The Game

There, adorning the far left wall was a familiar painting; a ghost from my past.

All air was gone from the room until nothing remained as I struggled to draw back on my dread, wrapping my arms around myself to hold off this stark chill soaking into my bones.

Lips trembling, I neared the portrait of St. Joan of Arc.

My Joan.

I reached up, grasping either side of her wooden frame and lifted her off the wire.

I’d grown up with Walter William Ouless’s St. Joan and couldn’t remember a time when her portrait hadn’t been part of my father’s collection. It broke my heart when I remembered his devastation when he thought she’d been destroyed in that house fire, along with most of the others.

This very portrait had turned up at Christie’s auction house weeks ago in London, alighting a family scandal because she wasn’t meant to exist anymore.

More recently, St. Joan’s disappearance from Christie’s had seen her included in the list of art crimes tracked by the police across Europe. And yet here she was placed to taunt me.

Her message clear—

My future in the art world was in his hands.

I hugged St. Joan, clutching her tight to my chest, sucking in deep breaths of despair that she was no longer mine.

Unless...

To think of rescuing her and walking right through that foyer and out the front door was ridiculous. I’d never get away with it.

No.

Madness.

My life was carved into two parts, before Wilder and after him, with each careful step leading me toward this complex, enigmatic man with the lines of right and wrong blurring. If I truly wanted to succeed, truly wanted to save him after risking so much, I’d have no choice but to push myself beyond anything I’d done before.

Ironically, it was Tobias who’d shown me how to challenge myself and learn how to resist fear.

He’s shown me the way.

2 (#ufb72df60-0fcd-5474-a7a0-5774b1f33288)

Rising up and dispelling this temporary moment of stupidity, I saw a stocky security guard standing just inside the door and staring me down.

“Miss,” he said, louder than needed. “Place the painting on the desk, please.”

My breath stuttered. “I was just taking a closer look.”

“Desk, please.” His fingers clenched around his handgun.

With trembling hands I stepped forward and laid St. Joan faceup on the desk. Stepping back, I raised my hands in the air a little. “It’s not what it looks like.”

Yet it is.

Had there not been cameras, or guards, or any other state-of-the-art security, I’d have taken her away with me without looking back. From that guard’s expression he knew it too. With a wave of his hand he warned me to move farther away.

My back met the wall and I froze.

An ice-cold slither of fear spiraling down my spine.

The door opened farther and in stepped a delicate-framed Latino woman, forty or so, those laughter lines now taut with worry. “Ms. Leighton?” Her tone was infused with tension. “I’m Maria Perez.”

“We spoke on the phone?” I said.

The awkwardness forced a shameful silence.

She saw the painting and looked horrified.

“I’m so happy to meet you.” It sounded silly now, my politeness negated by my suspicious behavior.

“Take a seat,” said the guard. “LAPD are on their way.”

My feet refused to move. “Who?”

“We’ve called the police.” Maria’s gaze rose to the small camera set in the upper right-hand corner.

Its lens trained on me.

Panic-stricken, I stared down at St. Joan wondering if Tobias had set a trap. He’d known how beaten up I was about finding her again. He’d witnessed firsthand how incapacitated I’d been when she’d turned up at Christie’s. He’d been the one who had embraced me when my knees had buckled with the strain of realizing she’d not been destroyed.

Vulnerable, ice sliding down my spine.

Then he appeared like a suave apparition—

Tobias Wilder entered briskly and paused just inside the door, his expression unreadable. A flash of power in his dark green gaze as he glanced at his desk.

His glare rising to find me.

Igniting a tremble within as I exhaled a slow, nervous breath. God, I’d almost forgotten how gorgeous he was, how regal and breathtakingly dashing, the way his dark blond hair framed that handsome face, high cheekbones and that strong jawline. The way he moved demurely and yet with a masculine edge that emanated power. I’d swooned too many times at the way he liked to casually tuck his hands into his trouser pockets like he was doing now in that expensive bespoke suit, no tie, and his collar open to add an arrogant flair.

Few people would know that beneath all that formality his left upper arm was inked seductively with an Aborigine symbol and lower on his well-toned body, along the curve of his groin, were inscribed words in Latin. Both in a suit and out of one he’d once rocked my world. An annoying inconvenience remedied by remembering who I was dealing with—

Icon.

And that curve of his lips proved he was garnering pleasure from my reaction to seeing him again.

I’ve fallen into his trap.

Of course, I’d underestimated his brilliance, his foresight, his boldness to break all the rules and let the dust fall where it may.

My stare swept from him to Maria, and then sharply to the guard’s hand twitching on the gun.

“It’s all a big misunderstanding,” I pleaded with Tobias. “Can you tell them...she’s mine?”