The Dark Arts

by Kitty Thomas

  Thirty-two dollars and eight-eight cents. Four packages of ramen. Three cans of beans. Crab puffs in her purse. Business wasn’t just on a downswing. It had cratered entirely. Honest reproductions weren’t the big business she’d been letting on. People only liked forgery if it was passed off as the real thing. And then they only liked what they believed was real.

  “How much?” she asked.

  “Seven million.”

  “Sorry, no. If I get caught, I’m looking at prison time. You’re offering me just what the painting is worth. And I know you offered the owner more than that. You have to pay for the crime, not just the result. Seventeen.” She was outrageously overreaching, but he was arrogant and foolish.

  “Twelve.”

  Saskia smiled. “Sold, to the gentleman in the Bentley.”

  The grip on her arm loosened, and his hand fell away. “I’ll call you in a couple of weeks. We can meet and finalize the plan.”

  Right when she’d be in a gutter emaciated from lack of food. Possibly dead.

  “I need an advance.”

  Lachlan chuckled. She watched the devious glint come into his eyes again. She could practically see the sex-for-food offer coming. Would that be so horrible just until the job was done?

  Yes.

  And she didn’t work well with someone lurking over her shoulder. What she was attempting this time was big. She’d never do the work justice no matter how clean the copy she produced.

  Before Lachlan could voice a lewd suggestion, she said, “In two weeks I could be nearly done with the reproduction. But I can’t buy supplies without money.”

  He withdrew a checkbook from the inner pocket of his coat along with a pen. He really was a relic. Who wrote checks anymore?

  “Five thousand. And I want the reproduction complete in two weeks. This is your full time job until that time. You eat it; you breathe it; you sleep it. You’ll get more money when you deliver.”

  Saskia snatched the check from his hand. “I hope you know, all future payments will be in the form of a wire transfer. I’ll give you the account number the next time we meet.”

  “Of course.”

  She got out of the car and slammed the door.

  The window eased down. “Saskia?”

  “What?”

  “Forgot your lunch.” He tossed the purse at her. She almost toppled in the heels as she reached out and grabbed it mid-air. That really was her lunch.

  She’d failed as an original artist and as a reproduction artist. So why not attempt con artist?

  Stealing from Lachlan Niche would be the most satisfying thing she’d ever done. She couldn’t imagine a more deserving mark.

  2

  Saskia stepped out of the car that had been sent for her and gawked at Lachlan’s exquisite, imposing home as if seeing it for the first time. If only Lachlan didn’t live in it, this could be a pleasant experience. The driver took the wrapped painting out of the trunk.

  “Careful with that!” she snapped.

  He gave her an annoyed look as if he felt somehow offended he’d been sent to pick her up to begin with, and now that she dared speak to him as if he were the help, it was too much for him to bear. In truth, he looked more like a bodyguard than a driver. Tall, broad, bald on purpose. Maybe he was filling in for someone.

  She had to stay focused and remember why she was doing this. The payoff would be worth it. One big score, and then it was a tropical island for her far away from Lachlan Niche.

  The gold bangles at her wrists jangled as she straightened the vermillion skirt and pulled it down a couple of inches. The skirt was a bit too short, the white top dipped a touch too low. Her legs were bare because the nude heels on her feet were sling-backs with a cut-out toe and never looked quite right with pantyhose. Ordinarily an outfit like this made her feel like a civilized person—as if she weren’t barely scraping by. But today, it made her feel vulnerable. If she hadn’t been running late, she would have changed.

  Lachlan waited in the entryway just inside the house as if it had taken all his self-control not to run out to meet her at the car. “Marcus, take the painting to my study.”

  Marcus nodded and disappeared down the hall. She’d had to work from a bad photograph of the piece, but it was the only thing that might save her from having to do the real heist. She could possibly pull it off, but that wasn’t part of the plan. Lachlan didn’t deserve to own the real piece.

  Running a tech company as well as being an art collector, he’d be well aware of all the art authenticating software available. She’d studied Quill’s work with an almost religious fervor, but the software made it nearly impossible to perfectly duplicate another’s already-existing work without getting caught. Brushstrokes were analyzed. A scanned image of the original work could be broken down into small geometric cubes and compared frame by frame with the questioned piece.

  It was easier these days to commit forgery by pawning off “lost or undiscovered works” as authentic. Though with enough samples of other work by the same artist, the software could still detect less-skilled forgeries. The bar just kept rising higher.

  With this particular piece in private hands well before Quill had gotten famous, there had been no good scan of the image available to analyze. Lucky for her.

  Lachlan held out both his hands to Saskia as if welcoming the Prodigal Son home. She pasted on a fake smile and allowed him to draw her in. If both of his hands were in hers, they couldn’t be drifting over other parts of her body. Being conned was exactly what he’d earned for all the times he’d pawed at her.

  It took great effort to keep her breakfast down at that thought. Saskia couldn’t understand how women fell repeatedly into Lachlan’s arms. He was ridiculously wealthy and conventionally attractive. And he gave off that dominant alpha-male vibe that so many women seemed to swoon over. But could those same women not feel the ick? The sleaze that dripped off him like motor oil? This was a man who would use, abuse, and then laugh at you for trusting him.

  No, thanks.

  Could a semi-intelligent, lucid woman actually tolerate his touch? Even with him only holding Saskia’s hands, she couldn’t pull out of his embrace fast enough.

  When the driver returned, Lachlan said, “Shall we?”

  Saskia nodded with a tight smile and followed him to the study where they’d have some privacy. She was sure the staff couldn’t be trusted to be in on this, but the idea of being alone in a small dark-paneled room with him made her skin crawl.

  When he closed and locked the study door, Saskia had to steel herself against the temptation to run out the French doors and vault off the balcony, even though it was on the second story, and she’d break her ankle at the very least from this height—particularly since he had high ceilings. Sixteen feet at least.

  As if sensing her strong desire to flee, Lachlan closed the French doors and slid the deadbolt into place.

  He moved to the side bar and poured an amber liquid into a glass. “Drink?”

  “No, thank you. Let’s just talk business.”

  “You don’t trust me?”

  “No farther than I could drop-kick you.”

  He smiled—a smile he probably thought was charming—and he hadn’t met a woman with enough sense to disabuse him of the notion yet. The evolutionary urge not to starve was pretty strong in women. If it weren’t, Saskia wouldn’t be here. Men like Lachlan seemed like the easy road. The path of least resistance—if you could snag them.

  It must be killing him that Saskia didn’t want to.

  “Judging from your petite stature, that wouldn’t be very far.”

  She sat in an overstuffed chair at the far corner of the study to avoid taking a seat he might try to share.

  Undeterred, Lachlan pulled a rolling leather chair up to her, his knee mere inches from her own. He pushed a button on a remote, and jazz piped in through the sound system. She tensed.

  “I’m not making a move on you. Relax. Don’t flatter yourself. I’ve just got some
nosy help, and I want to ensure they don’t overhear.”

  “On second thought, I will have that drink.”

  He smiled and rose. When he returned, the drink was barely out of his hand and into hers before she’d slammed it back and put the glass on the table.

  He arched a brow. “Another?”

  “No. Thank you.”

  “Once I sit again, I’m not getting up to fetch you a second drink, so if you—”

  “I said no.”

  Lachlan held up his hands in surrender. “To business then. Do you have a finalized plan?”

  “I do. Aren’t you going to look at the reproduction?”

  Lachlan sighed and crossed to the painting still wrapped in brown paper. “You’re right. If you aren’t as good as you say you are, the rest of your skills won’t matter.”

  He ripped the protective paper away and let out a low whistle. “You weren’t overstating your talent. I’m impressed. Why aren’t you doing original work? If money’s the problem... I could help you.”

  He seemed genuine, as if he’d put her up in an isolated cottage somewhere and allow her to paint all day without a care in the world. But of course, that wasn’t what he was offering. He wanted a live-in whore with a side talent he could be amused by.

  And anyway, she hadn’t done original work in a long time. Not since the apartment before her current one had burned down. She’d lost all her original work in the fire—some of it going back over a decade. She’d lost the heart for it after that. Saskia couldn’t stand the idea of putting all she had on canvas or paper only for it to go up in flame.

  Lachlan continued to stare at the painting as if he could scarcely believe what he was looking at. “How can I be sure you’re as good a thief as you are a forger?”

  “The proof will be when you have the real thing in your hands.”

  “With a forgery this good, how will I know I have the real thing? Perhaps I should just keep this and be done with it. I’d save a lot of money.”

  Saskia held her breath. He was just fucking with her. He’d already bragged about how he liked to get away with things under other people’s noses. He would get an endless kick out of having a famous stolen painting hanging in his parlor for all the world to see with no one ever the wiser.

  He enjoyed manipulation and lies. How he thought divulging this information would make her want to form any sort of personal relationship with him, she had no idea.

  “I assume you have someone you trust?” Saskia said. “Someone discreet who can authenticate the work? Just let him analyze this one and then compare to the one I bring you after I finish the job. I’m sure the differences will be clear to a skilled professional.”

  “I have someone.”

  Saskia knew Lachlan’s guy. Eli. She wasn’t friends with him, but she knew who he was. He wasn’t the best, but he was passable, and he was probably the only option available that Lachlan trusted to handle things discreetly. She’d put just enough small errors in this one so that the new forgery could pass for the real piece, and Eli would feel smart for having seen the subtle differences.

  “So then you’re just having second thoughts about spending all that money?” Saskia said, trying to steer Lachlan back on track.

  He laughed. “It’s nothing to me.”

  It was everything to Saskia. And he knew it. After the fire, she’d gotten a few clients and reproduced some of the classic works. It wasn’t as if her original work had been selling anyway. The reproductions had been enough to keep her going, but all of that had run dry. Lachlan was her big score. His obsession with Quill’s work could rescue her financially. And maybe, with real financial freedom, she could find the heart to create again.

  Lachlan had appeared from out of the mist at just the right time like a fairy godmother. This payoff would ensure she could stop pandering endlessly to bored rich people where both she and her work existed as a mere novelty to tamp down their boredom for half an hour.

  She tried not to entertain the idea of being supported while doing original work. The not-quite-starving artist living in modest but comfortable surroundings paid for by a mysterious benefactor fantasy had its appeal. But if this went well, she could pay for her own comfortable surroundings and paint her own work for once and not care whether it could feed her.

  “How will we do this?” he asked, moving to sit uncomfortably close again.

  Saskia uncrossed and recrossed her legs away from his line of sight, giving herself another few inches of breathing room. “I think you meant to ask how I will do this. You’re just meant to sit and look pretty.”

  She smiled when he blanched. Some of your own gross medicine too much to take there, champ?

  She didn’t wait for an invitation to continue. “You will hang the reproduction and talk it up a bit more with your friends. You’ll let it hang for a good six months before I take the real one. I’ll need living expenses during that time, of course.”

  “Why so long?”

  “In the event that anything goes wrong—but it doesn’t go completely wrong—you don’t want to have just gotten the reproduction, do you?” Nothing would look more suspicious to law enforcement than that. Lachlan only lived a couple of hours from the estate that housed the painting he wanted stolen. That proximity made everything trickier.

  “So, something could go wrong? Maybe I should find someone else for this job.”

  “Something can always go wrong.”

  He wouldn’t find someone else for the job. He’d only let his guard down enough to consider this scam with Saskia because he wanted to sleep with her. Little Lachlan was doing most of his thinking for him.

  “So, is there a reason for six months? Why not three or twelve or twenty-four? Why don’t I just give you living expenses for a few years? Suspicion would be damn-near nonexistent by that point, wouldn’t you say?”

  If not for the irritated edge in his voice, it might have been teasing. He didn’t like stretching this out so long. Neither did she. Ideally, she’d get in and out and be done with him that much sooner. There were too many opportunities between this moment and the moment she could escape him forever for him to try something sleazy. And the way his gaze panned over her only emphasized that point. The timeline on his self-control was finite.

  Why didn’t I wear jeans and a sloppy T-shirt?

  Saskia pulled the skirt down again and recrossed her legs—this time at her ankles. It wasn’t a skirt for sitting. Maybe she should have remained on her feet. Sitting only made it appear as if she was willing for this visit to drag on. She should have dropped the painting off, spoken quickly about her plan, and left. She should have appeared busy instead of like she had all day to do this.

  Flustered, Saskia said, “There will be a big twenty-first birthday party for Eric Raine at the Raine Estate in six months. I’ve managed to swing an invite.”

  Lachlan raised a brow. “And how exactly did you swing such an invite? I’m intrigued.”

  She blushed. “I didn’t do anything wrong. I bumped into the guest of honor accidentally on purpose and...”

  “You wore the outfit you’re wearing now?” he completed.

  “N-no. B-but, you get the idea. I didn’t... we didn’t...” God, why was she explaining herself to him? She could fuck who she wanted.

  “Continue, Miss Roth.”

  He always seemed to address her more formally when he wanted to emphasize their age difference—how much older and more sophisticated he was than her. He was just forty-five. And thirty wasn’t exactly a child. But when he spoke to her this way he made her feel as if he was her professor and had just caught her cheating on an exam.

  She pulled the skirt down again, almost ready to give up on it. “You said the painting hangs in the guest room on the third floor. I’ll slip away from the party when everyone has had a few drinks and make the switch then.”

  “And what if someone recognizes you? What about the gala we just attended?”

  That shit had been his
idea. He must have expected some sort of smash-and-grab, something which would be a lot more difficult for her to fake. It was true some of Lachlan’s and the Raine family’s associates could very well overlap, but the crowd at Eric’s party would be younger and not so much into the art world as the people Lachlan knew. It was doubtful anyone who had ever seen them together would be at this party.

  “Are you kidding?” she said. “Your friends have their heads so far up their pampered asses, I could have been topless and they wouldn’t have recounted a single detail about me the next day. I’ll get a haircut and highlights before the party. I’ll wear a very different dress and a completely different make-up look, and some glasses. If any of your friends from the gallery somehow happen to be there, I’ll avoid them. They’re not going to remember one five-minute meeting that happened months before.”

  Lachlan seemed satisfied. “And how will you get the fake into the house?”

  “Okay, well there’s more to the plan.”

  Lachlan leaned forward as if hanging on her every word, but she was sure it was more to get a better view of her cleavage.

  Her chair made a grating sound on the hardwood as she scooted out of his reach. She stood, crossing to the French doors just to get away from him and his fierce gaze.

  He swiveled his chair to face her. “Well? I’m breathless here.”

  “Okay, so I thought about trying to get a job with the catering company and getting into the party that way, but I already had the invite from Eric, and getting hired on for the party would be more difficult than it seems. They’d have way too much personal information about me, and those places are intense with background checks. Plus, it’s not as if I can work at the party and be a guest at the same time.”

  “Does this side trail have a point?”

  “I’m getting there. So... my friend Beth works at the company that makes their uniforms. I’m sure she can get me one to match. I thought I’d smuggle the forgery onto the catering truck and slip in a few hours before the party dressed as one of the employees. It would allow me to get the fake in for the switch later that night.”