Time stopped as I stared at the emerging masterpiece: a gleaming angel, resting on its side. I’d seen other sleeping Cupids; Ben had shown me several different Renaissance era variations on his iPad so I’d know what we were looking for. This one, however, was beyond special. I was drawn closer to it. The perfection of the lines, the beauty of the curves, the emotion that the piece evoked in me—it was like no other work of art I’d ever seen. Ben was pale, his lower lip quivering. He reached out to touch it, brushing the dust away. He knelt down to examine the mark on the bottom before pulling his phone from his pocket. I sat and stared as he snapped several pictures of it. “Is it…?” I asked in a reverent whisper. “Yes, it’s a Michelangelo. That’s his mark, and the lines, the detail, the characteristic chisel marks—it’s authentic. I just sent a few pictures to a colleague at the Accademia Gallery in Florence. He’s the foremost expert on Michelangelo’s sculptures.”
Within seconds, Ben’s phone was buzzing. He swiped the phone to answer. “Lorenzo, slow down, you keep sliding into Italian.” Ben smiled at me. The man on the other end of the line, Lorenzo, was clearly excited. “I know, I know, it’s remarkable. How soon can you get here?” After a few more exchanges, Ben slid his phone back in his pocket. “Lorenzo Rossi is convinced we’ve found Michelangelo’s The Sleeping Cupid. He’s flying in this afternoon to see it in person. We’ll get a statement of its authenticity from him and I’ll write one as well. We’ll also need to get a published opinion from Professor Devane.”
“Sean! The villain who held us at gunpoint yesterday? Are you out of your damn mind?” I was furious that he would suggest Sean be involved.
“Jane, he’s a respected authority in Renaissance art. He’s lost the plot, sure, but he knows the topic and is familiar with the history of the Cupid.” Lost the plot? I hoped that was British slang for batshit crazy.
“I’ll put the piece under round the clock guard in an alarmed display case. I’m not leaving its side until it’s secure. What’s in the envelope?”
“Oh! I’m not sure.” The euphoria of the Cupid had made me forget the other item in the crate from Uncle Stuart.
I tore open the legal-sized envelope. Inside, there was a duplicate copy of the last will and testament of Stuart Andrews, a small USB memory stick, and a photocopy of a very old document, the scrolling penmanship almost entirely unreadable to me. “It’s…there’s some document here, or rather a copy of one, that looks to be in a different language…” Ben moved behind me, peering over my shoulder at the paper. “It’s in English, but the writing of the seventeenth century was quite different to our modern version. This is a royal decree of gratitude from James the Second to Robert Andrews, loyal member of his court. In honor of bravery and loyalty in defense of the king, Robert was given land as well as the gift of a beloved sculpture, a reclining Cupid carved by the Florentine Michelangelo Buonarotti, obtained by Charles the First from the Gonzaga collection.” I stared at the paper, absorbing his interpretation of the words. “So King James gave it to my ancestor?” Ben beamed at me. “Yes, Jane, it’s yours. This is where the royal seal sits on the original. What’s on the next page?” I flipped to the other page—a filing document. Stuart Andrews filed the original, deemed authentic by two authorities on royal documents, with The National Archives. “Why didn’t Sean find this when he was digging there?” Ben pulled out his iPhone again, and casually answered, “Stuart only filed the document less than a month ago. They have so much backlog I’m sure it’s not part of the searchable archives yet. But, it’s filed and safe. I’m calling for security. Once the Cupid is secure, we’ll see what’s on that memory stick.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine.
With the miraculous Sleeping Cupid under guard, we left storeroom three and walked back to Ben’s office. Even though I objected, desperate to view the contents of the memory stick, Ben insisted we make tea first. “Do be civil, Jane, it’s already mid-morning. There’s always time for a decent cuppa,” he’d scolded, stirring the milky brew and setting out delicious cookies to nibble as we sipped. “These are good,” I admitted, “but it’s time to fire up that computer.” He sat down behind his desk, casually adding, “McVitie’s digestive biscuits, a must-do with tea.” He clicked with his mouse until he had the contents of the memory stick up. He waved me over to join him in front of the screen. “It’s a video file.”
He pulled me into his lap and clicked the play icon on the screen. For some reason I expected the video to be the one of Ben’s mother, perhaps as a threat to treat me well, but what began to play was far better. Sean Devane was seated on a plush wingback chair in front of a roaring fire. The resolution was grainy because the light was dim, but he was in a library or possibly a den. He sipped a deep red drink from a snifter before beginning to speak. “Of course you don’t approve of my collection, Stu, but it’s all I have. The only ones who know about my art cellar are my dear Ben and yourself, and neither of you would betray me. And, well, if you did, I’d be forced to release the salacious video of us with Ben’s mother. I’d destroy this art before I’d give it up.” Ben shifted beneath me. “Holy shit, Stuart recorded this. This is the underground vault where Sean keeps the artwork we’ve conned from women. Do you see the painting on the left wall? That’s one of the Picassos he claims I sold on the black market. There on the right…that’s the Renoir we took from Elizabeth. Even more importantly, look at the green cup on his desk, the one just over his shoulder. Stuart is intentionally ensuring that it’s in the video frame. That is a fourteenth century Ming jade cup. It was stolen, among other very valuable artifacts, two years ago from the Fitzwilliam. That dodgy tosser fucking stole right from under my nose!”
“I get that Sean’s guilty of horrible things, even crimes, but I don’t understand why Uncle Stuart would leave this video for me?”
“Simple. He left it for us to end the blackmail, to make sure that I was no longer controlled by Sean. We possess evidence that would put Sean away for a very long time. If he releases the video of my mother, we will release this and he’ll spend the rest of his life in jail.”
“We shouldn’t turn him in, save the art?”
“He’d have the art destroyed or sold out of the country and hidden by the criminal underground before they’d even get close to a raid on his cellar. For now, we hold it over his head in a standoff. That’s the best I can do, Jane, I wish I could say we’d have a tidy ending with him.” He clicked open his email, with me still perched on his lap. The multiline phone on his desk was flashing with messages. “I have to take care of some of these work issues that have arisen while I was off looking for the Cupid. Lorenzo won’t be in until this afternoon—why don’t you explore the city for a few hours? Relax and be a tourist.” With a quick kiss, I was ejected from his busy office and left to entertain myself.
That afternoon, the Michelangelo expert from Florence confirmed that the piece was indeed The Sleeping Cupid. After the expert left to fly home, we had a tense meeting with the devious rat Sean Devane in Ben’s office. He acknowledged that the Cupid belonged to me and was authentic. After watching the video Stuart left, which Ben had copied and given to several trusted friends for safekeeping, Sean was visibly shaken that he no longer had a hold over Ben. When he finally left the office late that afternoon, the two men were at a truce. It was dark outside when George pulled up to the back of the museum to take us home. With Ben’s hand caressing my thigh, I asked him what was next. “I talked to Agent Snell earlier. He’s satisfied with the evidence he’s seen, but said it would take six months or longer for the agency to conclude their investigation and allow the Cupid to leave England. For now, he’s willing to say you are the owner pending the final decision. Speaking of which,” he reached into the breast pocket of his suit coat, “I need you to sign a contract that the Fitzwilliam may show the Cupid, and that I am responsible for its caretaking and security. The contract calls for three months exclusive showing at my museum, and then we’ll negotiate the details for it to become
a traveling exhibit.” He handed me a heavy pen, and I signed with the papers stretched out on my lap. “This is for you, the deposit if you will, and the monthly fee for the Cupid will pay monthly by direct deposit to your bank.” I looked at the check in the dim light of a passing car’s headlights. Twenty thousand pounds…I’d never in my life had that kind of money. My cash problems were solved, at least, and there was the security of a hefty monthly payment as well. “How much is this in dollars?” I asked, unable to take my eyes off the check. He mentally calculated for a minute before answering, “About thirty one thousand U.S. dollars, give or take a few.” In the back of that luxurious car rambling through the narrow streets of Cambridge with Ben’s hand exploring my thigh, a fat check in hand, I was on top of the world. That was right before it all came crashing down.
Ben went over the paperwork and the details of displaying the Cupid while we ate dinner. Afterward, he took my hand and led me up the stairs to his room, his wandering hand sliding up my skirt and into my panties. “Get naked,” he commanded playfully as I fell back into his bed. With his suit jacket in hand, he opened the gleaming maple door of his closet and froze. My clothes from my suitcase, delivered to his house earlier that day, had been laundered and hung in his closet. The playfulness dissipated and he stood there staring at my clothes sharing the same space as his own. The energy between us changed, like the barometric pressure before a thunderstorm. I tried to fix it. “Shit, they should have hung those in a guestroom. I’m not trying to move in…” He hung his jacket and closed the closet door without saying a word. The tie was next to come off and was tossed on a dresser. The crisp linen shirt he threw in a laundry bin, followed by socks, before he walked over and stood in front of me. Normally, a shirtless Ben, with his washboard abs perfection, would have caused me to pounce on him, but I was afraid. I felt him slipping away from me.
“Jane, we need to talk,” he began, his expression softening as he stood me up and unzipped my dress. “What we have is so special and I don’t want to lose you, but I need you to understand that this is—” I childishly didn’t let him finish; I was afraid of what he had to say. I fell into him, my lips nibbling at his until they parted. My tongue explored his warm mouth as my hands slipped down to unbutton his pants. I wasn’t skilled at seduction, he always took the lead in our lovemaking, but I was determined to show him how good we could be together.
His cock was hard and eager as his hands replaced my bumbling ones, our tongues still intertwined, and removed the trousers and the boxer-briefs beneath. “God, Jane, what you do to me…” His voice was hoarse, husky. Urgent fingers unhooked my bra, dropping it next to his pants on the gleaming oak floor. “I can’t get enough of you,” he said, laying me back across the fluffy bed. He knelt down on the floor in front of me between my parted legs and slid my panties off. “I need you inside of me,” I begged. “Not yet, baby, I need to taste you first…” His warm tongue slid across my sex, parting my swollen lips to savor my wetness like a fine wine. By the time his tongue had risen to flick at my desperate clit, I was ready to explode, my climax so intense he had to hold on to my hips to keep his worshipping mouth on me.
He stood up, naked in all his Greek-god glory, and plunged into me without any of his usual carefulness. Needy, desperate, craving me—that was exactly what I wanted him to feel. I felt confident that he was mine as his teeth sunk into the side of my neck. I raked my nails down his back as he thrust, trying to convince him, “You have to feel this, too. We are perfect together…” Our bodies still locked together, he raised his chest up, taking my face in his hands. “I don’t want to lose you Jane, I…I don’t want to let you go…” he moaned as his own release shook him. Heart pounding, he collapsed on top of me, thoroughly exhausted more than physically. The struggle in him was palpable; he needed me, he just didn’t want to need me.
Chapter Thirty.
I settled to sleep, my arms and legs wrapped around him in a way that felt natural and right to me. Our intense closeness that night stoked his fear, the intimacy of making love rather than having sex was more than he knew how to feel. I believed my love would be enough; in my immature naiveté, I thought love would conquer all. I was wrong. Deep in the night, my eyes fluttered open. Ben was lying next to me; my limbs had been untangled from his. In the dim light, I could see his eyes were opened, his brows knit together in worry. He looked at me, and spoke the words that tore us apart.
“I can’t give you what you want, Jane, at least not right now. I need time—this is all new to me. I’ve never had a relationship that wasn’t about sex, opportunity, or both. This thing we have, it’s so intense that it’s overwhelming me; suffocating me.” We lay there in the dark of his luxurious bedroom, the crisp Italian linens cocooning us together as the silver moonlight spilled in through the skylight. If it were possible, I’d say that I physically felt my heart break at his words. “We can go slow; take our time, Ben, just don’t—”
“Earlier this afternoon I bought you a ticket back to America. You leave tomorrow at two. It’s first class…” he tried to tease, poking me playfully in the ribs, but I was in no mood for play. Tears flowed down my face, pooling against the fluffy down pillow where my head rested. “Don’t cry, Jane, you’ll be back. I’ll send you a ticket for the exhibit opening in a few weeks, we’ll keep in touch until then.” His words were hollow—he didn’t believe them either.
“You’re telling me goodbye…breaking up with me. If you send me home like this, you’ll be ending it before it even had a chance to begin.” The sticky tears continued to flow, soaking into my hair and down the back of my neck. He pulled me close, wiping my tears. I didn’t resist. His heart was pounding, and his voice cracked as he pleaded, “No, baby, I swear. I just need some time…some space to think. I’m afraid.”
We didn’t speak again, drifting off to a fitful sleep, our bodies intertwined despite the emotional wall between us. Deep in the night, before sunrise, I rolled over and Ben pulled my body back into his, settling into a familiar and perfect union. His lips rested at the back of my neck, and the words, “I love you,” slipped from my lips. Ben didn’t answer, but he pulled me even closer, nuzzling into my hair. My declaration had been heard, and he’d said nothing in return.
When I awoke with a startle hours later, it was bright in Ben’s bedroom. The bedside clock read half past eight in the morning. Ben was gone, his side of the bed straightened. A note was left on his pillow for me. A note that shattered me.
Jane, I’m so sorry. I had to go into the museum this morning to tend to an important matter. Please forgive me, but I won’t be able to accompany you to the airport. George will drive you to Heathrow; he’ll be waiting at eleven. I’ll ring you soon. Yours, Ben xxx.
The note was sterile, cold. It was over; he didn’t love me. In a fit of childish temper, I tore the note to pieces and scattered it across his meticulous room as his brown tabby cat, Vincent, stared at me like I was nuts. I was nuts; crazy in love with Ben Hunt, and he’d just sent me packing, literally.
I packed my things in a daze, refusing an offer of breakfast from his housekeeper. Promptly at eleven, the impeccably dressed George opened the back door of the large black car and placed my bags in the trunk. He glanced back briefly before dodging several bicycles and pedestrians as he pulled into the chaotic Cambridge traffic. “He dumped me, you know that right?” I blurted out, desperate to tell someone. “Miss Andrews…Jane, please forgive me for forgetting my place and talking out of turn, but he cares deeply for you. He’s struggling; the sins from his past are haunting him, something I understand and have wrestled with myself. I think he’ll make the right decision, please don’t give up on him.”
We made it out of Cambridge and onto the motorway; neither of us spoke. There was nothing further to say. Several times I reached into my purse and glanced at the cellphone that Ben bought for me in Bath, praying for a message from him. The phone was silent. I typed out several parting texts, from angry, to funny, to pleading, but in
the end didn’t send any of them. He said we’d see each other again, keep in touch, but the gnawing, twisting pain in my gut knew the truth—once I left England, our romance would be over. Sure, I still owned a priceless Michelangelo sculpture that he was officially caretaker of, but it would be all friendly business. I’d lost him.
George checked my bags into the first class line, and directed me through security after a quick hug. “Don’t give up on him,” he’d whispered in my ear. I moved through the formalities of international travel like a zombie. I prayed for the numbness to come; I wanted to feel dead inside. I glanced at the phone screen obsessively, terrified I’d miss a call or a text from him, but there was nothing.
After an excruciating wait, praying that he wouldn’t let me go home, they began to board the plane. I was seated first, in a luxurious first class seat, and served Champagne. I couldn’t have cared less; my insides were shattered. He doesn’t love you—the words kept playing through my consciousness like a monk’s chant.
Before the wide aircraft pushed back from the gate, and after two more glasses of Champagne, the pilot’s voice came over the PA. The aircraft needed maintenance and we’d need to deplane and wait for another one. He assured us the delay would only be thirty minutes—I didn’t care. The alcohol was finally numbing the sharp pain, transforming it into a dull, throbbing ache.
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