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When he closed and locked the study door, Saskia had to steel herself against the temptation to run out the French doors and vault off the balcony, even though it was on the second story, and she’d break her ankle at the very least from this height—particularly since he had high ceilings. Sixteen feet at least.
As if sensing her strong desire to flee, Lachlan closed the French doors and slid the deadbolt into place.
He moved to the side bar and poured an amber liquid into a glass. “Drink?”
“No, thank you. Let’s just talk business.”
“You don’t trust me?”
“No farther than I could drop-kick you.”
He smiled—a smile he probably thought was charming—and he hadn’t met a woman with enough sense to disabuse him of the notion yet. The evolutionary urge not to starve was pretty strong in women. If it weren’t, Saskia wouldn’t be here. Men like Lachlan seemed like the easy road. The path of least resistance—if you could snag them.
It must be killing him that Saskia didn’t want to.
“Judging from your petite stature, that wouldn’t be very far.”
She sat in an overstuffed chair at the far corner of the study to avoid taking a seat he might try to share.
Undeterred, Lachlan pulled a rolling leather chair up to her, his knee mere inches from her own. He pushed a button on a remote, and jazz piped in through the sound system. She tensed.
“I’m not making a move on you. Relax. Don’t flatter yourself. I’ve just got some nosy help, and I want to ensure they don’t overhear.”
“On second thought, Iwillhave that drink.”
He smiled and rose. When he returned, the drink was barely out of his hand and into hers before she’d slammed it back and put the glass on the table.
He arched a brow. “Another?”
“No. Thank you.”
“Once I sit again, I’m not getting up to fetch you a second drink, so if you—”
“I said no.”
Lachlan held up his hands in surrender. “To business then. Do you have a finalized plan?”
“I do. Aren’t you going to look at the reproduction?”
Lachlan sighed and crossed to the painting still wrapped in brown paper. “You’re right. If you aren’t as good as you say you are, the rest of your skills won’t matter.”
He ripped the protective paper away and let out a low whistle. “You weren’t overstating your talent. I’m impressed. Why aren’t you doing original work? If money’s the problem... I could help you.”
He seemed genuine, as if he’d put her up in an isolated cottage somewhere and allow her to paint all day without a care in the world. But of course, that wasn’t what he was offering. He wanted a live-in whore with a side talent he could be amused by.
And anyway, she hadn’t done original work in a long time. Not since the apartment before her current one had burned down. She’d lost all her original work in the fire—some of it going back over a decade. She’d lost the heart for it after that. Saskia couldn’t stand the idea of putting all she had on canvas or paper only for it to go up in flame.
Lachlan continued to stare at the painting as if he could scarcely believe what he was looking at. “How can I be sure you’re as good a thief as you are a forger?”
“The proof will be when you have the real thing in your hands.”
“With a forgery this good, how will I know I have the real thing? Perhaps I should just keep this and be done with it. I’d save a lot of money.”
Saskia held her breath. He was just fucking with her. He’d already bragged about how he liked to get away with things under other people’s noses. He would get an endless kick out of having a famous stolen painting hanging in his parlor for all the world to see with no one ever the wiser.
He enjoyed manipulation and lies. How he thought divulging this information would make her want to form any sort of personal relationship with him, she had no idea.
“I assume you have someone you trust?” Saskia said. “Someone discreet who can authenticate the work? Just let him analyze this one and then compare to the one I bring you after I finish the job. I’m sure the differences will be clear to a skilled professional.”
