Untrue Colors (Entangled Select Suspense)

by Veronica Forand

  “Sorry, sir.” Simon winked at Alex and then headed toward the refrigerator.

  “Ignore him, Gabe. He doesn’t appreciate all I do for him.” Henry escorted her past the island to a breakfast nook with a small table covered by a blue-and-white-checkered tablecloth. She looked out the window to the backyard. The view of the small garden she’d seen from the study was even nicer in the daylight.

  Simon poured three glasses of orange juice and filled a carafe with coffee. He set the drinks on the table, followed by three huge plates of food.

  The eggs, fried in real butter, tasted wonderful on her empty stomach, but the warm cinnamon rolls transformed her entire attitude. If she could manage to lift herself from a dirty, youth hostel to a beautiful house filled with handsome men, decadent pastries, and fine art, she could find a way to protect herself from Luc.

  Henry sat down and allowed Simon to wait on him as though he was lord of the manor. His mannerisms, however, didn’t display the arrogance or self-importance that had characterized the usual men in her life.

  “Have you been traveling a long time?” Simon poured her more coffee.

  They wanted to help her, but still, she had no idea who they were and if they had connections to Luc’s world. “Just a few weeks.”

  Simon took a bite of eggs, paused for a moment, and then continued his questions. “Get into London at all?”

  “No.”

  “You sound like you’re from the States?” Simon didn’t stare, but he watched her reactions. He also drank his coffee with the benign expression of a man trying to look like her answers didn’t matter. They mattered. Every scrap of information she handed out could be used against her someday.

  “I’m from a small town in Indiana. Most days I spent reading books in the corner of our barn, staring at the sky and dreaming of better places.” Her eyes purposefully wandered to the window. Could she miss a place she’d never been? Probably not. But she could yearn for the rhythmic sound of the ocean waves rippling across the long stretches of sand near her family’s summer home in Martha’s Vineyard. Her heart thumped at the thought of all she’d lost. A magnificent life exchanged for no life at all.

  Sighing, she pulled her gaze to the breakfast table. Her reverie caught the attention of Henry and Simon. Both stared at her, as if looking for a clue or a hint about who she really was.

  Sorry guys, not today.

  Henry leaned back in his chair. “Oxford must be a nice change from a small town. Ripon isn’t a big city, more like a middle-size village that wants to be a small city. I hope it won’t bore you.”

  “I appreciate a lot more in my life than I ever did. Trust me. Ripon will be perfect.” She turned toward Simon. “I can’t thank you enough for breakfast.”

  He waved her off. “It’s no bother. I have to cook for Lord Henry anyway.”

  “Don’t you have places to go?” Henry motioned Simon to leave.

  “As soon as I finish my chores.” Simon stood and picked up a few dishes. “Don’t get up, fair lady. You had a rough evening.” He waved his arm in front of him as though a courtly knight, forcing Alex’s smile to break free.

  Henry stood and assisted him. “Can you pick up some beer when you’re out? The students drank us dry.”

  “As you wish, my lord.”

  Their continued banter lightened her mood. The men moved around the kitchen as though they’d lived together forever. They towered over six feet tall, but Simon had Henry by at least two inches. Simon seemed military, with his cropped hair and GI Joe muscles. Henry, on the other hand, appeared athletic, yet sophisticated. His house fit his personality. The old carved wood, the darker, more somber colors. After years of living in a black-and-white modern apartment in Paris, she appreciated this warm, elegant environment.

  When Simon departed, Henry escorted her to the main stairway.

  “Come. I’ll show you to your room.” He didn’t attempt to carry her bag, probably sensing how important it was to her.

  She followed him, slowing down in front of several paintings. “Are these pieces yours?”

  “Every one. If you like art, I can show you my collection after lunch.” He continued up the stairs, whistling.

  She not only liked art, she loved it more than she liked eating a piece of crispy bacon.

  Maybe Simon the brawny chef would make some the next morning. She licked her lips in anticipation and glanced up at Henry. He seemed just as nice-looking from behind as he did from the front. Very nice-looking.

  Hot breakfasts, delicious men, and quality art. This place appeared too perfect to be real.

  “I’d love to see your collection,” she called after him. She’d enjoy looking over his collection, but she’d never again share the depth of her knowledge with a stranger. At least she’d try to keep her opinions to herself. Her typical enthusiasm when looking at masterpieces bubbled out of her without a filter. Had she kept her opinion to herself about the provenance of the art in Luc’s gallery, she wouldn’t have a death threat hanging over her.

  Chapter Four

  After escorting Gabe to her room, Henry poured himself more coffee and carried it to his study. The drink, infused with a hint of vanilla, soothed his nerves even before the beverage slid down his throat.

  He sat in a leather chair. Gabe fascinated him. She reminded him of the women at the shelter, stoic regardless of the abuse thrust upon them. And in a testament to her mental strength, Gabe hadn’t stayed with the person who had battered her body. She’d run.

  Two hours and eight graded exams later, he sensed her presence behind him and turned. She stood in the doorway, staring into the study with a half smile and her fingers tapping together. Her appearance warmed his blood from her blue jeans ripped to reveal toned thighs to her neon hair draping over her shoulder, to those piercing eyes, the color of the ocean off the coast of Santorini.

  “Am I disturbing you?”

  “Not in the least. Are you ready for the tour?” He stood next to her, a tiny pixie of a thing in bare feet. The top of her head barely reached his shoulder.

  “Can we start in this room?” She pointed with her bandaged hand to the framed masterpiece above the fireplace.

  “It’s by Gustave Courbet.” He showed her several smaller pieces that complemented the seascape. She remained silent, but her gaze took in her surroundings as though cataloging everything for use later.

  They continued through the house. Her comments, although infrequent, gave him pause. For some, art was simply decoration; for others, an investment. Caressing heirloom tables and chairs, Gabe eyed details that only a representative from an auction house would know. She playfully noted the location of a hidden drawer in the John Guilbaud cabinet and the unusual lack of a cabriole leg in the settee in the drawing room.

  The more rooms they entered, the more excited she became. After discussing one of Henry’s favorite portraits in the upper hallway, she stepped to his bedroom door, the scene of her breakdown. She probably wanted to forget she’d ever been there. He hesitated at the door, but Gabe entered. She crossed the room and touched her fingertips, decorated with black nail polish, to the top of his late-eighteenth-century George III dresser. Her hand continued to caress the wood, and Henry’s mind began imagining those fingers on him.

  “This is beautiful,” she said. “See the brass swan neck handles and the mahogany cross-banding? I only know of two cabinetmakers who mixed the wood types with such an eye for detail.”

  “You recognize the cabinetmaker?”

  She stalled and dropped her eyes as though she’d stepped over her bounds, revealing too much of herself perhaps?

  He pointed to a side table. “Can you recognize the wood in that piece?”

  She tilted her head so her hair moved away from her eyes. With an exaggerated squint and the quirking of her mouth to the left, she answered, “Pine?”

  He laughed. “Seriously? Even I wouldn’t guess pine. Don’t tell me you can’t figure it out.”

  “It mi
ght be oak.” She shrugged her shoulders.

  It certainly was oak, but was stained to look like mahogany.

  “Are you familiar with the designer?”

  “Are you testing me?”

  Yes, I am.

  He savored the last drops of his coffee and then stepped in front of her. Bending down to look at her eye to eye, he breathed in her scent. Something sweet mixed with something that beckoned him to kiss her. He’d watched her face off with obnoxious university boys and huge police officers. She didn’t seem the type to back down from a challenge.

  “I just can’t imagine you really know what you’re talking about,” he whispered so softly, she moved a centimeter closer toward his lips. Her proximity spiked his temperature and his hunger for her.

  “William Kent,” she whispered in response.

  …

  Alex leaned away from him; his breath had smelled just a little too tempting. And she didn’t intend to run from one mansion into another. Men with money had secrets, usually bad ones. What did she know of Henry, anyway? Nothing.

  Based on his gentle hold of her hand and the easy smile he offered, he seemed to care for her. Luc had been romantic once, too. She needed to remind herself of him and why she was running, even when this man didn’t seem as cruel. In fact, he acted more protective than controlling. She left her hand in his, just for now. They descended the main staircase, chatting nonstop about their preferred artists.

  He paused on the landing and bent toward her. Was he going to kiss her? Alex took a step away from him. Too much, too soon.

  “Who’s the architect of the house?” she asked, trying not to appear overwhelmed by Henry’s presence.

  “John Dover.” His emerald eyes were intense and mesmerizing. She needed fresh air.

  “It’s really beautiful.” She began to descend the stairs again and pointed to a few of the pieces. He obliged her by explaining how he acquired some of the paintings. They were in wonderful shape. Not many people appreciated art the way she did. Not many people could see art the way she did. Henry may not have an appraiser’s eye, but he genuinely cared about the pieces he owned.

  The art in his house revealed high value and depth in the quality and the range of the works. He seemed to exist comfortably with such riches surrounding him. Imagine living side by side with these pieces, greeting each new day staring into a two-hundred-year-old mirror or reading a book while perched on a chair that existed at the time of Queen Victoria. And not just any chair, but a chair of such exceptional workmanship, the temptation to lock it away for its own protection would be overwhelming.

  All her thoughts dissipated when she approached the final room. Henry, walking close to her and causing her heart to beat too fast, guided her inside a large space with paintings on all of the walls and statues interspersed with several small sitting areas. A personal art gallery. Amazing.

  “What do you think?”

  “You certainly saved the best for last.”

  A black-and-white charcoal portrait by Camille Pissarro hung on one wall along with several other lithographs and landscapes from some of her favorite artists. Henry remained near the doorway as she walked slowly by each one, savoring the textures, the colors, and the emotions.

  Turning to the next wall, she paused and stepped closer to the large portrait hanging there. Why would he have a newer imitation mixed into his fabulous collection? “Everything is impressive except your Sir Thomas Lawrence reproduction. It’s a quality piece, but I’m unaware of anything Lawrence painted involving a blonde aristocratic lady sitting on a chestnut mare.”

  Henry came up beside her and placed a hand on her shoulder. “It’s not a fake.”

  “Of course it is.”

  Henry leaned his gorgeous face directly in front of hers again. Those eyes could hypnotize and seduce the most virtuous woman into his bed. She breathed him in. His breath tasted sweet, like vanilla mixed with one of Simon’s cinnamon buns. His tone, however, contained an acidic edge. “That picture has been in my family since the early eighteen hundreds. She’s my ancestor, Lady Elizabeth Gillett.”

  Lady Elizabeth Gillett smiled down on them with the bluest of eyes. Her hair, parted in the middle, had tight curls gracing each side of her face. Although her yellow dress seemed one decade before a true Regency style, the wider waistband and lower neckline made Lady Liz a very sexy ancestor. Studying the paint, Alex observed barely visible cracks throughout the oil brush strokes, as expected with an oil painting older than the advent of locomotives or a new painting created with paint additives.

  “I’m sorry. I overstepped my bounds. You didn’t ask for my opinion. You need somebody from one of the big auction houses. They have experts on staff who can give a professional opinion.” She would know. She’d taught many of them.

  He shoved his hands into his pockets and stepped back while continuing to stare at the painting. “You think I need an expert appraiser?” His Adam’s apple became more prominent in his neck, although he seemed to be trying to rein in his emotions. “Your claim doesn’t seem plausible.”

  She paused, haunted by the disbelief in his expression. As always, her need to prove herself overpowered her need to protect herself.

  She studied the painting again, reconfirming her initial assessment. “Her eyes. It’s a reproduction because of her blue eyes. Cerulean blue.”

  Henry walked closer to the painting and stared at Lady Liz’s eyes. “I don’t understand.”

  “The pigment. There was no way to create cerulean blue in paint until 1860.”

  He laughed again, but his face stayed somber. “The painting is a fake because of the color of her eyes?”

  Why didn’t I keep my mouth shut?

  “How can you identify a specific color?” He faced Alex and looked at her as though she were a specimen in a laboratory. She’d seen the same look in her parents’ eyes.

  Always the oddball, the one who didn’t see the world in quite the right way, she needed to explain herself. “A sommelier can distinguish between very similar wines. I discern colors and tints most people can’t. I also recognize most types of wood and gems. If I’m having a particularly good day, I can even determine if the finish on a piece of furniture was done a year ago, a decade ago, or two hundred years ago.”

  She pointed with her free hand to a raised brushstroke in Lady Elizabeth’s bodice. “The paint’s been altered as well. See the slight amber line in the crack? Whoever did this added resin to the paint to make it harden and crack like an authentic antique oil painting. An old trick, but effective against untrained eyes.”

  She ended her speech with a shrug and a mound of regret for revealing herself too intimately with this stranger. Too bad silence wasn’t her gift.

  Henry paced back and forth for several minutes, his eyes never leaving the canvas. Alex left him to his thoughts and stepped toward the foyer.

  He ended up directly in front of her, blocking her exit. “How accurate are you?” The lighthearted and sexy Henry had been replaced by a very serious and powerful man.

  “I could be wrong.”

  Although I’ve haven’t been wrong yet.

  “Damn it.” His fist clenched, and his forehead creased with the type of deep lines only revealed by extreme tension.

  “Are you okay?” She backed up. She didn’t think he’d hurt her. Would he?

  He looked at the painting. His fist remained clenched.

  “I’ve been better.” His voice seemed to wrestle back a range of emotions, including a hint of anger and frustration. When he turned toward her again, his emotions had faded like the tide after a full moon. A partial smile appeared on his face, but his eyes remained clouded and impenetrable. “I’d like to spend more time with you tonight. Regrettably, I’ve committed to go somewhere with Simon.”

  “You’re going out?”

  “The security in the house is first-rate as long as you don’t open the doors for anyone. Trust me, this is the safest location in Oxford.” He stared
into her eyes for an uncomfortably long time, probing for something, until his smile finally returned, but it wasn’t his full smile. “Make yourself at home. There’s leftover chicken marsala Simon made in the refrigerator. We can meet up for breakfast. Good night.”

  He’s going out? Why would he leave me in the house alone with all his valuables? He doesn’t know me. Not really. Even I wouldn’t trust me in this place.

  He left her standing alone in the art gallery with small masterpieces on one wall, one very large fake on the other, and a tight knot in her stomach.

  His house no longer felt like a sanctuary. She made her way back to the study and turned on the television. Sitting on one of the leather recliners, she flipped the channels until she found a local news station to learn the weather forecast, traffic reports, and any other information necessary to leave this place.

  The Yellow Dog Pub came on the screen with a picture of Matt Shaw. He’d been shot dead defending his restaurant from a lone shooter in an apparently random act of violence. No. Not Matt. Alex’s stomach twisted, and she sagged forward, her body shaking uncontrollably.

  Tears streamed down her face as she struggled to listen to the news. The illegal import of firearms into Great Britain dominated the discussion. They should be talking about the sweet man who had always offered a smile and a cold beer to whomever walked through the doors of his pub. Instead, they focused on the gunman. The police would never find him. Luc’s connections ensured his subordinate’s anonymity with the law. Her tears turned to sobs. Would anyone be safe around her?

  Chapter Five

  Henry looked in the mirror, straightened the tie on his tuxedo, brushed his fingers once through his hair, and then spun away from the image.

  Gabe, with her unbelievable intelligence and inquisitive eyes, liked his furnishings. Except the one piece that mattered. The exasperation of possibly losing his most precious belonging faded when he thought about her appraisal of the work itself. Her pink hair and black leather facade morphed into a confident and capable professional as she ripped his world apart.