The Hunt for Eros

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The Hunt for Eros Page 10

by Hunt, Sam J. D.


  I sat in the empty hotel bar at a corner table staring at a drink menu, with no idea what I planned to do. My heart was broken, but I still wanted Ben. The last week had been the adventure I craved, and I loved being on it with him. I was falling in love, despite knowing better. Disrupting my thoughts, the bartender, a dark and hulking handsome giant, stood in front of me asking what I’d like to drink. “Uh, I’d like a beer, please,” I answered—beer was the cheapest option, and I didn’t have much money. I already suspected I’d be testing my available credit to get back to Cambridge. “IPA okay?” I nodded, having no clue what IPA stood for. The new phone rang a few more times, then a text chirped before I flipped the sound off. Ben’s last text said: Jane, I’m on my way, stay there, please. I wasn’t sure where exactly he thought I was, but I had no intention of staying here.

  An older man walked into the quiet bar; he was in his late sixties maybe, silver gray hair, slightly weathered skin. There was a quiet dignity about him as he ordered a scotch on the rocks before straightening his tweed coat. He was the sort of man you expected to smell like old cologne and books, and be sitting in a leather wing chair smoking a pipe. He carried an old-fashioned leather briefcase, as if he was still entrenched in the pre-electronics era. The bartender handed him a crystal tumbler, the ice cubes clinking as the man took a small sip. Instead of sitting at the bar, he walked over to my table. His steel gray eyes locked onto mine—I’m sure he sent many women aflutter, old and young. In his smoothly cultured English accent, he said, “Hello Jane.”

  Chapter Twenty.

  I nearly spat out my mouthful of beer. “I’m sorry have we… are you...?” My brain was clicking with the absurd twists my adventure had taken. “My name is Sean Devane, and I’m very pleased to make your acquaintance. Your uncle and I were quite close.” I was dumbfounded; completely speechless. Over the last three days I’d grown to fear Sean Devane—he’d become some villain in my mind, dark and nefarious. This man, however, seemed like a scholarly professor, which of course he was. “May I?” he asked, gesturing toward the open seat at my table. I nodded as he sat, placing the briefcase on the floor next to his feet. “Another drink?” he politely asked. “I’m good,” I answered in my less-than-sophisticated vernacular.

  “I know this is a surprise, but I need to talk to you. I followed you from the baths—I could barely keep up. Tell me why you plan to abandon the search for the sculpture?” His tone was sharp and pointed; he lacked the smooth, calming delivery that Ben had wooed me with. “I just want to go home now, I don’t care about the Cupid any longer,” I lied. I didn’t want to go home, I wanted to talk to Ben. Sean nodded, taking another sip as if we had all the time in the world to chat.

  “Ben has hurt you then? That is surprising. Usually, he has women completely head over heels at this point. The hurt comes after he’s stolen what’s yours and leaves you broken and alone.” His tone was flat and emotionless, as if he were relaying a well-known truth.

  “I guess I knew that. I ran because I was jealous of Elizabeth Hope,” I confessed, despite the raging voice in my head telling me to shut up.

  “Yes, she is a terrible piece of work. Dangerous, too. You should be careful; she is obsessed with Ben, her husband Edward is as well. Ben will never let her go, though; it’s important that you accept that. They all deserve each other but you, my dear, must extract yourself from this nastiness. Your heart will get over Benedict Hunt, I promise you.”

  “He loves her?”

  “Loves? No, Ben doesn’t love. His connection with her is what I want to share with you, and then you need to come with me. My dear friend Stuart wanted me to lead you on this journey, and I can help you protect the Cupid.”

  He reached into his briefcase and brought out a legal-sized envelope. As he unwrapped the string that was binding it, he said gently, “This will be hard for you to hear, I’m afraid.” He spread out in front of me a stack of papers, mostly newspaper articles, but the top page was a picture of a painting of a beautiful bouquet of roses. The brush detail was so finely crafted it took the subject from common to extraordinary. “This is a signed Renoir. It belonged to the Hopes, and was willed to Elizabeth by her grandmother as part of her inheritance.”

  “It’s beautiful.” I moved in closer to get a better look at it.

  “It was, yes. We have no idea where it is now. Many years ago Elizabeth had an unfortunate addiction to heroin and due to her behavior, her father cut her cash supply off. At one point she ran afoul of a drug dealer in London and desperately needed money. Ben heard of this and courted young Elizabeth. Of course, she fell in love with him. Instead of providing Elizabeth with the funds she so desperately needed, or even getting her help for her addiction, he convinced her to sell him the Renoir—for fifteen thousand pounds. Ben later sold the painting at a Sotheby’s auction and netted himself one hundred thousand pounds. Shortly thereafter, he broke it off with the heartbroken Elizabeth. She tried to kill herself with an overdose, but failed. Her father intervened, marrying her off to Edward, and at first forbade her to see Ben. Things have since cooled, and as you know she still sees Ben. Lord Hope, however, has threatened to ruin him if he ever hurts his daughter again.” I sat back in my chair as the room spun. I was horrified at the story, as Sean Devane intended, but I was also ashamed at the other emotion I felt—relief. I was relieved that Ben was not in love with Elizabeth.

  “So you see, my dear, this is his game. Here are some others he has bilked.” He spread out the women in front of me, complete with the artwork that was conned from them, as well as one tabloid article about an heiress that claimed Ben Hunt tricked her into giving him a rare Titian painting.

  “But Uncle Stuart’s sculpture can’t be worth that kind of—”

  “Oh yes, love, the piece’s value is far greater than whatever he has offered to pay you for it. It’s quite possible that the Cupid is priceless, if the sculptor mark hinted at in the photo is authentic.” I reached into my pocket and fingered the cellphone buzzing there—I wanted to talk to Ben.

  Sean finished his drink and put his array of incriminating evidence against Ben back into his worn leather briefcase. “You hate him then? Ben?” I asked before I could stop myself.

  He was taken slightly aback at my question, a swash of surprise touching his eyes before he answered, “No, Ben is very dear to me. He was a brilliant art student, the best I’ve ever had. As a mentor, I cherished him. I’m not proud to say that I even looked the other way as he pillaged art from these fine women. However, this time he’s trying to steal from my best friend, may he rest in peace, and I cannot let that happen. Jane, you must come with me. Once we have the clue, we can find the Cupid together and fulfill Stuart’s dying wishes.” His face sunk in grief—fake grief. Ben told me that Uncle Stuart and this man were frenemies, but looking into Sean’s eyes when he mentioned my uncle revealed the truth—there was no “friend” about their relationship. I saw hatred. I kept thinking of Stuart’s admonition in each clue: trust no one. I didn’t trust Ben, but I felt like I knew him in a twisted way. This man, I didn’t trust or know.

  I glanced at the cellphone as Sean Devane’s dark stare pierced into me. The last text from Ben said: I’m outside. Run! Irrationally, against every scrap of practicality I possessed, I stood from the table and walked as quickly as I could from the bar and through the lobby of the hotel. Sean was behind me, imploring, attempting to grab my arm to slow down my escape. Just as he grabbed at my hand, yanking me hard away from the hotel’s lavish exit, the behemoth bartender intervened. He towered over Sean, demanding with a deep growl, “Let the lady go.” With both hands on Sean’s shoulders, the bartender nodded for me to leave.

  I scurried gracelessly toward the door, bursting out into the daylight with tangible anticipation. Ben was there, in the back of a large black car. He burst out of the rear door, gesturing for me to come. I paused for a split second before jumping into the backseat of the car with him. “My stuff!” I yelped. He grabbed my hand, with
a giant grin, and pulled me toward him. He reached over and secured my seatbelt with a quick wave out the window to Sean, who was looking defeated. “Our belongings are in the boot; the concierge was quite accommodating while you were chatting up the enemy in the lounge.”

  He leaned back in his seat as Bath passed by. I was silent on my side of the back seat. The entire time in the lobby all I could think about was being back with him, but now that I was next to him, I couldn’t let go of the doubt. I’d heard him talking to Elizabeth, and the intimacy of the words still hurt. His hand cradled mine, and with a squeeze, his face relaxed into a satisfied grin. “Get us to the Cotswolds, George, and see that we’re not followed.” I glanced up and realized that Ben’s driver from Cambridge was at the wheel, dressed in a dark suit just as he was the night my adventure began.

  “But the clue, shouldn’t we at least try to find it?”

  “I have the clue, my fair Jane,” he said, pulling the vellum envelope from the breast pocket of his coat. “I found it before you tried to leave me,” he murmured, hurt radiating from his drawn lips. “I heard you,” I whispered back, every bit as pained. “I heard you talking to Elizabeth, I know you’re playing me.” The tense wall of silence hung between us, each of us weighing how far we’d let the other in. Ben finally broke through, his body relaxing, his shoulders leaning in as he wrapped his arms around me. I was stoic, but didn’t resist. My breath rose and fell in short bursts as I struggled not to cry.

  “Yes, Jane, I’ve been playing you, but my feelings for you? They are real. It wasn’t supposed to happen, but it did…I’m f—”

  “Bullshit! You’ve probably played this game a hundred times. Just take the sculpture, Ben, take it, pay me, and I’ll go on my way. You can cut the romance façade.” The tears won and dripped down my face in large round droplets. His finger reached up to wipe them away as his body turned toward me, his blue eyes misting over. He was good; I’d give him that.

  “Jane, I don’t have romantic feelings for Elizabeth Hope—I never did, and I regret what I put her through. I did something horrific that I don’t want to go into, and now I have to tread carefully with her. Yes, she thinks she’s allied with me on this search for the Cupid, but I swear, I honestly just want this priceless work to get the home it deserves.”

  “Sean told me what happened with Elizabeth,” I said quietly, stroking his hand with mine, “but that’s no reason to let your guilt control you.”

  “Sean fucking told you? He told you a partial truth, I’m sure. It’s his style. I destroyed Elizabeth because he forced me too. I had no choice, Jane. All of it, every single deception was for him.” George’s head whipped toward us from the front seat in shock, breaking his normal formal protocol, as he caught Ben’s eye. “Sir,” he gasped before willing his eyes back to the road. “It’s okay, George,” Ben said, his broken voice barely above a whisper, “I’m going to tell her. It’s…Jane is different.”

  George’s focus returned to the road, his temporary lapse of decorum forgotten. “I deceived Elizabeth and many others to protect my family. I didn’t profit from conning those women—the money and worse, much of the art, went straight into Sean Devane’s pocket. He’s blackmailing me.”

  I sat in the luxurious leather seat in shock as his confession sunk in. “I don’t understand…you’re very rich, right? Why didn’t you just pay Sean off?”

  Ben nodded as he fidgeted with his hands. I could tell that he’d rarely, if ever, discussed this. “Yes, I’m wealthy thanks to my mother, whom I adore. She’s a good person who made a mistake, once, with him. Sean doesn’t want the cash as much as he wants the art; he’s obsessed with possessing it. All of the missing pieces are stashed away for him to privately hoard. The Cupid, however, would be the ultimate score for him, and as in the past, he ordered me to play along and acquire it for him.”

  “For ten thousand dollars? Or was I to get nothing?” I asked.

  “I would have paid you the ten thousand dollars. That’s part of the blackmail fee, I suppose.”

  “Would have? Past tense?” I felt my money problems returning.

  “Jane, that sculpture is priceless, I’m sure of it. I need to ensure it’s rightfully yours, but forget the ten thousand. I want you to have what’s yours. I just need to figure out how to protect my mother from Sean and end this threat he has hanging over me for good. Elizabeth promised to help me with that. She swears she has video footage of Sean that would destroy him.”

  “Your days of romancing women for art are over?” I asked flippantly.

  “My days of romancing anyone other than you are over, I hope.” He reached for me again, and this time I fell into his arms, allowing him to hold me tight as the dark car slipped into the countryside.

  Chapter Twenty-One.

  Somehow in the back of the warm car I’d dozed off yet again on Ben’s shoulder. With a startle, I felt him roll me back into my own seat. As my eyes fluttered open, I heard the rustle of him fingering the envelope. “The clue,” I yawned, “we didn’t open it…where are we headed?”

  “I’d rather we deal with the clue in private,” he whispered. “George is taking us to the Cotswolds to hide, I’m afraid. Sean won’t take this setback easily, so I’d rather lose him even though it will cost us a day. I suspect he found us in Bath by having my charge card traced by some of his friends in government. George’s daughter runs a small tavern in Chipping Norton, The Dog and Pony, and can offer us discrete lodgings for a night or two.”

  “Okay, but you think the sculpture is priceless, why?”

  He breathed in deeply, weighing his answer carefully as if at a crossroads.

  “It’s a Michelangelo.” He finally exhaled, as if to say, “There it is.”

  I choked in shock. Even with my limited art knowledge, I knew full well who Michelangelo was. As in, Michelangelo Buonarroti—considered one of the greatest artists of all time. “Are you sure? I mean, it’s probably a fake, right?” I fought to breathe.

  “It’s real,” he answered nonchalantly. “Jane, this is what I do. I may be a fucked up freaky-freak to you, but in the art world, I’m considered an authority on such matters. This is the real thing. The lines of that sculpture in the photo; I’m convinced it’s authentic. His stone mason’s mark is partially visible in the picture—three interlinked circles with an M inside one.”

  My lungs burned as I fought for air. I knew this information would change my life, I just didn’t have any idea how.

  “Why…what was Uncle Stuart doing with it?”

  “I’m not exactly clear. That’s why I went to see Sean that night after I found the photo outside my office door. I don’t trust Sean, but he’d mentioned in the past that he suspected Stuart was sitting on a priceless work of art. That’s when Sean told me that he’d bribed the solicitor to recommend me to you as a guide. He’d planned to tell me the next day; you’d gotten to me sooner than he’d expected. When I showed Sean the mark, he turned white, actually shook, but then after he’d composed himself, he denied that it was real, and then told me to back off. He said that he’d decided it was wrong to keep forcing me to play this game and that he would guide you himself. I’m not sure how far he’d go to obtain an authentic Michelangelo—thank God I got to you first.”

  I was still reeling from the shock as the darkness outside mirrored our silence inside. Wrapped around Ben, his arms holding me close, my mind clicked through everything that had happened since the solicitor called me that cold night in Toledo. I knew he’d finally come clean with me, and for that I was relieved, but the rest—I was so confused.

  As the car slowed to drift around the death-defying curves of countless sleeping villages, the night became darker and colder. My mind was racing with questions, but I was incapable of forming coherent speech to ask them. At some point we pulled up next to a thatched-roof inn positioned so close to the narrow lane that the upper stories were drifting out over the road. George parked the car directly in front of the massive wooden front do
or, and walked around to open Ben’s door. He slid out, pulling me by the hand alongside him. “George, thank you for this. I owe you one.” George grinned before replying, “You owe me many, sir.” They acknowledged one another with the easy comfort of two men who knew each other, and their roles, very well.

  As George retrieved our bags from the trunk of the car, a middle-aged dark haired woman emerged and approached Ben. “Mr. Hunt, we’re honored to have you here at The Dog and Pony,” she gushed, her right hand extended. Ben leaned in and hugged the woman, a pang of jealousy poking my ribs, and corrected, “Thanks for this Elise. And it’s Mr. Smith for now, okay?” She nodded quickly, “Yes, Mr. Smith, and this is…?”

  “This is my wife, Joan, of course. I’m sorry for the inconvenience, but we’d like to clean up before dinner.”

  “Let me lead you up to your lodgings. Our rooms are quite modest by your standards, I’m afraid, Mr. H—Mr. Smith. Steve will bring your bags.”

  “The room will be fine, Elise. Thank you.” Ben once again grasped my hand as we followed Elise past the rowdy pub toward a winding staircase, the ceiling so low that Ben had to duck to ascend it. Elisa led us into the darkness, and with a sudden flick of a light switch, the snug room illuminated with a warm, golden glow from a bedside lamp. “Once again, I do apologize that our modest inn isn’t the posh lodgings you are used to, but it’s clean and I hope you’ll be comfortable here. You’ve done so much for my father, please stay as long as you’d like.”

 

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