She kicked off her shoes and curled up on the sofa. It had been over a week since the auction – eight days during which she’d been able to gaze lovingly at her precious Woman at the Window, who was currently propped next to The Cursed Man. They made quite an unusual pairing. One young and beautiful, the other old and wizened, and yet both stunning in their own right. But as she gazed into the Italian’s seductive eyes, she felt a wave of sadness consume her. Even if she paid the official receiver seventeen thousand pounds, she’d still owe another ten. There was no other option but to sell her only asset. It was as heartbreaking as it was unavoidable.
With a sigh, she picked up the unopened envelopes and tore open the letter from the official receiver, resigned to further demands on her meagre finances. Time had run out, the twenty-eight days were up. Marcus was never going to do the decent thing and pay up, and she didn’t have the energy to fight him anymore. It was up to her to end the torture. On the plus side, her ex-husband was finally out of her life for good. And that’s the way she intended it to stay.
But as she read the letter, she was amazed to discover it wasn’t a final demand but approval of a repayment plan. What repayment plan? Her confusion deepened when she noticed the receipt for ten thousand pounds stapled to the letter. She hadn’t made any payments. What on earth was going on?
Stunned, she opened the second letter from The Courtauld Institute and skimmed over the test results, absorbing Professor Young’s conclusions as to the date of the materials used in the painting. She read it through twice, just to be sure.
She slumped against the cushions. Well, would you believe it?
With her brain fizzing, she emptied her tea down the sink and poured a glass of wine instead. By the time she’d selected a playlist on the jukebox, undressed and run a bath, she was on her second glass and feeling warm for the first time that day.
She lit scented candles, using the posh bath bomb her sister had given her for Christmas last year to enhance the experience, and lowered herself into the water. Bliss.
She rested her head against the bathtub, letting the dulcet tones of Connie Francis wash over her as she sang ‘Everybody’s Somebody’s Fool’. Oh, the irony.
The candle next to her flickered, the flame struggling to stay alight as bubbles splashed over the rim. She took a deep breath and tried to reconcile the juxtaposition of anxiety and delight coursing through her.
Connie was just singing about how she was ‘a fool who comes running back for more’, when someone rang the back doorbell.
Lexi’s first instinct was to ignore it. It was gone eight o’clock and she wasn’t expecting anyone. She wanted to enjoy her soak. Whoever it was, they could go away. But ten minutes later, when the unknown caller refused to be ignored, she reluctantly dragged herself from the bath, cursing and spilling soapy water over the floor.
‘This had better be important,’ she mumbled, grabbing her satin robe and dripping water on the carpet as she padded barefoot down the back stairs. ‘I’m coming,’ she yelled when her caller upped the ante by holding down the buzzer.
She trod on a discarded shoe, her annoyance escalating until finally she yanked open the door, only to find Olly leaning against the doorframe.
Shock rooted her to the spot. Or was it lust?
His blue eyes widened at her lack of attire. ‘You know, you really need to wear more clothes.’
She was so stunned she couldn’t speak.
‘Not that I’m complaining, but not everyone has the restraint I do.’
Her hand came up to check her robe hadn’t slipped. ‘You’re … you’re here?’
He held up a carrier bag. ‘I come bearing gifts.’
She felt herself blushing. ‘Why?’
‘I need to make amends.’
His voice was soft and endearing, his hair dishevelled and damp from the rain. It took all her restraint not to launch herself at him.
‘At least you didn’t break in this time,’ she said, trying for humour.
He raised an eyebrow. ‘I thought I’d try the traditional approach. Committing a felony didn’t work out so well for me last time.’
Her face grew warm. ‘Only because I interrupted you.’
‘Stabbed me, to be precise.’ It was his turn at humour.
Relief flooded her. He wasn’t angry anymore.
And then he blew softly against her neck. ‘You’re covered in bubbles.’
Shivers ran across her skin. ‘I was in the bath.’
‘So I see.’ He pushed away from the doorframe. ‘Are you going to let me in?’
Above her, Bobby Vee started up with ‘Devil or Angel’. It seemed fitting.
Olly unearthed a bottle of Pinot Grigio. ‘I guessed rosé.’
‘You guessed right.’
He pulled out a takeaway bag. ‘I also brought food. Tasha reliably informed me Thai green curry and tofu peanut satay were the key to winning you over. You haven’t eaten, right?’
‘I haven’t.’ Her stomach rumbled. ‘You’ve spoken to Tasha?’
‘You could say that.’ And then his expression turned tentative. ‘Did you know about her and Sophie?’
His bewildered expression made her smile. ‘You mean, you didn’t?’
‘Not a clue.’
And she’d thought it was so obvious. But perhaps that’s because she knew her sister so well and could tell when she was smitten. ‘You didn’t sense the tension when they were fighting?’
‘Well, yeah, but I thought it was because they hated each other.’
She laughed. ‘Not very astute, are you?’
‘In fairness, I was distracted by other things.’ His eyes dipped to her mouth. ‘Am I coming in?’
She stood back. ‘You are.’
He waited until she’d closed the door and followed her upstairs, no doubt checking out her bare legs. At least, she hoped so.
As they headed up, she had a strange sense of déjà vu.
‘This is familiar,’ he said as if reading her mind. ‘You’re not going to stab me again, are you?’
‘Depends what you’re here for.’
‘I told you, I need to make amends.’
‘Why? It’s me who’s in the wrong.’
‘This is true.’
She swung around to face him. ‘You’re hardly blameless.’
‘Never said I was.’
‘And you lied first.’
He came up a step. ‘I did.’
‘More than once.’
Another step. ‘Guilty as charged.’
‘And I’m still mad at you.’
He was eyelevel now. ‘Understandably.’
‘I may never forgive you.’
His smile turned flirtatious. ‘You already have.’
She suppressed a shudder. It felt exposing standing in the narrow stairwell wearing only a flimsy robe. ‘What makes you think I’ve forgiven you?’
‘Same reason I knew you were going to let me in.’
‘And what’s that?’
He leant closer and whispered in her ear, ‘Like I said, never play poker.’
The sensation of his breath on her damp skin sent a wave of shivers running up her spine. She could feel the heat building between them. If she didn’t move, something would happen. Was that a bad thing? She’d been longing to kiss him since opening the door. But this was hardly the most romantic setting.
His arm slipped around her waist. Was he going to kiss her?
Her breath hitched. Every nerve ending in her body sprung to life.
He leant forwards, his lips tantalisingly close … and then he reached past and pushed open the door to her flat. ‘Have you been baking?’
Bloody tease.
She covered her reaction and followed him inside. ‘I have.’
He looked around the flat, which was bathed in candlelight. The scent of Thai curry mingled with the smell of baked Florentines, creating an oddly seductive ambience. He spotted the two paintings sitting side by side on matching st
ands and his posture stiffened. ‘When did you get the painting back?’
‘This morning.’ She moved over to him. ‘I was enjoying one last look before I returned it to you.’
A beat passed before he turned to look at her. ‘There’s something I need to tell you about that painting. It’s the reason I tried to break in here.’
‘You don’t need to explain.’
‘Yes, I do.’ His brow furrowed.
‘In that case, we’d better open the wine.’
He dumped the bag on the worktop. ‘Where will I find glasses?’
She pointed to a kitchen cabinet. ‘I’ll put some clothes on.’
‘No need to dress for dinner on my account,’ he said, flashing her a smile. ‘I like the casual look.’
‘I’ll stick with tradition and put some underwear on, if you don’t mind.’
‘Underwear is overrated,’ he called after her, making her smile.
She went into her bedroom and threw on a pair of leggings and a loose-knit top. She couldn’t resist spraying on some perfume and fluffing up her hair before rejoining him in the lounge.
‘Do you want to eat before or after my confession?’ he said, carrying two glasses over to the Fifties-style dining table. ‘I nicked a Florentine, by the way.’
‘I’d be disappointed if you didn’t.’ She sat down. ‘Dinner afterwards is fine.’
He uncorked the wine and poured her a generous measure. ‘So, you know I told you I had a falling out with my parents when I was eighteen?’
‘Yes.’
‘I didn’t tell you the whole story.’ He sat down opposite.
‘I figured as much.’ She took a sip of wine – something told her she was going to need it. ‘Go on.’
He paused, almost as if needing to build up the courage to speak. ‘I discovered that my parents were planning to sell a fraudulent painting at auction.’
She almost choked on her wine. She was about to ask what painting, when she realised she already knew the answer. Her research had uncovered as much. ‘The Sacrificial Woman?’
He nodded.
She glanced over at The Cursed Man. ‘What made you think it was fraudulent?’
‘I overheard them talking.’
He sounded so morose, it broke her heart.
‘The painting was definitely from that era, but they had no official paperwork to support its origins, so they falsified provenance.’
‘And you confronted them?’
Another nod. ‘We had a massive row. But they wouldn’t back down. And then I discovered they’d sold one of my replica sketches of The Sacrificial Woman. I’d used sixteenth-century materials, so it wasn’t hard for them to pass it off as an original Albrico Spinelli. It increased the main painting’s value and added weight to its authenticity. But the whole thing was a lie, a scam designed to defraud.’
‘Goodness.’ She took another mouthful of wine, needing the alcohol. ‘I can’t believe they got away with it.’
‘Me neither. They said there was no other way to save Rubha Castle. They said I’d make the whole family destitute if I told anyone.’
‘That’s an awful burden to place on a teenager.’
‘Tell me about it.’ He rubbed the back of his neck. ‘The hardest bit was keeping it from Louisa and Sophie.’
Lexi lowered her glass. ‘They never knew?’
He shook his head. ‘I hated lying to them. It felt like I’d committed a crime, too. When the painting sold for nearly two million quid, I knew I had to leave home. Even without my father’s ultimatum. My parents weren’t even sorry. As long as the Wentworth legacy continued, they didn’t care. Hypocrites, the pair of them.’
She flinched at the word hypocrites. But his anger made more sense now. She’d behaved no better than his parents. Shame on her. ‘So that’s why you left home.’
‘It’s also why I stopped painting. I couldn’t stand the pressure of keeping their secret, or risk anyone finding out the sketch was a fake. The guilt consumed me and stifled any desire to paint.’
No wonder he’d kept quiet about being the artist, Dazed & Confused. She reached across and squeezed his hand. ‘Do your sisters know now?’
He nodded. ‘They guessed most of it.’ He looked over at The Cursed Man. ‘My reaction to the second Spinelli being sent to you by mistake aroused their suspicion. It didn’t take them long to work out why I was so desperate to get it back.’
‘So that’s why you broke in?’ It all made sense now.
He nodded.
‘How did they react to finding out?’
‘Surprisingly okay. But they were still angry that I’d buggered off for eleven years.’ He shook his head. ‘All that wasted time spent worrying about what would happen if they found out. I thought they’d be devastated to discover our parents were immoral fraudsters, but they were more upset about me not being around.’
‘I can understand that.’ She couldn’t bear to be apart from Tasha for eleven days, let alone eleven years. ‘Thank you for telling me. I appreciate it can’t have been easy. But I promise to keep your secret, Olly.’
He raised an eyebrow. ‘What, that my family sold fraudulent art?’
She smiled. ‘No, that their son is essentially honest.’
‘Shocking, huh?’ He studied her face for a long while. ‘What are you thinking?’
She glanced down at their linked hands, enjoying the way they fitted together. ‘I guess I’m trying to get my head around the fact that you’re not really crooked.’
He rubbed his thumb over the back of her hand. ‘And I guess I’m trying to get my head around the fact that you are?’
She laughed, enjoying the teasing note in his voice. ‘Perhaps now you’ve confessed it’ll ease the guilt and you’ll be able to enjoy painting again. It’d be such a shame to let your talent go to waste.’
He looked sheepish. ‘I’ve already started painting again.’
‘You mean, apart from copying the Woman at the Window?’
He nodded. ‘Did you know it sold for seven grand?’
She smiled. ‘I’m not surprised. It’s an exquisite work of art.’
His cheeks flushed at the compliment. ‘I want you to have the money.’ He removed an envelope from his pocket and handed it to her.
She pushed his hand away. ‘Don’t be daft. You don’t have to do that.’
‘Yes, I do. Especially as I nearly ruined your carefully planned heist.’ He grinned at her. ‘Nicely played, by the way.’
‘Are you kidding? I was a quivering wreck.’ She shivered at the memory. ‘I’m never doing anything like that again.’
He laughed. ‘I had no idea there was so much money to be made from painting copies.’ He tucked the envelope under the candle on the table. ‘Don’t even think about returning it.’
His insistence made her smile. ‘Is that what you want to do? Paint copies?’
‘Yeah, but my own versions. I was contacted by this fancy art collector who wants me to paint five Renaissance copies in the style of Dazed & Confused. She’s paid me ten grand as a down payment. Can you believe it?’
‘Art is a profitable business. Especially when the artist is as talented as you are.’
He looked bemused by the idea of being a successful artist, which only endeared him to her even more.
‘I don’t care for my family’s ancestral heritage the way my siblings do, but I’m going to do my best to support them. I’ve no idea whether or not we can hang on to Rubha Castle, but this way I can make a decent contribution to the upkeep and maybe delay having to sell.’
Lexi suddenly pulled her hand away, struck by a realisation. ‘Did you give the official receiver ten thousand pounds?’
He flinched. ‘You weren’t supposed to find out about that yet. Are you mad?’
She frowned. ‘I should be. I mean, why would you do that? You need the money yourself. Haven’t you just been telling me about the problems of financing Rubha Castle?’
‘I didn’t
want you to lose the Woman at the Window.’
‘That’s my problem, not yours.’ What was he thinking? ‘I’m not comfortable about you paying off my debts.’
‘I knew you wouldn’t be. So I have a proposal for you.’ He rested his arms on the table. ‘I was hoping you’d agree to mentor me. That’s what you do, isn’t it? Help new artists to build a career?’ He seemed nervous asking her. ‘The ten grand could be a down payment. Your cut for the first commission.’
She shook her head. ‘That’s a crazy idea. I only charge fifteen per cent.’
‘So I won’t pay you again until we reach that amount.’ He looked determined. ‘I won’t take no for an answer.’ He held out his hand. ‘Do we have a deal?’
She looked into his gorgeous blue eyes and could tell he wouldn’t be dissuaded. The hold around her heart contracted a little tighter. Coupled with the seventeen grand from her commission, it would clear the debt. She couldn’t believe it. She wasn’t going to lose her precious painting.
She shook his hand. ‘Deal.’
He smiled, but then his humour faded. ‘There’s something I have to do first.’
‘What’s that?’
He nodded at the Spinelli. ‘Burn that bloody painting.’
She almost fell off her seat. ‘What?’
‘Don’t you get it? If The Sacrificial Woman was a fake, then The Cursed Man must be, too. That’s why I was so desperate to get it back. I was scared you’d realise and contact the authorities. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. And I’m sorry I lied. I was trying to protect my sisters. The best thing for everyone is if I take the blessed thing outside and set fire to it.’ He got up and marched over to the painting.
She scrambled out of her seat and ran after him. ‘I wouldn’t do that if I were you.’
‘Why not? It’s caused nothing but trouble.’
She placed her hands on his chest, preventing him from moving. ‘Because it was valued this morning at approximately eleven million pounds.’
He turned so pale she thought he might faint. ‘Wh … what?’
She held him steady. ‘Your parents may or may not have sold a forged Spinelli eleven years ago, but they legitimately owned a sixteenth-century masterpiece.’
Secret Things and Highland Flings Page 27