Chris Radcliffe,” he explains. “Are you familiar with the ACT?”

My heart skips a beat.

Established within the last decade, the Art Crime Team is small but addresses art and cultural property crimes worldwide. I love traveling, and to be in the middle of an active case investigating art theft is a dream come true.

“You’re with the ACT?” My voice fails to hide my surprise and the excitement building within my chest.

With his Faulkses-don’t-work-for-others speech, my father disapproves of his only daughter working.

Not that it dissuades me from pursuing my life’s passion for art. Establishing myself as an art expert paves the way for a life spent with charitable causes. It’s better than wasting away in the cavernous halls of the Faulks estate.

Instead of the ACT, I researched the Association for Research into Crimes Against Art. As a nonprofit, non-governmental agency, ARCA feeds my need to remain within the art scene.

My volunteer work will be invaluable, and the more prominent my name becomes, the more time I’ll be free from future obligations at home and a husband I don’t love.

“Mr. Radcliffe,” I begin, “why are we here?”

Radcliffe straightens his tie and leans forward. His hand drifts to the folders arrayed before him in a disorganized mess. His fingers flick in the air, hovering over a stack of papers.

“How familiar are you with the Starling?” He picks up a piece of paper and leans back.

“He’s a forger and a thief,” Dr. Phillips answers, “but an exceptional artist.”

“Yes,” Radcliffe says in his Southern drawl. “It’s said his skill surpasses the masters he emulates.”

I nod. “It does. I’ve met no one able to differentiate one of his copies from an original. We only know of his existence because of the clues he leaves behind.”

I completed my thesis on famous forgers throughout history. New on the scene, the Starling has amassed an impressive résumé, and while deserving of praise for his talent, I have a deeper interest in someone else—the mythical Merlin.

The man was entrenched in the theft of Nazi-era artistic treasures and formed the basis of my doctoral thesis. But even more interesting is his link to my family’s history.

“Well, now, he’s made the leap from white-collar art crime to felony murder.” Radcliffe leans back, lacing his fingers behind his head.

“And this is why you’re involved?” Dr. Phillips asks. “Because of a murder?”

Radcliffe’s mouth twists with distaste. “Yes, and no. Our division is chartered to pursue the art crime piece of this puzzle, and our reach is limited due to the international aspect of the case. We are, however, working with our Interpol counterparts who have an interest in both matters.”

“Agent Radcliffe,” I ask, “how does any of this affect Dr. Phillips?”

Mike clears his throat, drawing my attention to the squeal of an opening door, but that isn’t what sets my nerves to buzzing.

It’s something else—something more primal.

The air changes, a subtle shift that prickles the back of my neck, a sensation I can’t ignore. A presence, unmistakable, burning into me with a force that has me shifting in my seat before I even dare look.

I turn, and there they are—those charcoal-gray eyes.

Familiar.

Intense.

Paul de Gaulle.

The weight of his stare settles on me, heavy and unyielding, like before. It’s not just a look; it’s a pull, drawing me in with a magnetic force that makes my pulse quicken.

His gaze is sure, confident, and full of something darker—something that sends a thrill shooting through me.

Hunger, or maybe a promise.

Whatever it is, it swirls in the depths of his eyes, deep and relentless, as if daring me to step closer and acknowledge what’s between us.

Memories flood back unbidden of being held in his grip, the warmth of his hands, and the way his touch lingered longer than it should have.

My skin tingles at the thought, and I can’t help the flush that creeps up my neck. It’s maddening how he can make me feel so exposed with just a glance.

I should look away, pretend his entrance means nothing, that his presence in this room doesn’t unravel me the way it does.

But I can’t.

I’m trapped in his gaze, my body betraying me, every nerve alight as though I’m waiting for something, for him to move, for him to cross the room and shatter the distance between us.

He doesn’t break eye contact. Not for a second. And in that long, breathless moment, I wonder if he feels it too—that undercurrent of heat, the tension that coils tighter with every passing second.

“So very nice to see you again, Miss Faulks.” He sweeps his gaze toward Dr. Phillips, breaking the intensity of our connection. “I did so enjoy our chat yesterday.”

My throat closes up, swallowing my words. His gaze holds me captive as he walks to the opposite side of the table. When he lowers himself into the leather chair beside Mike, the spell breaks, leaving me trembling.

“Sorry for my tardiness,” he says. “Business matters delayed me.” The twinkle in his eye says that’s a lie. “How much have you briefed Miss Faulks?”

“Me?” I place a hand on my chest and lean forward. “What do you mean, briefed me?”

He turns the force of his presence upon me. “They haven’t explained?”

I sit back, stunned by his announcement and confused as hell.

Dr. Phillips closes the awkward silence with a question. “Agent Radcliffe, perhaps if we understood what you required?” He places a hand on mine—a soothing gesture—but it does nothing to ease the hammering of my heart.

If I didn’t carry the Faulks name, this would be exactly what I want. Investigating international art crimes is my dream job, but how does this involve him ?

My lineage opens every door I ever thought to step through, but to be invited into the inner circle of those solving international art crimes? That was never a door my father would have opened for a daughter eager to escape her privileged life.

In the silence, Dr. Phillips presses again. “I’m not sure how you see either of us being useful in the pursuit of your inquiry. Neither Miss Faulks nor I have experience in this arena.”

“True, you do not.” De Gaulle leans back in his chair, the leather creaking as he stretches his arm up and outward, lacing his fingers behind his head. “But that is not my interest in Miss Faulks.” He inclines his head toward Radcliffe. “Excuse me, our interest.”

Meeting the force of his gaze isn’t a battle I welcome. If I turn my attention to de Gaulle, a struggle for dominance will ensue.

Whether I would win or lose doesn’t matter. I’ve endured many tests of will in my time. Swiveling to place de Gaulle in my peripheral vision, I shift in my seat.

“Mike showed us the murmuration hidden within Dr. Gachet’s painting last night,” Dr. Phillips begins. “My specialty is the science behind authentication, not the pursuit of the criminals involved.”

“Agent Radcliffe,” I begin, “I agree with Dr. Phillips. You already know the painting is a forgery. What more can we offer?”

Radcliffe straightens his stack of papers. “It’s not so much that we need your help on the Dr. Gachet case.”

“Excuse me?” I ask. None of this makes sense.

Radcliffe sips from a glass of water and clears his throat. “This case has brought a unique opportunity, and we’re inclined to capitalize on it.”

De Gaulle unlaces his fingers and leans forward, pressing his palms to the glass tabletop. The movement forces me to spin in my chair and meet the fierceness of his gaze.

My eyes lower instinctively. I’ve never done that before. My father taught me from an early age to meet strength with strength.

What the hell is wrong with me?

“We’ve discovered where the real Dr. Gachet will be sold.” De Gaulle’s French accent contrasts sharply with Agent Radcliffe’s Southern drawl. De Gaulle brings a sense of deep sensuality to every word tumbling from his lips. He makes me squirm with nothing more than his words.

“Miss Faulks, I need you by my side. My foundation has its hands in the recovery of stolen art. Dr. Gachet is not the only piece we’re interested in following. This opportunity is exceptional and not one we can afford to waste.”

The inflection he places on need has my stomach tumbling. I pull my hands from the table and press them to my lap. The glass tabletop hides nothing, however, and his gaze follows the path of my hands. It takes everything in me not to squirm under his scrutiny.

“You know where it is?” I manage a feeble reply.

Radcliffe shifts in his seat. “Not where it is, but where it’ll be sold, and it’s the selling and buying that is of particular interest to the government.”

“I’m sorry, but I’m still confused. Why do you need me?” I lift my gaze and fall right into the charcoal depths of de Gaulle’s tumultuous stare.

He needs me, and it has nothing to do with the current conversation.

And what do I want?

The nervous flutter in my stomach to go away would be a nice start, but that’s unlikely to happen.

Radcliffe’s words cut the connection between me and de Gaulle, and I snap back, rebounding from the sudden loss. I focus on Radcliffe.

“As Monsieur de Gaulle mentioned,” Radcliffe explains, “we’ve been able to determine where the original will be auctioned.”

An auction? No legitimate auction house would handle the transfer of a stolen painting. What world are these people playing in?

Radcliffe gestures to de Gaulle. “Monsieur de Gaulle is uniquely positioned to assist with this case, and we’ve enlisted his help.”

“And I need you, Miss Faulks.” There it is again—that unique inflection to de Gaulle’s voice.

I hate roundabout discussions. If they want something, they’d better ask soon—before I lose my patience and leave. I cross my arms over my chest and struggle to find my patience.

“What do you need Viv for?” Dr. Phillips asks.

De Gaulle clears his throat and leans back in his chair once more. “Simple. I have secured an invitation to the event.”

Evidently, I didn’t piece together the depths of de Gaulle’s connections, but Dr. Phillips seems to understand.

“I’d be happy to accompany you,” Dr. Phillips says. “This isn’t the right forum for Viv.”

My frustrated silence continues while they discuss what I will and will not do.

“I need an expert to accompany me, and I don’t have the credentials she carries. With an event of this magnitude, it’s expected I bring someone to validate the art. I need the authenticity she would bring, and if we handle the matter of The Lovers well, everyone will know the name Vivianne Faulks.”

I straighten in my chair. This could be what I need. Legal or not, these are doors Prescott, my fiancé would want to be opened.

The Faulks family never concerns themselves with the finer aspects of what might or might not be legal. As long as the money flows, such concerns don’t matter, but I can’t appear too eager for this opportunity.

Faulkses never play their hand, Viv, my father would say. Don’t show eagerness—unless you want to lose.

I choose my words carefully. “If you want credentials to back you up, Dr. Phillips has the résumé. I’m still an unknown.”

De Gaulle’s eyes pinch. “Art theft aside, contact with such individuals would be something your family might stand to benefit from. And, while your mentor’s résumé is longer and more prestigious than yours, that is not why I need you.”

I’m tired of the half-spoken truths and find myself moments from leaving the table.

“I’m not able to leverage the Faulks name to your benefit.” Although born to the name, I don’t own it. Quite the opposite. “While I appreciate the invitation, I’m afraid?—”

“I’m not asking you to leverage your family’s name, Miss Faulks,” de Gaulle interrupts. “Believe me when I say your family and its name are small fish in the vast ocean I swim in. I want you because you’re the perfect bauble to drape from my arm. That’s the only reason I requested you and not Dr. Phillips. He’s more qualified, but I need a woman, not a man. I need the distraction you will bring. Besides, everyone who’s anyone will soon know about Vivianne Faulks’ impeccable eye.” He presses a finger to the tabletop. “Does that explain things well enough?”

More than enough.

Small fish in his ocean?

I doubt he comprehends the reach of my father’s empire or the Faulks name. Hell, I don’t comprehend all that’s involved. But I understand wealth and power.

The value de Gaulle intimates I bring to the table is real.

But adorn his arm and be his bauble?

That’s an insult.

Blessed with the grace and beauty steeped into the lineage of Faulks genes, I have no problem rubbing elbows and exchanging pleasantries with such an elite group, but there’s no way I’ll become nothing more than a pretty face.

I push away from the table. “I’m afraid the answer is no.” Grabbing my purse, I head to the door.

As my hand touches the doorknob, I pause. Part of me wants to turn around and see the expressions on their faces.

Are they surprised by my refusal?

Disappointed?

Or did they expect this reaction?

But I resist the urge. I won’t give them the satisfaction of seeing my uncertainty.

My father’s voice echoes in my head. Never show weakness, Viv. Never let them see you waver.

I take a deep breath, steeling myself. This could be the opportunity of a lifetime, a chance to break free from the gilded cage of my family’s expectations. But at what cost? To be paraded around as a ‘bauble,’ to be used for my looks rather than my expertise?

The weight of my decision settles on my shoulders. I can walk out this door and return to the life laid out for me—a loveless marriage and a future dictated by others.

Or I can swallow my pride and step into a world of intrigue and danger.

My hand tightens on the doorknob. The cool metal grounds me, reminding me of the reality of this moment. I’m standing on the precipice of a decision that could change everything.

I close my eyes for the briefest moment. When I open them, my resolve is set.

I know what I have to do.