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“I take it he has a crush on my Veronese?”
“It was love at first sight.”
“I already have two bids of twenty-five million.”
“My client will match any offer you receive. Pending a thorough examination of the canvas and provenance on my part, of course.”
“And if I were to sell it to him? What would he do with it?”
“It would be displayed prominently in one of his many homes.”
“Will he agree to lend it for exhibitions?”
“Never.”
“I admire your honesty.”
She smiled but said nothing.
“How long are you planning to stay in London?”
“I’m scheduled to return to Madrid tomorrow evening.”
“A pity.”
“Why?”
“Because I might have an opening in my schedule on Wednesday afternoon. Thursday, at the latest.”
“How about now instead?”
“Sorry, but my gallery is buttoned up for the night. Besides, it’s been a long day, and I’m exhausted.”
“A pity,” she said playfully. “Because I was hoping you would have dinner with me at the Lanesborough.”
“Tempting,” said Oliver. “But not on our first date.”
On the pavements of Piccadilly, Oliver offered the Spanish woman his hand in farewell but received a kiss instead. Not two Iberian air pecks but a single warm and breathy display of affection that landed near his right ear and lingered long after the woman had set off toward Hyde Park Corner and her hotel. The evening was made complete by the seductive final glance she gave him over one shoulder.Silly boy, she was saying.Silly, silly boy.
He turned in the opposite direction and, feeling slightly inebriated, fished his phone from the breast pocket of his suit jacket. He had received several calls and text messages since he had checked it last, none from Sarah. Curiously, her name and number had vanished from his directory of recent calls. Nor was there any record of a Sarah Bancroft in his contacts. Julian’s numbers were likewise missing, as was the entry for Isherwood Fine Arts.
Just then the phone pulsed with an incoming call. Oliver didn’t recognize the number. He tapped theaccepticon and raised the device to his ear.
“Your car and driver are waiting for you in Bolton Street,” said a male voice, and the connection went dead.
Oliver returned the phone to his pocket and continued on his present easterly heading. Bolton Street was a few paces ahead on the left. He rounded the corner and spotted a silver Bentley Continental idling curbside. Seated behind the wheel was Sarah’s husband. Oliver lowered his rotund form into the passenger seat. A moment later they were headed west along Piccadilly.
“Is your name really Peter Marlowe?”
“Why wouldn’t it be?”
“Sounds made up.”
“So does Oliver Dimbleby.” Smiling, he pointed out the tall womanwith shimmering black hair walking past the entrance of the Athenaeum. “There’s our girl.”
“I never laid so much as a finger on her.”
“It’s probably better not to mix work and play, wouldn’t you agree?”
“No,” said Oliver as the beautiful Spanish woman disappeared from view. “I most certainly would not.”
