Another easy grin. Obviously, the man wasn’t the “sorry for your loss” type.
“I see. How?”
Okay, he was playing with her like some damned toy; she got that. But she could play her own game. Closing her eyes, Gemma tried for grief stricken. “It was ... ” Her hand went to her forehead, overcome by the horrible memory, “in the Swiss Alps.”
“Yeah? Did the harness break?”
Oh, he really intended to torture her. “I don’t know ... I guess it did.” She dropped her hand and stared down at her pumps, working up her next fib, now furious with herself for starting this whole mess and, worse, at a loss on how to deal with him. “I wasn’t there.”
“Tough. How are you coping?”
Gemma kept her head down, wishing the floorboards would open up and take her straight to wherever her imaginary boyfriend had gone. “Fine,” she shrugged, still staring at the floor.
“Did you have him flown back to the States?”
Dammit, enough of this. She met his gaze. “Actually, I have to ... ”
She lost her words when his dark, penetrating gaze stroked the length of her, pausing on her dress buttons. He was taking her again, letting her know she was his to play with. The man was dangerous all right, which in some strange, unsettling way only added to his sexiness. “I—I have to go back to the auction.”
“I’m glad you got what you came for.”
Sexy dangerous or not, he was a cocky devil. The overconfident type she didn’t like. But even so, part of her did like him. Actually, most of her liked him—that was the trouble. Gemma put her nose in the air, determined to leave with whatever dignity she had left. “I don’t know what you are talking about!”
He smiled at her lie, but then she knew he would. She also knew he was looking at her legs as she marched away, albeit slightly unsteadily. She knew it even before his low rumbling laugh swept away the last of her pride. “See you around, Sexy Legs.”
Not if I see you first.
No way was she up for Perses again.
• • •
She was a masterpiece. A cascade of soft curls the color of midnight. Eyes as blue as the ocean. No, darker than the ocean. More like deep blue sapphires. And that skin. It was like a statue he’d once seen in a museum or somewhere. Yeah, alabaster, that was it, but soft with a hint of rose. Then there was her mouth—all soft and plump, just like a ripe, sun-kissed strawberry.
Jesus, talk about lame-assed thoughts. He knew fuck about art, but he knew what he liked—and this work of art had awakened his cock the minute he’d spotted her in that alcove. As it was, he was only at McCallister’s on a job, but if auction houses housed delectable works like her, he’d come more often.
He watched her standing with a small group at the back of the room, sneaking looks across to him, her cheeks still pink from her adventure. Like some delicate, ebony-haired princess out of a fairy tale. He was too much of a bad boy to be a prince, but his kiss had aroused her, all right.
But who was she? Unless she came from family money, she was way too young to be a high-end art collector. Maybe twenty-five at the most. Besides, she was next to the kid who’d been given an earful by the auctioneer. Jamie? Yeah, that was it. It was more than likely she was a regular at McCallister’s, so she wouldn’t be difficult to track down.
She was still sneaking those looks, but now her arm was linked through the kid’s. Her boyfriend? No, that was a friendship gesture more than anything. Or, maybe not. More like a show of defiance for his benefit. A visual “get lost” for kissing her. He might have felt bad about that if her lush mouth hadn’t tasted so good.
She flexed a foot as she laughed at something Jamie said. Those legs were something, but then, so was the rest of her. Slender, with just the right amount of curviness to fulfill a man’s fantasies. A pity she’d done up those buttons again.
An even bigger pity he hadn’t asked for her number, even if it wouldn’t have been forthcoming. But still, she might be up for dinner some night. Or, maybe with all that heat between them, they could just skip dinner and get right to it. It had been a while since he’d had the time to play.
He started toward her, carefully avoiding her line of sight. From the way she’d strode off, she’d probably bolt if she spotted him coming for her, and that would be a tragedy.
But hell if he wasn’t losing his touch. He’d either miscalculated her sightline or she’d sensed him. Whatever it was, she quarter-turned her head in his direction, alarm rounding her blue eyes when she saw him closing in. For an instant, the blue met his before slipping downward, her attention snared for a split-second too long on his pants before she looked away. Yeah, that below-the-belt stare and red face said she was interested, all right. But it also said she was one embarrassed princess about to run.
Before he could reach her, she had pushed through the crowd and was out the nearest exit. Damn, she was fast.
Too late to catch her. He could always ask the kid who she was, but then again, there was probably no point. Sexual chemistry or not, the princess wasn’t up for more playtime. Besides, she’d probably made the right decision, as much as he hated to admit it. She didn’t come across as the casual pickup type, and he only did casual. But all the same, it was a pity.
CHAPTER TWO
One month later
“GG, old Stonebridge is on the warpath.”
Gemma sighed and looked up from examining the signature on the small watercolor set up on her workbench. This was Lucy’s third visit this morning. What was up with the girl?
“Lucy, shouldn’t you be working?” She might as well be talking to the watercolor for all the good it did. Lucy’s attention was now on Gemma’s young colleague seated at the workbench.
“Hey, Jamie.”
“Hey, Lucy.”
Oh, right. Got it. Lucy had discovered Jamie O’Mara. Gemma had to hide her smile as she watched the two of them stare at each other like a pair of round-eyed opossums. Both were as pink as Lucy’s tank top. Why was it that Gemma was always the last to figure these things out?
“Okay, Lucy, what about Maxim Stonebridge?”
Lucy leaned against the doorjamb and screwed up an eye in thought. To the uninformed, eighteen-year-old Lucy Barton might come across as a cent or two short of a dollar, but she was anything but, as most McCallister’s employees found out within an hour of starting work. For a fact, almost nothing of interest slipped past Lucy’s eyes or ears without being captured for the next water cooler tell-all. Although the teenager had been hired as an office assistant, Gemma had never actually seen her assisting anybody. The girl just floated about the place, sporadically working at her computer, making coffee, occasionally tidying the supply closet, or, like today, hanging around Gemma’s workroom.
“Well, that’s the thing, GG. I don’t know!” she answered, chewing on a blond curl. This was a first. For once, the office snoop was stumped, and it was obviously annoying the hell out of her. “He stormed into John Allen’s office five minutes ago, then stormed out again.”
Gemma shook her head in resignation and went back to examining the signature. It looked genuine, but this was only the first of many tests.
“Jamie, are you going to find that signature list for me or not?” Not to put a damper on all that teenage yearning, but she did have an authentication to finish by the end of the week.
He jumped and bent his head to the signature book in front of him. “Sorry.”
Gemma sighed, totally feeling like the third wheel. “Anyway, Lucy, it can’t be very important if you don’t know what’s going on.”
“That’s true. Oh shit, here comes Cruella.” Lucy’s spine shot to attention as Maxim Stonebridge’s executive assistant strode past her into the workroom, her face as red as a poppy. Something was up: Margot never came near the workrooms if she could possibly help it. She never went red either, for that matter.
“Gemma, Mr. Stonebridge wants to see you.”
“Okay, I’ll be there i
n five minutes. I just need to finish—”
Margot’s voice soared to a decibel short of a shout. “Now!”
“What’s going on?”
“Mr. Stonebridge will explain. Stop whatever you’re doing, and come right now.”
Just what she needed in the middle of her appraisal: a meeting with McCallister’s chief executive, who, by all accounts, was fired up by something that couldn’t wait five minutes. “Okay, I’m coming. Jamie, please check the signature list, and I’ll follow up when I get back.”
Slipping out of her white work coat—and wishing she hadn’t worn casual Friday jeans midweek—Gemma followed Margot into the hallway. Lucy tugged at her sleeve.
“GG, please come and see me straight after your meeting.”
“Haven’t you got work to do, Lucy Barton?” Margot snapped, fixing the girl with a glare that could stop traffic. “Get back to whatever it is you do, although heaven knows what that is.”
Gemma gave Lucy a wink and followed Margot into the elevator and up to the executive offices. Whatever was going on, it was enough to have the normally cool Margot on edge. The woman was tugging at her chain necklace like a lifeline. When the doors opened, Margot all but hurtled herself out of the elevator and into Maxim Stonebridge’s office, tapping her foot impatiently while she waited for Gemma to catch up. By the time Gemma had come to a stop in the middle of the room, Margot was on her way out again, closing the door with an extra sharp click.
The room had the atmosphere of a funeral parlor. Maxim sat behind his oversized mahogany executive desk, his elderly, normally kind face ashen. John Allen, McCallister’s operations manager, stood by the window, eyeing her coldly. The other man seemed familiar, but she couldn’t place him. He looked as if he’d just bitten into a lemon.
Nobody invited her to sit, so she stood in the middle of Maxim’s vast oak-lined office, twisting on her wedges, increasingly desperate for someone to say something.
It seemed to take forever before Maxim finally cleared his throat. “Philip, this is Dr. Gemma Gilmore, our lead authenticator for twentieth-century American paintings.”
She started at the title. She was awarded her PhD in fine arts only three months ago, and it still came as a surprise when people called her “doctor.” It was the first time Maxim had used it. At any other time, she might have felt proud of the unexpected acknowledgement. But at this moment, it felt forced. Out of place.
She stretched out a hand. “It’s nice to meet—”
Her words were cut off as the man waved a hand in her direction, his expression incredulous. “This—this girl. You trusted her?”
“Dr. Gilmore has been with McCallister’s since she came here as an intern. She’s recognized internationally as an expert authenticator in her field. We have no reason to believe—”
“I don’t care if she authenticated the goddamned Mona Lisa. She’s incompetent.”
Gemma started to feel weak. “What is this is about, Mr. Stonebridge?”
“The Frank Bonvalet Philip bought ... ” McCallister’s CEO, paused to draw a deep, shuddery breath before continuing. “It’s a fake.”
For a moment, Gemma thought her heart had stopped working. “Oh no, that’s not poss—” The words died on her lips when Maxim rose slowly to his feet, bracing his hands on his desk for support. He stared at her numbly. “It’s true. Philip received a tip-off that the painting is a forgery. This is a most unfortunate situation.”
The blood drummed so hard in her ears, it felt as if her head had become a percussion instrument. “But ... ” She stopped to run her tongue over her palate, seeking moisture in order to speak. “But I performed every possible authentication test on Dreaming Atlantis, along with weeks of research into the painting’s history. There’s no way it’s a forgery.” Oh God, the word sounded obscene.
Silence.
Why don’t they say something?
Gemma watched dumbly as Philip Taurel began to pace the full length of Maxim Stonebridge’s vast office, his fury permeating the room. Of course, she knew of Philip Taurel, but she had never actually met the billionaire and high-end collector of American art—one of McCallister’s most valued buyers.
Taurel stopped his pacing and jabbed an accusing finger in Stonebridge’s direction. “You let a kid authenticate a $50 million painting that I bought. You must be mad.” Turning, he looked Gemma up and down, his eyes registering disgust as he took in her jeans. “Just look at her.”
“Philip, we’ll do everything we can,” Stonebridge said.
“You’ll do more than that. You’ll refund my money today, or else I’ll ruin you. By the time I’m finished, no collector in the world will touch your damned auction house.”
John Allen stepped forward. “Mr. Taurel, we understand how you feel. We’ll do a thorough investigation to find out how this could have happened. Once we know the full story, our insurers will, of course, pay you back every cent.”
“I don’t give a damn about your investigation or your insurers. You will write the check now!”
“You must understand,” John continued patiently, “that our own experts must examine the painting first before we write a check for $50 million.”
“Are you suggesting I’m lying?” Taurel turned back to Stonebridge. “You old fool. Did she spread her legs for you to get the job? I’ll admit she’s ... ”
“That’s enough, Taurel,” came a deep rumble from somewhere behind Gemma’s back. She blinked in shock, instantly recognizing the bourbon voice.
Horror filled her as Perses walked calmly across to Taurel, his big frame dominating the room, his expression hardened steel.
“Apologize.”
She took an unsteady step forward to clutch the back of a chair. The room tilted and dipped. This couldn’t be real. She was dreaming, and in a minute, she’d wake up. Except this was really happening. This was Perses fisting the lapel of Philip Taurel’s jacket, his face inches away, shaking the man like he was made of rubber.
“I said apologize. Now.”
Taurel had turned almost as white as his business shirt. He said nothing, and Gemma thought he was going to pass out. But then he slumped a little, his voice ragged when he spoke. “I ... I apologize.”
She stood in shock as Perses released Taurel’s jacket and turned toward her. That he was here in Maxim Stonebridge’s office wasn’t the real horror. It was why he had stayed silent and hidden from her view that was upsetting. He wanted to see her reaction to the news about the Bonvalet, and from his expression, he didn’t believe a word she’d said. Those scrutinizing eyes were now locked onto hers. Analyzing her. Judging her a liar. When they met a month ago, his eyes were sensual, teasing her when he’d taken what he wanted. Not a day had passed where she hadn’t relived it, his arm imprisoning her, his mouth claiming hers. He’d scared her to the point of running away from him. Now he terrified her. She trembled as he took two long strides to reach her.
“I think Dr. Gilmore needs to sit down.”
Sit down? No, she needed to escape this room. But his hand was under her elbow, propelling her to the chair. Somehow, Gemma found strength enough to yank her arm free from his grip, desperately trying to quell the rising dizziness. She could manage without him. She just needed to clear this whole thing up. Then go back to her workroom to finish her watercolor appraisal.
It ought to be easy.
“I don’t need to sit down. Maxim, this can’t be true. I worked for weeks on that painting, checking and rechecking. This is all a mistake.”
Stonebridge rose to his feet, the disappointment in his eyes hurting her almost as much as the accusation. McCallister’s had fast-tracked her career, placing complete trust in her ability. Everyone said she was good. More than good. A genius, they said. That she possessed an extraordinary, almost uncanny ability to spot the smallest clue that a work was fake.
They’ll be so embarrassed when they realize their mistake.
“There’s no mistake, Dr. Gilmore,” Stonebridg
e responded dully. “As of now, you are to cease all work at McCallister’s. You’re still on salary, but you will not come into the office until further notice, and you will not discuss this matter with anyone. Margot will be in touch. Now, if you will excuse us.”
Gemma now knew for certain she was going to faint. But no way was she going to fall down in front of these men. They all assumed she was guilty of deliberately authenticating a forgery. In their eyes, she was a cheat and a liar. A criminal.
Wordlessly, she turned and started slowly for the door, concentrating on her every step. If she could just make it to the hallway, there was an empty office near the elevator. It had a sofa where she could lie down and take a few moments to think.
But she couldn’t make it. She knew it even before she’d reached Margot’s office and leaned helplessly against the wall, trying to breathe. Trying to control her despair.
She was swaying. Falling into blackness.
Strong arms lifted her.
Perses.
Through her misery and giddiness, she heard his deep, resonant voice above her head talking to someone. Probably Margot.
“I’ve got her.”
Then she was being carried along the passage in those powerful arms—arms that curled tighter around her legs and waist as she tried to struggle. She dimly heard his order through her haze.
“Stay still.”
It was useless. She couldn’t fight him, and if he put her down on her feet, she had no confidence that she could stay upright anyway.
He laid her down on something soft. The sofa. She heard the door being closed, then felt a cushion slipped under her head, followed by the sound of a chair scraping on the hardwood floor. She could feel him just inches from her. Waiting in silence for her to respond. Opening her eyes, she tried to wrench herself upright, but a large hand on her chest pushed her back down.
“Don’t even try. You’re in shock.”
“I’m fine,” she tried to argue through trembling lips, her words falling away as lightheadedness swept her again.
Whirlwind Romance: 10 Short Love Stories Page 6