Will she risk it all for a priceless desire?
A rising star in one of London’s top art investigation firms, Zara Leighton’s talent for seeing deep into paintings is in her blood. She’s chosen to help track down Icon, an enigmatic international art thief whose heists are methodical, daring, baffling. To Zara the case is maddening—bordering on an obsession.
She finds distraction in the chiseled form of top-shelf client Tobias Wilder, a magnetic American billionaire who demands her expertise, her discretion—and her secrecy. Wilder doesn’t ask questions. He gives orders. His gaze alone ignites her deepest fantasies. And his touch...
The sudden whirl of exclusive exhibitions and decadent parties that Wilder introduces her to is a potent aphrodisiac. But surrender soon becomes tinged with suspicion. Is Zara’s tryst with Wilder the real thing...or just a convincing forgery?
Continue the ICON trilogy with
THE GAME,
coming soon from
Vanessa Fewings
and HQN Books.
THE CHASE
Vanessa Fewings
For Mum
Acknowledgments
Embarking on this new series with Zara and Tobias has been a thrilling journey, one that would not have been possible without the support of many people. I have the deepest gratitude and respect for my editor, Ann Leslie Tuttle; her kindness and enthusiasm is inspirational, and I’m so honored to work with one of the romance industry’s most renowned senior editors. Thank you to Gina Macedo for your time and precision. Thank you to the entire HarperCollins and Harlequin team for all they’ve done for the ICON Trilogy.
This series exists thanks to agent Kimberly Whalen, and I’m constantly wowed and grateful for her expertise and passion. Thank you for sharing in my vision for this series and encouraging me to write it!
Thank you to Tara Carberry. Her enthusiasm for Wilder right at the start spurred me on to create an inspiring book boyfriend for us all.
Thank you to Peter Katz and Guy Birthwhistle for their support and generosity.
My gratitude for all the bloggers and reviewers who have supported me from the very beginning. Many of you have actually become friends, too, which leads me to thanking Hazel Godwin, Lauren Luman, Heather Pollock and Louise Sandford for their continued support.
Thank you to those reviewers who are new to me for taking a chance on my novel and recommending this series to your readers. They are the living force behind each author, and we couldn’t do this without them!
Endless gratitude to SueBee at Goodreads for her librarian skills and determination to take care of our beloved readers.
Nina Grinstead and Jenn Watson at Social Butterfly PR, thank you so very much for lending your powerhouse talent to the promotion of this series along with your entire team. A big thank you to Lisa Wray, publicist extraordinaire at Harlequin, for directing such a great promotion.
A shout-out to my incredible Facebook friends who are always cheering me on; thank you for telling your friends about my books! I hope you enjoy spending time with Wilder!
For Brad, my wonderful husband, who has supported me from the very beginning and has been there for every moment of my journey—thank you for making me see the funny side when I get too serious and reminding me there is a world outside the window when I become too obsessed with writing.
A big hug for Liz and Mand, my beloved sisters, who cheer me on.
To my beloved readers, thank you so very much for spending time with Tobias and Zara and joining me on this wild ride of their adventures together!
I hope this book inspires many of you to return to your favorite museums and to perhaps discover new galleries.
“Art is not what you see, but what you make others see.”
—Edgar Degas
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Prologue
The Courtauld Institute of Art
The stillness of the Witt Library embraced me as I sat at a corner table, my breaths slow and steady, my thoughts wandering, slipping almost into a trance. I tried to see the events that had transpired through his perspective as though I’d been there with him.
This faceless man who’d seized my every waking thought.
Closing my eyes, my fingers traced the file. I’d combed through every detail of this three-week-old report, a precise translation from French to English by the Police Nationale. As an employee of Huntly Pierre, London’s most prestigious investigative art firm, I’d been permitted exclusive access.
It wasn’t only that I’d been tasked with hunting him down, or his obvious passion for art that seemingly equaled mine, drew me to him. Rather there was an unfathomable connection to this stranger that now consumed my days and nights. Perhaps this was only the inevitable shakiness of a newbie forensic art specialist finding her way through the precarious underworld of corruption.
Though that didn’t explain why he’d visited my dreams as though we shared a deeper connection.
Forcing these nonsensical thoughts away, I tried to focus on the details in the file. I could see this theft had presented our suspect with a technical hitch like no other. There were so many irregularities to plan for when breaking into a private estate at three o’clock on a crisp Sunday morning. I imagined the kind of preparation it would have taken. More than requiring a disciplined mind to navigate through complex innovations in home defense, the job would also have demanded brute force. He’d abseiled into a privately owned, billion-dollar rotunda displaying some of the most priceless masterpieces in existence around its curved wall. The kind most people would never see. The estate was owned by the Burells, who had made their money through the family business. Their private contractor company used the guise of combat support to deploy well-trained mercenaries into war. Their impressive art collection was proof that business was booming.
Resting my hand upon the small samples of evidence collected, I envisioned him wearing black khakis with a tight T-shirt pulled over a sculptured torso. After all, given that the climbing harness he wore would suspend him fifty feet in the air, he’d have to be fit. Peering through his night-vision goggles, without which he’d be in pitch blackness, that sheer drop beneath him was an exhilarating rush that was all part of the allure.
The kind of bravery I coveted.
That’s all this was, surely? A curiosity for the kind of recklessness I’d never dare experience. The kind that brought freedom. A life fully realized without societal constraints.
Until we locked him away, irrevocably.
The evidence proved he’d been on track with claiming his prize, namely a glorious 1
566 self-portrait by Tiziano Vecelli, more commonly known as Titian.
A print of the painting had been placed in the file, and I now marveled at Titian’s remarkable technique. He’d immortalized himself on that oil on canvas, masterfully capturing the charisma of an elegant seventy-eight-year-old and highlighting his sharp features in those rich deep shades. Should one look closer, there was a dash of melancholy too. Titian’s black-robed attire was an understated reflection of his modesty, despite his great wealth. That final touch of his right hand holding a paintbrush reflected his brilliance. Hailed by his contemporaries as “The sun amidst small stars.”
I shared the thief’s exhilaration of being so close to such a treasure.
I imagined what he’d felt as he surveyed the room and zeroed in on his target. Adrenaline fueling his descent until he’d paused to run through his options.
Failure was out of the question. He’d come too far.
The hole he’d drilled into the glass ceiling was altering the fine temperature control that protected the other paintings, and had there been any other way in he’d no doubt have used it. That breach had exposed the room to the humid French climate. Though luckily the weather forecast for Amboise had promised no rain.
He wasn’t a complete bastard; because one downpour would have left nothing but ruin.
A jolt of envy hit me that it had been him and not me experiencing all that inaccessible beauty.
Our man was clearly arrogant, well educated based on his grasp of this advanced technology, and already wealthy from previous heists. I sensed he’d been touched by the kind of charm that forged a blunt sense of entitlement. A self-serving desire to own whatever he set his sights on.
He’d not gone for the Saint Veronica by Robert Campin, a strange-looking baptism by Giovanni di Paolo or an overvalued Paul Cezanne. Trying to wrap my head around this fact there was also the consideration of his infamous MO.
He only ever took one.
Our man had researched this space until he knew it intimately and had even been prepared for that emergency generator kicking in after he’d cut the power. Because he’d hacked into their security firm’s database, he knew all about the pressure-sensitive marble floor tiles, finicky laser detectors and the temperature monitor set to go off after five minutes.
He’d burned through a few minutes when he must have looked up at the sky and spotted an enormous squawking raven perched on the end of the glass hole that he’d taken precious time to saw through.
Had he experienced a jolt of fear before returning to the Zen-like calm he must have possessed to do a job like this? Somewhere, I’d read a bird’s eyesight was sensitive to ultraviolet light. Something about visual pigments in their retinal cones. I’d stored this in the “interesting stuff of no current value” corner of my brain.
But for this case it couldn’t have been more vital.
Because there were two things I knew for sure. First, the ultraviolet flashlight strapped to his utility belt, standard equipment for any self-respecting thief, had been on and had caught that raven’s attention. Second, that very bird had dived straight toward the invisible layers of those state-of-the-art motion detectors.
Opening my eyes, my fingers traced the sample of black feathers found at the scene, proving he’d tried to prevent the bird from landing.
The only consolation was the raven had been found alive and happily perched atop a whimsical 1889 still life: Vase with Fourteen Sunflowers by Vincent van Gogh, worth millions.
Though minutes before, there had been the inescapable mayhem of a swinging climbing rope, flying feathers and scrambling hands to rein in the chaos.
Basically, he was fucked.
And he’d still gotten away with a Titian.
Closing the file, my heartbeat quickened with a fierce resolve to see this case closed and have this heist go down in history as the one that got him caught.
1
One week earlier
She’ll be safe here.
Since I’d first made the decision to leave her at The Otillie, I’d been reciting this mantra to reassure myself. I can even remember what I was wearing that early winter morning when I’d first set eyes on my beloved Madame Rose.
To me, my Madame Rose was so much more than a painting. She represented my childhood, my innocence, my strongest connection to my father. Rose had been a woman of her day—my father had told me this as he’d raised his bidding paddle and with one sweep of his wrist he’d secured Madame Rose Récamier as ours, outbidding every other art collector at Sotheby’s. Adding another masterpiece to his already vast personal gallery back when I’d called Kensington home.
Zara, within the texture lies the truth, he’d told me as he nudged me closer to the canvas. Can you see?
As I’d taken in—or at least tried with the perception of a ten-year-old—the brilliance of that French artist on that century-aged painting, I’d sensed life would never be the same. I’d known in the depths of my soul art would always be my one true love.
Tonight, I’d been so fazed about coming here that I’d forgotten to wear a coat that would have offset the chill of a London autumn and the cold temperature the gallery was kept at to preserve its treasures within.
Art galleries were quiet places with hushed whispers as respectful visitors paid homage to the genius of artists who’d left their indelible mark. Many of these painters had languished in poverty even after giving so much. As a child I’d always wanted to travel back in time to watch them work and tell them their talent had been worth all they’d sacrificed.
My stilettos clicked along the marble uncomfortably loudly as I neared Madame Rose Récamier. She’d hung in my bedroom and watched over me for years.
Stepping closer, my gaze roamed over her, marveling at those pristine strokes giving Rose a stunning realism.
I gave the softest sigh.
The year was 1803 when Jacques Momar had captured a moment in time with this Parisian socialite and, as I trailed my fingers through my auburn locks, I recalled how I’d wanted to be her. Chestnut irises, we had that in common, but her fiery gaze reflected a life of daring—one she’d chosen to live on her terms. Madame Rose Récamier had been known for her love of neoclassical fashion and her controversial interest in politics. She’d stunned Paris with her tenacity. Her reputation to enamor with her smart wit and intelligence had been expressed so beautifully as she reclined on that satin chaise lounge, her head thrown back and her gaze held firmly on the artist Monsieur Momar. In her expression there was love. As time went on I’d realized that look proved an affair had transpired between them. The kind of passion I’d only ever read about.
I saw something I’d never noticed before—uncertainty—the emotion starkly vivid and painfully real.
In his will my father had left Madame Récamier to me. And now I was leaving her here.
“She’s haunting,” Clara whispered, shaking me from my daydream. It was just like her to know I needed a few moments alone with Rose to say goodbye.
It felt comforting having my best friend here.
No matter how many months went by without seeing Clara, it felt like mere minutes had passed between us. She’d always come through for me, and I for her.
Her diamante-crystal, halter-neck dress made her look gorgeous, as always. She had a couple of inches on me and her thick blond curls were a contrast to my long auburn hair. Her high cheekbones were a reflection of the confidence that had helped her succeed as an advertising photographer. Her voluptuousness was a contrast to my smaller curvy figure. “Rubinesque,” she’d called herself, which matched her vibrant personality, and her bright eyes and warm smile were always welcome in my world that always seemed more complicated than hers.
As if sensing I needed it, she came over now to give me a hug. “She’s beautiful.” Clara squeezed me into her sid
e.
“First time I saw her I was wearing my favorite floral dress.” I rested my head on Clara’s shoulder for a moment. “Red shoes. I loved those shoes.”
“Oh, Zara, this was a good decision.”
“Yes. She’s meant to be here.”
She paused for a moment and studied me as though being careful with her words. “What about the others?”
The three other paintings we’d saved that night...
Flames rising from our house and licking the air with those monstrous oranges and reds; a hellish glow...
The stench of toxic smoke in my clothes. My hair. My skin. My doll lost to the flames.
Stubbornly, I shook my head, not wanting to remember anything more about that night. “There was always this sense we were protecting Madame Rose by hiding her away.”
Now it was time to step away.
Let it all go. And move on.
“You okay?” came Clara’s reassurance.
I nodded to let her know I was.
It was behind me now, all that grief of dealing with the complex issues of my father’s estate and those endless meetings with softly spoken solicitors where coffee was my only friend. And those journalists who’d begged for a scoop on what plans I had to take the Leighton family legacy into the twenty-first century.
I had no real plans for anything, not really.
Other than settling into my new career. Moving on felt cathartic.
Clara tutted. “Dreadful thing.”
Shaken back into the room, I asked, “What is?”
“No one’s reckless enough to steal from a gallery. Not with all this.” She peered up at one of the discreet cameras.
She was referring to that theft in Chelsea: a portrait by Henry Raeburn had been stolen from a private estate.
“You’re right,” I agreed.
She patted my arm. “You’ll sleep better knowing she’s here.”
“You don’t think it’s connected to what happened in France, do you?”
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