The Game

“Fakes removed from the market.”

“Don’t.”

“Are we still discussing my need to kiss you? Or have we moved on?”

“Listen to me, you’re putting yourself in terrible danger. You’ll lose all this.”

“I’ve lost you, Zara, that’s all I care about.”

“Come with me to the police. Admit everything before it’s too late.”

“Where’s the fun in that?”

Shaking my head, I refused to be seduced further. “I’m going to submit my report this afternoon.”

“Report?”

“It’s ready to email over to Huntly Pierre. It details everything.”

He arched a brow seductively. “Everything?”

“Pertaining to my case, yes.”

“You and I had nothing to do with any of it,” he said, sounding serious. “I need you to believe this.”

“I’ll never know.” I gazed past him. “Jade, turn the camera back on.”

“I’ve reversed your access to her.” He smiled. “I love that color on you. Blue brings out your eyes.”

“I saw the paintings, Tobias. I know who you are.”

He gave a sympathetic smile. “Apparently, while I was away you found a Tibetan singing bowl and returned the stolen item to its rightful owner? Bravo.”

“You mean the one you placed on my kitchen table? And now my fingerprints are all over it. Because you put me in an impossible position.”

Those monks living in Bermondsey’s Buddhist temple, who I’d unwittingly stumbled upon thanks to Tobias’s mischievousness, had more than deserved the return of their sacred singing bowl. Only, for goodness’ sake, did it have to be me who’d committed the heroic and yet highly illegal act?

Tobias looked amused. “Free will is a privilege.”

I pressed my hand to my heart. “You told me that right before your mom died in that plane crash she asked you to return the painting you were transporting. The one by Annibale Carracci, Madonna Enthroned with St. Matthew, to its rightful owner.” I reached out and squeezed his forearm. “You were nine years old. Do you see how it’s affected you?”

“Let’s discuss St. Joan. The painting you just stole.”

“I was merely taking a closer look. Checking her frame to authenticate her.”

“And your findings?”

A lump lodged in my throat and I tried to swallow.

“The original was destroyed in a fire apparently?” he added. “Surely that provides some reassurance.”

“Why are you doing this?”

He pressed his firm chest against mine and I rested my hands to hold him at bay, and yet my fingers scrunched his shirt.

Tobias leaned into my ear. “How did it feel when you held her?”

Turning my head to look at St. Joan, deciphering if these inner tingles were coming from being this close to her again—

His mouth brushed over my ear. “She belongs to you. Holding her felt right. Your connection is soul deep and worth more than her appraisal could ever be. You want her back.”

I cursed myself for looking away.

His last words to me in London hinted there was more to my family history and he knew a secret pertaining to her turning up at Christie’s auction house.

I couldn’t stir the courage to ask him what he meant.

Not yet.

“I wouldn’t have taken her.”

“Yes, you would.” He stepped back and the loss of him wrenched. “Jade, camera on.” He waited for confirmation and then refocused on me. “I hope you’ve enjoyed your time in LA, Ms. Leighton. We’ve enjoyed having you here.”

“I’ve only been here a day.”

“Pity to cut your visit short. Still, I know they need your certain set of skills back in London.” He gestured to the door. “Shall we?”

Following him out, I walked beside him through the foyer and onward out the glass door exit and into the sun.

“Tobias, please.” I tried to keep up with him.

He refused to make eye contact and bowed his head, taking long strides as he tucked his hands into his trouser pockets. “How did you like Madame Paul Duchesne-Fournet?”

“She’s breathtaking.”

“Isn’t she? I knew you’d like her.”

And I wanted desperately to go back in and enjoy her more with him beside me.

The formality felt like a dagger to my heart.

“Tobias, it was wonderful seeing you.” And I meant it. “I’ve missed you.”

At the end of the walkway he paused before a Rolls-Royce Ghost idling on the curb and his gaze swept over me. He looked like he was about to speak and then seemed to think better of it, his attention turning to the falling green hills and beyond them to the speeding cars rushing along a busy freeway.

“Say something,” I pleaded.

“Marshall will drive you to the airport.”

I glanced through the window at his chauffeur, the fortysomething, smartly dressed man with graying temples, waiting patiently.

“I’m not leaving.”

Tobias strolled to the back of the car and tapped the trunk.

Marshall released the trunk and Tobias lifted it the rest of the way. There, lying in the trunk, was my red suitcase.

My jaw dropped at his arrogance.

“I’ve taken care of your stay at the Four Seasons. Your minibar bill nearly wiped me out.” He gave a wry grin until it turned serious. “My jet is fueled and on the runway. It’ll land at Heathrow.”

“You can’t get rid of me.”

“St. Joan of Arc will be waiting for you in London.”

Oh, so this is how it was meant to end.

My heart ached that it had come to this, him blackmailing me with my own painting. More than this, what we’d had now more than ever proved an illusion.

“What will happen if I don’t get on your plane?” I searched his face for the answer.

Was he going to expose St. Joan to the world if I didn’t comply? A sharp stab of fear hit me when I read that in his expression.

He opened the rear door. “It’s over, Zara.”

My heart shattered into a thousand pieces and I refused to look at him, bowing my head as I climbed into the back seat, throwing my handbag ahead of me onto the soft leather.

His ironclad grip wrapped around my upper arm and he drew me out. Tobias yanked me toward him and cupped my face with his strong hands, crushing his lips to mine, and I surrendered, starved for him, needing his roughness. His mouth forced mine wider, his tongue feverishly lashing mine.

I gasped my relief to be back in his arms, swooning at the sensation of our tongues sweeping together, his mouth raging against mine and then softening to console. His eyes closed as he sighed wantonly into my mouth. When his hand slipped to my lower spine and he yanked me against him, my sex throbbed, making me shudder with femininity, my soul soothed and yet aching with the dread of leaving him.

He drew back. “Forgive me. I don’t know any other way.”

“I will stop you.” My gaze lowered to his mouth.

He ran his thumb over my bottom lip. “Why do you insist on destroying me?”

“Because what you’re doing is wrong.”

“I meant my heart, Zara.”

My body trembled with this cruel need for him, as though my mind and body refused to agree this desire couldn’t be more wrong.

“Go.” His lips curved into a smile. “Before I change my mind.”

“What will happen if I stay?”

He shook his head and nudged me into the car and closed the door to seal me inside.

The Rolls drove me away from him.

I peered out to watch Tobias walk back toward The Wilder, his sadness seemingly as torturous as mine. The way he scraped his fingers through his hair hinted at his confliction.

Being wrenched away so suddenly made my chest tighten and I concentrated on taking slow, deep breaths to calm.

“LAX won’t take long, ma’am,” Marshall piped up.

“How long will it take to get there?” I forced a polite smile.

“Half an hour. The 405 looks good. Would you like me to turn up the air-conditioning?”

“No, thank you.” This dreadful chill was already making me tremble.

I don’t want to leave.

There was so much more to see and do and I’d always wanted to visit Rodeo Drive, I painfully mused, pop into Tiffany & Co., and maybe dine in one of the fine restaurants near my hotel, and then of course visit the private art galleries there.

Slumping in my seat I pushed those superficial thoughts away and faced my anguish. I’d failed myself, failed Tobias, and I couldn’t bear the thought I’d let him down because I’d not been strong enough to do what had to be done. I’d let my fear of exposure to scandal affect my judgment.

Icon was taking on history itself and his capture was inevitable. This beautiful man who’d watched his parents die in front of him would be tortured for the rest of his life because of this tragedy. Tobias was playing out some kind of retribution as though trying to salvage his past and dull his pain.

He needed a friend. An advocate who cared. Someone who could make him see sense. Or at least find a way to prevent him from ruining himself.

As I ran over my options I came to terms with the fact that whatever was in my suitcase I could live without.

My hand slid toward the door handle.

The door handle wouldn’t give.

I was bloody well locked inside this Rolls-Royce.

The luxury leather-and-chrome interior highlighted Tobias’s grand lifestyle and in any other circumstances I’d have been thrilled to be taken to the airport in a chauffeur-driven car or have a private jet waiting for me. All I had to do was resign to my fate and I’d be sipping bubbly and heading back to my Notting Hill flat.

Luckily, Marshall hadn’t caught my subtle attempt to escape. Staring through the front window I could see we only had one red light left and we’d be on the freeway. Rummaging through my handbag with my fingers tracing over my passport, I shoved it to the bottom of my purse.

“Oh, no.” I raised my gaze to look at Marshall in the rearview mirror. “I left my passport in the hotel safe.”

“Ma’am, I checked you out of the Beverly Wilshire. Nothing was left behind.”

“You packed my stuff?” I hated the thought of this stranger handling my underwear.

“The concierge took care of it.”

My jaw tightened at the injustice. “It was right in the back of the safe. They missed it. We have to go there.”

“Let me have the concierge take care of it. She’ll have your passport transported to meet us at the VIP lounge at LAX.” He tapped the screen on the dashboard. “Beverly Wilshire.”

With a forced smile, I feigned gratitude for his thoughtfulness and listened to him request the staff to retrieve my passport from my room.

“I know where I left it.” I sounded chirpier then I felt.

Marshall’s eyes met mine in the rearview.

I gestured my relief. “UCLA. I was showing an old professor of mine how different they look now. This issue with the EU had us changing them.” I waved it off as though it was boring. “Would you mind taking me there?”

“The university?”

“Yes, the campus.” I pulled out my phone. “I’ll text him.”

It wasn’t too much of a lie, though. I’d not had the time yet to visit Gabe Anderson—one of my favorite professors at my old alma mater, The Courtauld Institute of Art. Two months ago he’d returned to California to teach Asian art history, a subject he was obsessed with. I didn’t think I’d be taking up Gabe’s invitation to visit him so soon and neither would he.

After Tobias, Gabe was the only other person I knew here.

Marshall turned left when the light flashed green and navigated us east away from the freeway.

It’s going to be okay.

Clothes, that’s all I had in my suitcase, oh, and makeup too. I could go without all of it. There were plenty of shopping malls here so I could buy all the essentials later.

This decision had so many consequences—not the least of which was Tobias’s lingering threat of ruining my reputation if he exposed St. Joan as authentic. He’d gone to so much trouble to steal her from Christie’s after an unknown collector had shipped her from Europe to London for final endorsement. Icon had snatched her away before the specialists had gotten to prove she was real. His ulterior motive was now glaring. That painting served as leverage.

Damn him, he knew the effect he had on me.

The ghost of his kiss lingered on my lips and he still had my hands trembling, or perhaps this was merely the tension I’d been holding from the thought of seeing him again. I’d promised myself I wouldn’t let him throw me off my reason for being here.

Yet here I sat, thrown.

3

Within twenty minutes we were winding our way along the UCLA campus roads, and my heart rate rocketed from my brilliant plan inspired further by the impressive old brick buildings of this bustling college. Students strolled to and from their classes. I imagined Gabe would be happy here amongst all this prestige and academic camaraderie.

My focus returned to Marshall. He looked like a reasonable man.

Discreetly, I reached into my handbag and pulled out my phone. I hated the idea of being without it, but this was the only way I’d be able to evade him. If he skipped town, there was a chance I could find someone with the skill to reverse engineer the signal and track it to him. I was going to have to stash it somewhere safe for now.

“Right over there, please.” I pointed to the Franklin D. Murphy Sculpture Garden.

The car pulled up to the curb.

“I’ll let Mr. Wilder know we’re running late,” said Marshall. “He’ll inform his flight crew.”

I raised my phone and smiled through my lie. “He told me to take all the time I need.”

Marshall narrowed his gaze in the rearview, seemingly unconvinced.

You don’t intimidate me, buddy, not even after you broke into my hotel room and violated my privacy.

“Can you open the door, please?”

He hesitated. “Did you text your professor? Does he have it, miss?”

“I hope so.” My gaze swept the sculpture garden. “I’ll be right back.” I grabbed my handbag ready to bolt.

With a click of the lock I was free and my feet hit the curb with a bounce of triumph. I turned to give a wave of thanks and then realized Marshall was getting out.

“I’ll be quicker alone.” I took off, striding fast through the well-tended garden, passing an array of sculptures, one of them a large golden female torso on a solid granite base. It was beautiful, and I pined to be able to enjoy these modern masterpieces with the attention they deserved and not while running from Tobias’s chauffer. A perky tour guide led a long line of prospective students around the campus. I took advantage of the endless line of people and weaved through them and shut off my phone.

Turning left and a sharp right, I saw the Charles E. Young Research Library up ahead and hurried toward it and with one quick glance back I confirmed I wasn’t being followed—

The atmosphere was expectedly serene and as I strolled toward the reception desk situated to the right of the glass foyer, I threw a big smile to the librarian, a man in his thirties who was slim and studious looking with his head buried in a book. He frowned his interest when he greeted me.

Within minutes I was heading down the staircase to the rare book reading room after providing a convincing performance as a foreign student. Throwing in some academic jargon that gave me the credibility I needed along with my unusual request to see their out-of-print edition of a collection of paintings by Paul Gauguin from the late 1800s. Gauguin was a famed painter, printmaker and sculptor, and this was the first rare book that came to mind.

I made my way into the air-sealed room, respectful of the other students, and picked up a pair of white gloves out of a wooden box on a corner table and pulled them on. Instead of looking for the book on Gauguin, I pulled a first edition biography on William Shakespeare off the shelf that in any other circumstance would have had my full attention. I pretended to read it.

Tobias might very well hold a press conference to announce the suspicious provenance of my St. Joan. Then again, with one phone call from me, the police would turn their attention on him and his days of thievery would be over or at least stilted.

Though I believed Tobias wouldn’t hurt me. We were at an impasse.

I needed time to rethink my strategy and if this is what it took, me throwing caution to the wind and trusting my gut, then so be it.

When the room emptied of visitors I returned the first edition to its shelf, pulled off the gloves and returned them to their wooden box. I carried my phone over to the oak book cabinet, knelt and reached around to stash my phone behind it.

There, it was done.

I exited the reading room and headed over to the wall phone. Within a few seconds I was speaking to the campus operator and asking to be put through to Professor Gabe Anderson’s office.

“Zara?” Gabe answered with that American brightness.

“Professor Anderson?” There came a wave of comfort at hearing his voice again.

“What a lovely surprise. Where are you?”

“I stopped off at the antiques reading room. You know how I love old books. Are you busy?”

“Never.” He gave a sigh. “Are you okay?”

“Yes. Why?”

“Your chauffer was here looking for you.”

Oh, no, Marshall had found Gabe’s office. He must have called his boss to tell him he’d lost me, and then Tobias had immediately searched The Courtauld’s teacher database and cross-referenced it with all the professors at UCLA. How easy it would have been to track down Gabe. Tobias had then directed Marshall to find him on the campus. All in under fifteen minutes.

“Why would I have your passport?” Anderson sounded concerned. “Haven’t seen you in three months.”

“It’s a misunderstanding. Is he still there?”

“He headed off to look for you. He left his number. Shall I call him?”

“No, it’s fine.” I wondered if Marshall might be trying to follow the GPS in the phone I’d just stashed, the same one Tobias had conveniently gifted me.

“Is now an okay time?” I asked.

“Of course. I’m in Boelter Hall, office 112.”

“I’ll be right there.”

After asking the librarian for directions I headed out of the library, weaving my way along the college lanes.

There came a rush of relief when I saw Professor Anderson waiting for me outside his office door. I hurried toward him and gave him a big hug. He gestured for me to follow him into his office but I hesitated for a second, wondering if Marshall might come back. Still, if he did I could handle him. It wasn’t like he’d be able to force me back into his limo.

I made my way in and shut the door. “It’s so wonderful to see you, Professor.”

“Call me Gabe. I had no idea you were in LA?” He pointed to one of the two armchairs in the corner for me to sit. “Tea?”

“No, thank you.”

His office was an organized chaos with files stacked high on his desk and his impressive collection of Asian history books lined up along the dark wooden shelf. An empty coffee mug. Gabe was wearing his usual tweed jacket and black slacks to offset being in his early thirties, and his raven locks still flopped over his kind eyes.

“Zara, so good to see you. I hear you got hired at Huntly Pierre?”

“Yes, as an art specialist. Sorry I didn’t call you to let you know I was visiting LA. I meant to.”

“Are you on vacation?”

“Kind of. Mixing work with pleasure.” And as I was unofficially in California that version sat well with me.

“Where are you staying?”

“Beverly Wilshire.” I cringed inwardly, recalling how Tobias had unceremoniously checked me out of my hotel room.

“Your chauffeur told me you lost your passport?”

“Did he bother you? I’m sorry.”

“No, he wanted to help you out.” Gabe stood and reached for a Post-it note on his desk. “Here’s his number.”

I took it from him. “Thank you.”

He sat back down. “How long are you here?”

“A week.”

“On behalf of Huntly Pierre?”

“Kind of. To be honest I’m going a little rogue. Using my free time to investigate a lead.”

He laughed. “My little librarian?”

I deserved that I suppose. I’d been one of his quieter students and only revealed a spark of personality when I handed in my papers that always came back with an A+.

It didn’t take us long to catch up and it was lovely to hear how he was now living in Brentwood with his boyfriend, Ned, a technology strategist for a firm in Menlo Park, though Gabe said he worked from home most days.

The last few hours had felt like a whirlwind of emotions and seeing my old professor filled me with happiness; Gabe was the connection to home I’d needed even if he was here now.

Jet lag caught up and I suppressed a yawn. “I need to call a taxi.”

“I can drive you.”

“I’m fine. But thank you.”

He stood and reached for his phone. “Where are you going?”

“Can you recommend a hotel? I need to be closer to the Los Angeles County Museum of Art.”

“The Sofitel? It’s also near the Beverly Center. It’s a big shopping center and is just across the street.”

“Perfect.”

Gabe made the call and requested the cab park in front of Boelter Hall. With that done he scribbled a number on a piece of paper and handed it to me. “Here’s my cell.”

“Thank you.” I tucked it into my handbag.

“I don’t suppose you’d like to join me at a cocktail party tomorrow night?”

“Where?”

“The Broad. One of my students is showcasing his collection as part of a youth program at the gallery.”

My attention spiked with the thought of visiting one of the city’s most distinguished museums that was on my list to check out. “I’d love to go.”

“Great! I’ll pick you up tomorrow at seven. It’s black-tie.”

“I have just the thing.” Ironically a dress that rogue Wilder had bought me back in London.

I gave Gabe a big hug and followed the pathway toward the entrance of Boelter Hall, all the while glancing around for Marshall. When I reached the grassy bank, I saw my taxi idling at the curb. Settling in the back of the car I looked forward to checking into the Sofitel hotel and, just as Gabe suggested, visiting the shopping center. I needed to replace the contents of my suitcase.

Staring out at the passing scenery, the enormity of what I was taking on hit me. I had less than a week to collate data from every single gallery, along with private collections in LA, the kind that might draw the attention of a thief. For now, at least, I had a motive to go on; a broken provenance consistently occurring with each painting stolen by Icon. A gargantuan task that would quite frankly have been impossible without my access to Huntly Pierre’s newly developed software. An ingenious processing program that collated the art collections of international galleries with details including their individual history. This ability was now part of my investigative tool kit.

Why couldn’t all this be simple? Why wasn’t the enigmatic Tobias who I’d fallen hard for just an ordinary man who I could date without all this drama? Our worlds were clashing and the fallout was going to leave nothing but two broken people if I wasn’t careful.

It hurt knowing Tobias was in the same city and I couldn’t see him. Being so close to him at The Wilder Museum had reminded me he was dangerously seductive. Recalling the way he’d pressed his body against mine with all that hard muscle and boundless power threatened to make me lose focus.

I’d always wanted to visit The Broad, famed for its avant-garde reputation, and I couldn’t wait to explore the endless showrooms.

That’s it, think of a vast, frigid gallery instead of Wilder and refocus your brain on why you’re here.

After paying for my cab, I climbed out and headed toward the impressive front door of the Sofitel.

“Miss,” the taxi driver called after me.

I turned to face him and froze—

He was retrieving a red suitcase out of the trunk of his cab.

Mine.