The French Thief: An International Legacies Romance

by Camilla Stevens

  Ever since Georgette told me about the fascinating history of her family back in Paris during WWII, I’d developed an interest in every aspect of it, specifically what happened to everyone involved. My interest eventually led me down the path of the artist Jean-Pierre Chabat, a fascinating man in his own right. Then, of course, there was the painting, Noémie’s only surviving link to the Ardant Family.

  And Georgette’s birthright.

  Which is why I first applied to work at Gaultier Financial. Never mind that I had a degree in history, with a minor in art history from Columbia University—starting out as a personal assistant to one of the associates was right up my alley. I was the first to jump at the chance to replace the latest in a long line of fed up personal assistants to the president and CEOhimself.

  When Gaultier had the painting officially confirmed as a Chabat, I knew I’d made the right decision. When he announced that the painting would be put on display instead of housed in one of his many hidden private collections, I figured it had to be providence.

  And now, it’s all coming to a head.

  By 7:30 p.m. the strategically placed bars are stocked, the hors d'oeuvres sections are laid out, the lighting is set to “mood,” soft classical jazz is playing in the background, and the event planner has stopped pulling her hair out. Yasmine has already grabbed a flute of champagne from one of the tables, earning her a frazzled sigh from the planner who quickly snaps for one of the servers to replace the gap she left.

  I’m abstaining, at least until the unveiling. After all this time, I don’t want a fuzzy head when I get my first glimpse of Noémie.

  “So, is there any chance I might encounter a man under the age of sixty worth my time at this thing?” Yasmine asks before taking a bored sip.

  “I think you might have to make do with one of the wait staff,” I say with a smirk, thinking of the guest list I had to double check.

  “Not something I haven’t done before, mind you, but wouldn’t it be nice to get beauty, brains, and a healthy bank account in one package?”

  “If anyone can catch a fish like that, I’m sure you’re the most likely candidate, Yasmine.”

  “I knew there was a reason I liked you.”

  I give her an idle smile. Then, for some idiotic reason, Andrew pops into my head. I feel the burn of embarrassment at how jealous I got when he mentioned “the gorgeous one” who sits across from me at work. It’s replaced with a different kind of heat when I remember what he said afterward.

  “I think I’ll join you in a glass of champagne,” I say, eyeing hers with envy. One glass won’t hurt.

  A rather agile server curtails me on the way to one of the tables, placing a flute from his tray in front of me before I can ruin the perfect layout as Yasmine did.

  “Thanks,” I say with a smile before heading back to Yasmine.

  It helps take the edge off while we wait for the first attendees to arrive. Technically, we’re supposed to get the mingling started, but when the fat cat is away, us lowly mice refuse to play. Besides, the first guests to show up look like the sort who stick to their own kind.

  My eyes keep darting toward the stage where two men the size of Russia—and who may very well be Russian—guard the draped painting.

  Soon.

  The official ceremony is to take place at 9:00, with a few speeches and lots of fanfare. At a quarter to, the room is packed and my stomach has had enough caviar and crème fraîche to almost make me sick.

  My eyes are glued to the front entrance, awaiting the arrival of my boss so this thing can be over and done with. I want to see the damn painting already!

  What I’m rewarded with is almost as intriguing.

  Andrew Mercier, looking dapper as anything in an obviously well-tailored tuxedo…on the arm of one Laura Wincroft.

  Chapter Eleven

  Andrew

  Laura Wincroft, wife of Thornston Wincroft of the Connecticut Wincrofts, old money dabblers in the worlds of real estate, tobacco, and finance. And of course notorious patrons of the arts. With a date like her on my arm, even Gaultier would balk at the idea of kicking me out. I almost look forward to seeing the look on his face when we inevitably run into each other.

  “Half an hour, and then we’re gone,” she hisses through a dazzling smile at someone who’s just recognized her.

  “We’re gone when I say we’re gone,” I reply through a lazy smile as I look ahead. I lay a hand on the elbow that’s hooked in mine and squeeze for good measure.

  An angry sigh escapes her lips, but she says nothing more. We both know who has all the power here.

  We’ve arrived just before the unveiling, which is perfect for my needs. Until then, I make sure she remains attached at the hip just in case there’s a run in with Bernard Gaultier.

  As if on cue, there’s a slight hush, helped along by the softening of the music in the background. I turn with the rest of the crowd to see him making his way from the front entrance with the woman I recognize from one of the desks in front of his office, the younger one with Barbie blonde hair. She escorts him as far as the stage where they wait for the emcee to head to the microphone in front of the covered painting.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, if I could have your attention please…”

  And there’s my cue.

  “I’ll be back in about twenty minutes,” I whisper to Laura. “Don’t even think about leaving before I return.”

  “Where in the world are you going?” she asks in an irritated voice, but I’ve already started walking toward the exit.

  I maneuver through the crowd, all focused on the stage as expected.

  “Left something in the limo,” I say with an apologetic smile to the woman standing near the exit, probably there to help direct people to the bathroom and keep an eye on wayward wanders such as myself.

  I head to the first floor on the elevator and once there, enter the electric room using Brielle’s cloned ID card. It’s always so convenient when I find someone who has access to everything. By now, I know where all the security cameras are, so I avoid being caught on tape as I arrive. It’s an unnecessary precaution since what I’m doing now gives me access to all the digital recordings in the building, including those of everyone’s ID card. All the better to erase past records, including this one. Specifically for Brielle’s sake.

  Five minutes later, I’m on my way back up to the event. The stage has finally been ceded to Bernard who’s now droning on about his success in obtaining the painting. All lies.

  “I thought I had a whole twenty minutes without you,” Laura says in a dry tone.

  “Sorry to disappoint,” I say in an even drier voice as I scan the room.

  My eyes land on their target: Brielle Christopher.

  I saw her when I first entered. Of course I did. In that dress, I’d have to be blind or gay not to see how she stands out. Scratch that, even gay men could appreciate how well she wears it. Unfortunately, I had to focus on the job I just completed.

  Now that the business I came here for is done, I see no reason not to actually enjoy myself.

  “It’s your lucky night, Laura. It seems you’ll get more time to yourself after all,” I say, giving her a placid smile. “Just remember why I brought you here in case your services are needed.”

  She gives me a frigid glare, and then proceeds to ignore me, which is fine for yours truly.

  Brielle has been casting surreptitious glances my way since I arrived, each one more confused and perturbed than the one before.

  “Andrew?” she says in surprise when I approach, as though I haven’t been the only thing on her mind for the past half hour. “What in the world are you doing here? If Mr. Gaultier sees you—”

  “I just had to see you one last time,” I say with impassioned fervor.

  She purses her lips at me. “Do you just like creating trouble for yourself?”

  “And others as well,” I say with a daring grin. “I had to see this painting that you’re so fascinated by. My in
terest was piqued.”

  She looks past my shoulder toward the woman I arrived with. “Well, I suppose if anyone could get you in, it would be Laura Wincroft.”

  “Jealous?” I ask. The lovely Mrs. Wincroft has a full decade and a half on my thirty years, but with enough motivation and money to maintain a plasticized youthful look.

  “Isn’t she married?” Brielle asks with one eyebrow judgmentally crooked.

  “As you suggested, I do like creating trouble for myself.”

  She gives me a disgusted look, that nose wrinkling like a bunny’s, which somehow makes her even more gorgeous.

  I laugh and shake my head. “It’s not like that. She’s just a…family friend.”

  “Hmm…so you’re a French gymnast, IT gofer, and you just happen to be a family friend to one of the richest families in New York?”

  “I’m complex that way.”

  “More like—” She stops suddenly, as though picking up on something in the distance.

  When she quickly spins around, my head snaps back in surprise.

  “…so without further ado, I present to you…”

  It’s the one thing that could draw Brielle’s attention away from anything else in the world. My eyes follow her gaze to the stage as Bernard himself removes the cover from the painting.

  I’m as mesmerized as Brielle is by what’s revealed.

  Hello, Noémie.

  Chapter Twelve

  Brielle

  Noémie.

  Noémie Lellouche to be exact, though I wonder how many people know her full name.

  Simple. Sophisticated. Sensual. Stunning.

  I’m in awe.

  I’ve had my fair share of disappointments in life, but Noémie is definitely not one of them. Even here in the dark, with half the room between me and the prize I’ve been chasing, I can tell she’s worth it.

  At least some of the credit, of course, goes to Chabat, who has the ability to bring a woman’s essence to life on the canvas. There will be plenty of time to study his talent up close over the next few weeks, but for now, I admire how they come together from afar.

  Noémie certainly makes a worthy subject. Blazing red hair, seductive green eyes that I can see even from here. Like most of his subjects—and probably why Noémie chose him as the artist in the first place—he’s placed her in a classy, yet mildly provocative pose.

  No wonder the Nazis hated Chabat. He probably stirred the same kind of sexual frustration in them that the country they occupied did—a place that never truly accepted them no matter how many swastikas they draped around the Eiffel Tower.

  I’ve studied Chabat enough to know that up close, Noémie will resemble nothing more than a mix of thickly applied paint swirled together in some semblance of a face and body. From a distance, she looks divine.

  She lounges in an armchair wearing nothing but a dark blue robe, silk that shimmers with languid brushstrokes. It’s lazily held together by a single belt around her wasp waist, showing just enough décolletage to be classically appropriate. The part at the bottom slides open to reveal both legs, firmly closed but bent to the side to show just a hint of thigh. One arm is crooked, elbow resting against one of the wingbacks while her palm holds up her head. Her flaming red hair is bunched up to the side in her hand, as though she’s sitting back, enjoying a fascinating story.

  The other hand is draped over the arm of the chair, the hand falling down over the side to prominently display the other dazzling subject of the painting—a large emerald ring.

  “Formidable.”

  I blink in surprise and fall back into my surroundings. I turn to face Andrew, who is staring at me for some reason. The look in his eyes perfectly reflects what I felt seeing Noémie for the first time.

  “What?” I whisper, slightly breathless, though I’m not sure if it’s the lingering effect the painting has on my senses or the way Andrew’s brows seem to straighten into a perfect line as he concentrates on me.

  “Wonderful,” he says just as softly, staring hard at me for half a second before quickly twisting his head to gaze at the painting. “Isn’t she?”

  I blink again, looking at him in profile as he stares almost whimsically at the painting on stage. It’s unsettling, the way he does this, spin my head every which way, causing whiplash in my brain as it struggles to keep up. But as I follow his gaze, I can’t disagree.

  Noémie stares back, her gaze open and promising. The tease in it isn’t taunting, it’s encouraging, like a mother urging her toddler to take his or her first steps, or a coach pushing a player past their self-imposed limits—or a lover hinting at what lies in wait when “one day” finally arrives.

  “She is,” I agree.

  “I can see why you were so obsessed.”

  “I wasn’t obsessed,” I protest, turning back to him with wary regard. Was it that obvious?

  An indulgent smile appears on his face as he swivels around to face me. “Fascinated then. I understand why you think the original owner was her lover. There’s something in the pose, the way she looks at you. She was in love with someone, at any rate.”

  “Or just very good at seduction,” I remark.

  His smile broadens into a grin. “That sounded slightly reproachful.”

  I’m about to protest, when we’re interrupted.

  “I thought I fired you.”

  We both turn to find Gaultier standing there, glaring at Andrew as though he’d like to grab him by the lapels and toss him out right here and now.

  “Indeed you did,” Andrew replies in a breezy tone.

  “Then why is it that you are presently standing in front of me?” Gaultier asks with barely contained irritation.

  “A woman brought me back.”

  Gaultier’s eyes snap to me with an accusatory glare. I try my best to look innocent, but at this point he’d have to be stupid not to realize Andrew and I are at least acquainted with one another.

  “She’s positively stunning, I have to say,” Andrew continues, not breaking eye-contact with Gaultier. “I can see why you wanted to show her off. Every man should be so lucky.”

  By now, I understand Andrew well enough to realize this is a game of his, playing a sort of mental Three-card Monte with his target. Making them think one thing, then moving the cards so fast the mind boggles. Just when they’ve settled on the wrong answer, he reveals the correct one with a teasing grin.

  There’s a hint of a wrinkle in Gaultier’s brow as even he wonders whether Andrew is talking about me or the painting. It smoothes once again when he realizes the point is moot.

  “That doesn’t answer my question. When you were let go, that also removed any license you had to so much as enter the building, let alone attend this event. So again, I ask, what are you doing here?”

  “Andrew, there you are,” a woman’s voice says as she interrupts this brewing storm.

  Laura Wincroft approaches with the sort of practiced smile reserved for events like this, where you might meet someone you truly adore or truly despise, but must treat each equally. It must be so hard being rich.

  The look on Gaultier’s face is priceless, as she rests a hand on Andrew’s shoulder with the sort of familiarity reserved for close friends. Or friends of the family.

  “I was beginning to think I’d lost you.” She turns to my boss with that well-used smile. “Bernard, I have to say, this painting is a stunning piece. I’m so glad I was able to cancel my plans and take advantage of the ticket you sent.”

  He straightens up a little taller, his feathers appropriately fluffed, but none of us miss the side eye to the man she still has one hand on.

  “I see you’ve met Andrew, a dear friend of mine and Thornston’s.” She’s made sure to add the name of the actual heavy hitter in their relationship.

  “A friend,” he says, his gaze still mildly scornful as he stares at Andrew. “I see.”

  It’s beginning to dawn on him that he may have just stuck one foot in it, which means I’m probably going t
o have to suffer at some point, having been witness to it. Right now it’s worth it.

  Bravo, Andrew Mercier. I don’t know how you pulled this one off, but take a damn bow.

  “Well,” Gaultier says, remembering that he is indeed the man of the hour, “thank you for coming. I’m pleased you enjoyed it.”

  “Of course,” Laura gushes.

  He nods one final time to her, manages a slight lowering of the lids Andrew’s way. I’m ignored as usual. We all watch him go and once he’s out of sight, there’s a lifting of the air around us, as though we’ve all been sucking in our stomachs for show and now we can exhale.

  “Andrew,” Laura says, turning her attention back to him. Her eyes flit to me, then discard me as the nobody that I apparently am. “I’m feeling rather faint. Do you think you can escort me to the door so I can get some air for a brief moment?”

  It’s code for something since she hardly looks faint. If anything, her blue eyes are blazing with meaning.

  “Of course,” Andrew says graciously. He turns to me. “I’ll be back in five minutes. I hope you’re still here when I return. I’d love to continue where we left off a few nights ago…discussing my artistic talents.”

  My mind reverses right back to that night he stole my ID.

  “Just imagine the masterpiece I could create if I had you all night.”

  Before I can even hint at a response, he’s leading Laura off to the exit.

  I watch them go, wondering if I should get lost in the crowd. Other than Gaultier obviously despising him—which is a bonus in his favor, despite how it negatively affects me—I have no excuses for avoiding him.

  He no longer works for the same company.

  Come Monday, the painting will be on display and I can finally force Gaultier’s hand.

  Maybe I deserve a little celebration.

  Especially considering I’ve recently developed a taste for French.