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“I’d prefer to wait here. He wanted me to look at a couple of paintings and I am pressed for time so the sooner I can talk to him about specifics, the better.”
“Of course, I understand. Just wait here—better yet, take one of these, and then you can wander to your heart’s content. It will let us know where to find you.”
Claire smiled and adjusted her glasses as she took the little device that resembled an old-school pager. “That would be great.”
“Keep it away from your glasses,” whispered Mia in her ear. “It could jam the video signal.”
Claire watched as the woman from reception scurried away. She wasn’t sure if the woman was afraid of Pennington or just flabbergasted to be in her presence. The latter was just plain silly. Claire was good at her job, but Poppi had taught her that people should expect the best from you. Taking her tracking device, she wandered into one of the light-filled galleries. She glanced up at the windows, seeing the sunny blue skies with tufts of white, cotton candy clouds and wondering if the purity of sunlight that poured through the glass ceiling didn’t damage the paint on the works of art. She was also looking to see if there was a better way of ingress or egress.
“There are filament fibers inserted in the glass that filter out the harmful rays,” whispered the sexy voice from the fundraising gala the other night.
That he had slipped in so close to her was disconcerting. She had honed her senses to where it was difficult, if not impossible, for someone to sneak up on her. The fact that he had done so to the point where she could feel his breath on the back of her neck was worrisome, as well as incredibly erotic. For such a large, brawny man he moved with the grace and elegance of a large, predatory cat.
Claire whirled around. She was here to get the necklace, not to get laid. She needed to back him off and back him off now. “Do you always sneak up on women like that?”
She couldn’t help but notice the incongruousness of the tailored wool trousers, high end cotton shirt and polished shoes with the shlumpy tuxedo he’d worn to the gala.
“Only the ones I want to seduce,” he said with a feral grin.
Did he just say he wants to seduce me?
Shaking her head, she tapped the edge of her glasses. “Never happen.”
“Hmm; we’ll see.”
“Arrogant bastard,” she hissed. “Go away.”
“Ahh, Dr. Mitchell,” said Edgar Pennington as he approached them. “I see that you have met Mr. Fletcher.”
“Fletcher?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said with an easy smile. “Ryland Fletcher, and you’re Dr. Claire Mitchell, the famous restoration specialist.”
So did he know her by reputation, or had he done some digging on his own? Time to give him something to think about.
“Ryland Fletcher of Silver Arrow Security. That’s kind of cute, by the way—Fletcher as in a man who makes arrows.”
Fletcher nodded.
“Good. I’m glad you two have met. Mr. Fletcher was very helpful in pointing out some flaws in our security system.”
Well, that settled it; Fletcher had to have been the one who, at the very least jammed their comm units the night of the gala, and in all likelihood had been attacking the firewalls of Mia’s system. Yet another reason she needed to avoid Ryland Fletcher.
“Mr. Pennington?” she said, spinning smoothly on the ball of her foot so that her back was once again to Fletcher. “You asked me to meet you today to show me a couple of paintings… you needed my professional opinion on their appraised value, their provenance, and whether they needed restoration. Would you like to show me which paintings in particular you are thinking of?”
“Yes. Of particular interest is a painting by John Atkinson Grimshaw,” he said, leading the way into another gallery, where he stopped in front of a painting Claire knew all too well.
It was one of Grimshaw’s lesser-known works, a still life, but there was no doubt as to its authenticity. Poppi had been looking for this piece for decades.
“He is considered the father and master of moonlit landscapes known as ‘nocturnes,’” she started, “but he did do other subjects—fairies and still lifes in particular.”
“You know your English painters,” chimed in Fletcher, who had not taken a hint when she turned her back on him and had followed her and Mr. Pennington.
“I do have a doctorate, Mr. Fletcher. I would think you would assume I knew fine art. I will tell you that I’d love to get a look at the provenance on this painting. It disappeared during the second world war. Many experts considered it lost to the Nazis and the other disreputable men who looted the concentration camps and stole from those who couldn’t fight back.”
Pennington looked as though someone had just stolen his favorite marble. “The owner assured me…”
“I’m able to authenticate the piece itself and its appraised value, but I should let you know that I will also send a copy of my findings to the German Limbach Commission.”
