The Chase

Part of me wanted it to be true. Needed to believe our beloved Joan of Arc had survived that fire. But with that revelation would come a truth so vivid I wasn’t sure I’d survive it. All I’d known would be proven a lie.

I’d missed her terribly; Ouless had masterfully painted one of France’s most beloved heroines. Her legacy included visions of Christ that inspired her heroic reclaiming of France from the British. Of all my father’s collection she’d both inspired and scared me the most, perhaps because some part of me knew I’d never be capable of that kind of bravery.

Clara piped up, “Maybe Ouless painted more than one?”

Nigel tutted. “How likely is that?”

“Sounds very likely,” she said. “Probably loads of them out there.”

I cringed too soon, revealing I knew all too well this remarkable British painter was known for his one-of-a-kind masterpieces. Ouless was considered one of the nineteenth century’s best known portraitists and his Joan of Arc had been sought after by too many collectors to count. My father had rejected every offer.

Nigel lit up with triumph. “There’s a chance it wasn’t destroyed as alleged.”

“I’m afraid it was,” I said through clenched teeth.

Clara sounded distant. “Really, Nigel? This is Zara’s evening to celebrate her dad’s legacy.”

“What’s left of it,” he muttered.

I reached out to the marble pillar to steady my legs.

“Any plans to visit the painting?” he added. “If that piece is real—”

“Of course it’s not,” I said.

“It’s coming to London for final authentication apparently,” he said.

My legs wobbled with the unsteadiness of my feet.

“Are you sure?” asked Clara.

“That’s the rumor.” Nigel frowned his disapproval.

Dread shot up my spine. “Who is this mystery dealer?”

Who was the outrageous person willing to put his or her reputation on the line?

“Have no idea,” said Nigel. “I’m sure you’ll want more answers?”

“Yes.” No.

I want to forget.

The resurfacing of that old lie proved jealousy for my father’s collection still went deep. I wasn’t ready to give up the others, not yet.

Black spots flashed across my vision—

Tobias Wilder strolled out of the crowd toward us carrying two glasses of champagne, and I sucked in a sharp breath of surprise. He offered one of them to me; bubbles rising to the surface, the chilled glass making my fingers tingle as I accepted it from him.

Soothed by his beautiful striking face and that rugged stubble clashing with his styled locks he’d since run a comb through.

“Thank you,” I said, amazed my underwear fiasco hadn’t scared him off.

“My pleasure.” Tobias gave a self-possessed nod and then gestured to the waiter beside him. The young man handed out more champagne flutes to the others in our group. Two more waiters hurried forward and held out their trays laden with china plates full of hors d’oeuvres.

Nigel, Liza and Clara all helped themselves to the assorted small bites of food with obvious glee, seemingly recognizing him too. With a wave of my hand and a kind smile, I declined an appetizer.

“That’s awfully nice of you,” Nigel said.

“Mind if I join you?” Tobias showed off that dazzling smile. “What a fantastic venue. Love this place.”

The staff hurried away.

Dragging my teeth over my bottom lip, I tried to think of something to say, perhaps draw his attention to the Raphael directly behind him. In that painting the Italian artist had captured the beguiling image of a young lady with a unicorn on her lap.

“You like that one?” Tobias asked me with his back still to the painting.

“Yes.” I loved it and adored the crisp gold and burgundy of the subject’s dress, her delicate beauty, her eyes exuding innocence and the way she held that small animal on her lap so very carefully.

“Is that a unicorn?” asked Clara.

“A conventional symbol of chastity,” I told her.

“The allure of High Renaissance.” Tobias turned to take in the portrait and then spun round and fixed his gaze on mine—

Liquefying my insides and making my chest tighten.

Oh, bloody hell.

He was still staring at me.

At least when I’d met him briefly in the basement there had been some distance between us, but now, with that intense green stare locked on mine and that delicate waft of heady cologne reaching me he’d made my thoughts freeze.

“Mr. Wilder?” Nigel proffered his hand. “It’s such a pleasure to finally meet you.” Tobias turned toward Nigel and reached out to shake.

“I was in LA when The Wilder hosted the Samurai collection,” Nigel told him. “Japanese art is my specialty.”

“That was five years ago.” Tobias turned to us. “The Taka Ishii Gallery generously loaned us a few of their most treasured pieces. First time in the US.”

“I’d have loved to have seen that,” said Clara. “Will it come to London?”

“Afraid not,” said Tobias. “The collection is at home in Tokyo now and won’t tour again in our lifetime. Though we are hosting a collection by Sandro Botticelli.” His face lit up with happiness. “It’s quite something.”

Sighs of admiration rose from everyone circling him.

“You’re all invited of course—” his gaze fell on me “—if you’re ever in the neighborhood.”

My heart fluttered at the thought of seeing those early Renaissance pieces by an artist who’d captured the deepest emotions in his subjects’ eyes.