The Chase

Who was I kidding? My heart was fluttering over this hottie.

Tobias smiled wistfully. “Seeing La Primavera up close is a privilege.”

I wanted to tell him how much I’d always wanted to visit The Wilder Museum, but held back, not sure if that would come over as a little forward.

Tobias slipped into a smile. “Nigel, may I call you Nigel?”

“Absolutely.”

“I enjoyed that piece you wrote about the Tate.”

“The one on Anna Lea Merritt?”

“That’s the one,” he said. “Very insightful. Love her work.”

“She married her tutor,” I muttered.

Tobias looked my way, his eyes narrowing in interest, and he made me blush.

Clara’s eyebrows popped up, and I hoped she was the only one who’d caught my visceral response to this man. For some reason my mouth had stopped working and this was unusual for me. I loved taking part in this kind of conversation and Clara knew it.

“So what brings you to London?” asked Nigel.

“Business,” he replied.

With Tobias conveniently distracted, I took a breath and admired him discreetly. He moved with such refinement, and yet his earthiness made him less threatening. I kicked myself that I’d had him all to myself down in the basement and not taken the time to talk with him and get to know this enigma better.

Tobias tucked his left hand into his trouser pocket casually and took a sip of bubbly.

That lick across his bottom lip, that tilt of his head, that intensity in his expression as he listened to Nigel.

God, he was gorgeous.

A rush of excitement flooded my chest as I realized he was still hanging out with us.

I let out a wistful sigh.

And earned a flicker of amusement in Tobias’s expression; his eyes crinkled into a subtle smile.

Oh no, he’d sensed me staring.

Reason kicked in as I recalled my first instinct had been to run when I’d met him. He’d no doubt have a slew of women chasing after him and all of them from his world of beautiful socialites. The European supermodel types who took perfection all too seriously.

And based on the passing glances from the other guests surrounding us, many of them seemed just as enamored and more than proved my glum musing that men like this could only be enjoyed from afar.

There was an evening of Googling Tobias Wilder ahead of me when I got back to my Notting Hill flat. See what he was up to now and perhaps find a clue to why he was in London. I’d dig up some dirt on him, no doubt, some article to confirm my gut feeling about him. Tobias Wilder was out of my league for all the right reasons.

He stepped forward to shake Liza’s hand and then Clara’s, his smile reaching his eyes. Their faces lit up in delight at meeting this charismatic man.

“Pleasure’s all mine.” He turned to me and took my hand firmly in his. “Tobias.”

“Zara.”

His smile faded and he blinked at me.

“Zara Leighton,” I said brightly.

His hand slid from mine and he looked away as though distracted.

“Tonight’s a celebration for Zara,” explained Nigel. “She’s given her painting to the gallery. It’s quite a find. Have you seen it?”

“She’s beautiful,” said Tobias. “The painting. Well, I should go. Thank you for the great company. It’s been...insightful.”

“But you only just got here?” said Clara.

“I have an appointment across town.”

“Where are you staying?” asked Nigel.

But Tobias was already weaving his way through the crowd and heading fast for the door.

That masterful stride carrying him away from us.

We all swapped wary glances with each other at his quick exit, and I felt Clara’s arm wrap around my waist to comfort me.

Tobias’s attention had been short lived and someone or something had drawn him away all too briskly. Taking another sip of champagne, I feigned there had never been any hope it might have been me.

3 (#ub990cfa4-9dbd-5e94-a0de-a9d324bc527b)

With my morning latte in hand, I wound my way up the fourteen-story staircase of The Tiriani Building toward the top floor. My fear of being late clashed with my claustrophobia. Taking the elevator was impossible, though, but as every building had stairs it was never an issue and on the positive side it was great for my bum.

During my interview three weeks ago I’d been wowed by the sprawling view that stretched as far as Canary Wharf, and the interior’s decor of steel and silver solidifying its cutting-edge reputation.

Pausing between floors to catch my breath and take delicate sips, careful not to spill my drink on my new blue silk blouse or Ralph Lauren skirt, I was close to being late for that 9:30 a.m. staff meeting. My first introduction to Huntly Pierre’s elite crack team of investigators had kept me up all night with a mixture of excitement and nerves.

I patted myself on the back with how well I’d already coped with disaster this morning. My curling iron broke seconds after switching it on so I’d had to shove my wayward locks into a neat chignon.

Huntly Pierre took up the top six floors and was a modern masterpiece of architecture smack-dab in the middle of The Strand, and the kind of real estate that proved the company was thriving. I’d been brought on for my special brand of expertise garnered from that art history degree I’d earned at Courtauld. This was truly my dream job. I would soon be hanging out at galleries all day, chatting with other art lovers, and my nosy personality would get its daily fix.

My face flushed as I recalled last night’s highlight at The Otillie, meeting the enigmatic Mr. Wilder. I’d fallen asleep with my laptop open on his pretty boy face.

One thing was for sure, he was the outdoorsy type and had a thing for motorbikes and sports cars, or any kind of speed, for that matter.

Soon after I’d gotten home from the gallery I’d sat riveted to my screen as I’d watched what was hailed as a rare insight into his life filmed last year and aired on national television. He’d taken the interviewer on a private tour of his Los Angeles gallery. As they’d strolled through The Wilder, perusing his fine collection of paintings, Tobias had sincerely expressed his passion for seeing art education continued in schools.

I’d let out a sigh as I’d watched him express his belief that students benefited greatly from learning to see beyond the ordinary—

“They must be taught to look closer,” he’d fervidly expressed. “They must be shown how to peer through the enlightened lens of art and develop the skills that will lead them to experience creative lives.”