The Artist's Touch

by E. J. Russell

  Stefan had always been lean, but he’d never been gaunt. Not like this. Back at the conservatory, he’d supplemented his scholarship by modeling for the life-drawing classes. His proportions perfect. Muscles smooth, defined but not outrageously cut. He’d been art, not porn.

  Now, with wrists too thin to hold up the long-fingered hands and cheekbones thrown into greater relief by the dark hollows under their crests, the only thing he could model for was a public service poster on eating disorders. Luke’s stomach felt hollow despite the salad, and he took a gulp of lemonade to ease the burn in his throat.

  “Thomas Boardman, who owns North Coast Gallery here in town, came in one night when I was bussing tables,” Stefan said. “I’d met him at one of Marius’s receptions a couple of years back. He offered to let me live in the cabin in return for being the exclusive rep of my work. He’s been . . . very kind.”

  North Coast Gallery. Home of the fake Arcoletti. Luke clenched his teeth, swallowing his suspicions. It might be a coincidence that a guy with enough talent to forge any painting in the known universe was installed here in the gallery owner’s shack in the middle of nowhere, like some impoverished, indentured servant.

  Too bad Luke didn’t believe in coincidence.

  “He after your ass?”

  “Not really. But he idolized Marius. I think he figures if Marius had me, I must be worth having, but he doesn’t put much effort into it.”

  Stefan smiled at Karla when she delivered two plates of steaming crab—no krab kakes—accompanied by mounds of coleslaw. As he reached for the ketchup, his frayed cuffs rucked up his arms, displaying the prominent bones of his wrists.

  His bare wrists.

  “Where’s the Rolex?”

  Stefan shrugged, his expression stony. “Sold it. Used the money to buy the car.”

  Luke’s gaze snapped to Stefan’s hands, to the spot he’d fixated on seven years ago.

  “Yeah. It’s gone, too.” Stefan uncurled his right hand and touched his little finger where the platinum signet used to be. The one Marius had given him at his twentieth birthday party, triggering the long, messy build-up to Luke’s fight and flight. “Why’d that bother you so much?” Stefan’s voice was soft. No recrimination. No accusation. Just curiosity. “Marius gave me other gifts. Why did that one push your final button?”

  Wasn’t that the million-dollar question? Marius, crown prince of the Prescott art philanthropy dynasty, had always been a pain in Luke’s ass, strutting around the conservatory as if he owned the place. Well, he had owned the place, or his family had, but it was his implied ownership of Stefan that had spiked Luke’s asshole-o-meter.

  In some deep, twisted, stupidly optimistic corner of his heart, Luke had hoped that Stefan would wait in their shitty little apartment for Luke to come back—wait until he was worthy.

  Maybe he should have mentioned that instead of bolting with no explanation.

  He scooped up a forkful of the surprisingly tasty coleslaw. “It felt different. Like a personal claim.”

  “Marius’s family endowed my scholarship. We were friends. How could I refuse his gift without looking like a total asshole?”

  “I know. Caveman response, I guess. But when was I ever reasonable when it came to you?” Luke picked up his glass, tilting it back and forth to watch the diluted lemonade ebb and flow like the tide. “That ring—well, it was something I could never afford to give you. Proof that he was the better man.”

  “You know I didn’t believe that,” Stefan said, his voice barely audible above the happy chatter from the other diners.

  “I did.”

  “Well.” He cleared his throat, and his voice assumed a brittle brightness. “Turns out it was a good thing I kept the damn ring. When I hocked it, it fed me for three months.”

  That shut the conversation down, tout de suite. But after Luke had eaten the last of his krab kakes—best in town—he exhaled, and made a diagonal run at the Question of the Day. “Have you sold anything since Marius’s crash? A painting, I mean, not personal possessions.”

  Stefan’s gaze cut to the right, and he lifted one shoulder. “Not really.”

  “Painting much?” Come on, Stef. Tell me. If you confess, I can help you. God, please don’t make me send you to jail.

  Stefan stared down at his hands, rubbing a spot at the base of one finger. “I . . . Sort of. Yeah.”

  Sort of. Fuck. “If you need money . . .” Not that Luke had much after two years of living off his savings, disability payments, and petty local jobs, but he’d find a way.

  “No.” Stefan lifted his head, chin thrust out at a belligerent angle. “I’m a painter. I’ll make money when I sell a canvas.”

  “Stef—”

  “I said no. I’ve got enough debt to pay off. I won’t take on any more.” His hand fisted in his shirt below his collarbone. “Least of all from you.”

  Luke’s throat tightened. Yeah, he’d already proven he wasn’t the go-to guy, hadn’t he? “If you need someone to rep your work, I know some good people. Legit. They’d love your style.”

  “I told you. Thomas is my agent now.” Stefan stood up and pulled his sweatshirt over his head. “Can we go? Can we just go?”

  Luke frowned, tracking Karla’s progress on the other side of the room. “We haven’t gotten the check yet.”

  “We won’t. She never charges me.”

  The burst of heat in Luke’s chest surprised him. “Is that why we came here? Because she comps your food? God’s teeth, Stef, I can afford to buy you dinner. I’m not a starving student anymore.” I’m a nearly bankrupt art investigator. Luke levered himself out of the booth, digging in his pocket for his wallet, but Stefan stopped him by clasping his wrist.

  “Don’t.”

  “But—”

  “You’ll embarrass her and hurt her feelings. Let it go.”

  It was already dark when they left the restaurant. The wind bit through Stefan’s sweatshirt on the way to the car, and he added all-weather coat to his post-sale mental shopping list. He held his hand out for the car keys. “Let me drive. I know the road.”

  Luke passed the keys over without protest and climbed into the passenger seat. Huh. He really must hate driving mountain roads. The old Luke would never have relinquished the wheel once, let alone twice.

  A couple of miles outside of town, Luke finally spoke. “I never told you. I was sorry to hear about Marius.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I’m serious.”

  “You think I sold out for accepting Marius’s money. For letting him back me when I was starting out.”

  “I didn’t—” Luke took a deep breath and exhaled on a huff. “I never blamed you. An artist’s life is tough without some kind of sponsorship or patronage. I admit I hated him for trying to influence your work, but I never wanted him dead.”

  “I expected you to show up. After he died.” Stefan glanced at Luke out of the corner of his eye. “Pathetic, right? Always expecting somebody else to swoop down and save me?”

  “You never tried to . . . you know.”

  “Spit it out, Luke. I’m not a mind reader.”

  “Kill yourself?”

  Stefan glanced at Luke, frowning. “Seriously? Why would that even occur to you?”

  “Fuck,” Luke mumbled, shifting in his seat to gaze out the window. “No reason. Just something I— Never mind. Stupid question.”

  “No shit. Besides, ‘starving artist kills self’ is such a cliché.”

  “Not funny, Stef.”

  “Sorry.” Yeah, gallows humor probably wasn’t the best choice for either one of them. Stefan flexed his hands on the steering wheel, slowing the car as they got to the foot of the hill. “I can walk the rest of the way, so you don’t have to drive back down.”

  Luke gaped at him. “Walk? Are you nuts?”

  Stefan shrugged. “It’s not far.”

  “It’s seven fucking miles. In the dark.”

  “I’m used to walking.” He pointed to t
he back seat. “I’ve brought along the world’s biggest flashlight, and we haven’t had a mountain lion sighting around here for months.”

  “Mountain lion?” Luke’s voice broke, and Stefan couldn’t help a grin.

  “Kidding. It’s okay. Really.”

  “Not on your life.” Luke huffed a breath and straightened in his seat. “Go for it.”

  “Okay then. Brace yourself. We’re going up.”

  Stefan started up the hill, detecting Luke’s flinch out of the corner of his eye as they rounded the first turn. Another two switchbacks up the hill, Stefan caught a glint in the road ahead, just beyond the reach of the high beams. He eased up on the gas, squinting into the darkness. This stretch of road was notorious for deer collisions. But the glint stayed outside the nimbus of the headlights.

  The further they went, the more erratic Luke’s breathing became. Stefan resisted the urge to pat Luke’s leg. “We’re about halfway there. Doing all right?”

  “Yes.” Luke’s voice was strained.

  Stefan glanced at Luke’s profile, limned in foxfire glow from the instrument panel, registering the tight jaw and compressed lips, the hands locked on his knees. Nope. Not all right.

  He sighed and shifted his gaze back to the road.

  Pale face. Dark suit. White shirt.

  “Christ!” Stefan stomped on the brakes, and the car skidded to a stop in a clumsy pirouette. Eyes peeled wide, mouth agape, Stefan tried to remember how to breathe.

  Next to him, Luke clung to the Jesus-handle over the door, chanting, “God-no-god-no-god-no.”

  Stefan put a shaking hand on Luke’s leg. “Are you okay?” Luke’s eyes were clenched shut, his teeth bared around a low moan. Stefan tightened his grip. “Luke! Answer me. Are you hurt?”

  Luke’s eyes flew open. “What? No. I don’t think . . . No, I’m fine.” He leaned against the headrest with a thump. “Fuck.”

  “Good. Stay here. I have to see if he’s okay.”

  “Who?”

  “The man in the suit. Tux. Whatever. The one in the road.”

  “There’s no one there.”

  Stefan peered through the windshield. The high beams lit only empty road, trees, and silver flecks of drizzle. He didn’t remember an impact, but he had to make sure. He turned off the engine, grabbed the flashlight, and climbed out. “Be right back.”

  He walked to the edge of the road on unsteady legs and ran the light along the verge and over the embankment. Nothing. Not even the glint of small animal eyes. Behind him, the car door slammed, and Luke’s footsteps crunched the gravel in an uneven tempo. Stefan spun around.

  “You are hurt. You’re limping.” He moved to intercept Luke, who held up a hand, warding him off.

  “Old injury.” He opened the driver’s-side door, dome light revealing the grim set of his mouth, key alarm peeping like a forlorn mechanical bird.

  “Let me drive.” Stefan reached for Luke’s shoulder, but Luke twisted out of the way.

  “No.”

  “Be sensible. This road doesn’t scare me shitless.” Stefan attempted a reassuring smile. “I promise to keep the near-death experiences to a minimum.”

  The muscles bunched in Luke’s jaw. “You can’t promise that. No one can promise that. Ask Marius.”

  Stefan’s breath left his lungs in a rush, as if Luke had punched him with a fist instead of remorse. “You shit.”

  “I didn’t mean—” Luke exhaled hard and rubbed his hand across his mouth. “Look, my point is, when he climbed into the cockpit, he didn’t expect his plane to crash. You can’t promise what you can’t control.”

  With the adrenaline from the near-miss still buzzing in his veins, Stefan crowded Luke against the car door. “No second chances, is that it? One little mistake and you write me off.”

  “Little mistake?” Luke shoved at his chest with a balled-up fist, and Stefan staggered, his worn-out sneaker sinking in the mud at the edge of the road. “This mistake is hardly trivial.”

  “I thought I saw someone in the road. I stopped. You wanted me to plow ahead? What if he’d really been there?”

  “I’m not talking about your goddamn driving, for fuck’s sake.” Luke’s voice rose to a shout, jagged and out of place in the still woods.

  “Then what?”

  “Why?” Luke’s jaw worked as if he were wrestling with his words. “You have more talent than any other ten people. Why the hell are you forging a dead man’s work?”

  Luke slammed the heel of his hand against his forehead. Shit-goddamn-son-of-a-bitch. He’d asked the fucking question. Now he’d have to listen to an answer he could never un-know. His chest heaved, and he stared Stefan down, waiting for the words that would either damn him as a liar or condemn him as a forger. Either one would force Luke to choose between rebooting his career or destroying the man he’d once loved. Still loved, if he wanted to be honest with himself.

  Stefan blinked. Blinked again, brows drawing together in a tight vee. “What?”

  For some reason—maybe aftershocks from his Fiat-flashback or mortification that Stefan had witnessed his resultant freak-out—the bewildered affront on Stefan’s face kicked Luke into art-investigator asshole mode. “Did you think you’d get away with the fake Arcolettis because he’s a relative unknown? Because all his pieces except one are in private hands?”

  “Who the hell is Arcoletti?”

  Luke guffawed, sounding unpleasant even to himself. “Good one.”

  “No. I mean it. Who’s Arcoletti?”

  “Jeremiah Arcoletti. American realist painter. Disappeared in 1945 along with all thirteen canvases from his last collection.” Luke’s eyes popped wide. “Holy shit. That’s it, isn’t it? The lost collection.” He poked Stefan’s shoulders with stiff fingers, peripherally aware arguing in the middle of a dark mountain road was ridiculous and possibly suicidal, but he didn’t give a flying fuck. They’d finish this now. “Is that your plan? Re-create the lost collection out here in your little studio in the big woods?”

  “Stop it.” Stefan batted Luke’s hand away, his gaze fixed on the ground, avoiding the question. Great. Pleading the artistic Fifth—the last refuge of the guilty.

  “Where’d you see his work? The museum in Amsterdam? Hell, in all those years of prancing around with Marius, you could have seen every fricking one of the privately held pieces. Marius had the connections for it. You could have tossed his name around to get access to all of Arcoletti’s correspondence, too. Damn it.” He dropped his arms, suddenly spent. “The Stefan I knew would have cut off his hands before he’d counterfeit another artist’s work. What’s happened to you?”

  “What hasn’t?” Stefan’s eyes were wide, his pupils huge in the combined light of headlights and flashlight. “But I swear. I’ve never heard of this Arcoletti.”

  “No? Then tell me. What’s coming off your easel these days? Studies in Monochrome? The Picture of Oregon Gray?”

  “I . . . I don’t know.”

  The feeble disavowal flipped Luke’s asshole switch back on. “Don’t give me that shit. You don’t paint blindfolded.”

  “No. I just . . .” Stefan’s voice was hoarse, and he clutched his flashlight to his belly, casting warped, inverted shadows across his face and distorting his features into a death’s-head mask. “I’ve been painting, but I don’t remember pictures. I’m not even sure how many there are.”

  “Artistic amnesia? Bullshit. You must have seen them when you handed them over to Boardman.”

  Stefan shook his head and pinched his eyes closed. “Thomas always loads them into his car. I never look. Not after— Not when they’re finished.”

  “Why? Guilt?”

  “No. I was afraid . . .” Stefan wrapped his arms across his stomach, pointing the flashlight into the woods. His face was his own again, drawn and haunted.

  “Afraid of getting caught?”

  “Afraid of what I’d paint next,” he whispered.

  Luke’s lips twisted. “Denial. It’s what’s
for dinner. No wonder you’re so fricking thin.”

  “Why is everything black and white for you, Luke? Let in some color, for Christ’s sake.” Stefan forked the fingers of one hand through his hair. “Even a little gray would be a change.”

  “Well, you’ve come to the perfect state if you want gray.” Luke refused to allow the broken edge of Stefan’s voice to influence him. He’d let compassion sway him once before, and it had cold-cocked his career. “Right or wrong, Stef. It’s not that tough a choice.”

  “Fine.” Stefan raised his head and met Luke’s gaze, his shoulders shifting as if bracing for a blow. “You’ve already made up your mind, as usual. Go ahead. Turn me in to the art police.”

  Luke searched Stefan’s face for some flicker of remorse, some acknowledgement that he accepted the enormity of his crime. Nothing. Only the droop of his lips and a telltale glitter in his eyes, hinting at unshed tears. But for what? Sorrow for his actions, or regret because he’d gotten caught? “Can you give me a reason not to?”

  Stefan’s breath caught in what might have been a laugh if his face wasn’t so bleak. “Guess not.” He saluted Luke with a middle finger. “Enjoy your drive.”

  Stefan turned and strode uphill, the beam of his flashlight bouncing from road to hillside, and Luke’s last trace of adrenaline drained away.

  The lousy car sat perpendicular to the road, driver’s door ajar. If he was lucky, he’d manage to creep down the hill by midnight. He shut the damn door before the brainless chime of the key alarm drove him nuts. Sighing, deep and exhausted, he leaned his forehead against the car roof, the beaded rain icy on his heated skin.

  “Shit.”

  Stefan balled up his sweatshirt and slung it into the corner of the living room. “Goddamn it.” He stalked across the room and grabbed the Scotch off the sideboard. Screw the hangover. Tonight, a blackout is exactly what I need. He poured himself a generous hit. After he’d knocked it back, he poured a second.

  The burn in his belly had nothing to do with the liquor. Christ. Luke suspected him of forgery. Luke. The man who should know him better than anyone else in the world, believed Stefan capable of the ultimate painterly crime. The Scotch threatened to reverse course, and he hastily set the bottle and glass on the coffee table. He collapsed onto the leprous leather sofa, one arm across his eyes, the knuckles of his other hand pressed against his mouth.