“You’re cold?” Clifford asked.
“The last time you asked me that, amazing things happened,” Annette said. Clifford smiled. “But I haven’t even finished my first cup of coffee yet. Give a girl a chance.”
“Believe me, there’s nothing I’d rather do than make love to you,” Clifford said. “And I mean absolutely nothing.” His phone rang in the next room, and he rolled his eyes. “But that’s going to be Madison, wondering where I am.”
“You’re not going to tell her?” Annette said.
“That I’m at my house?” Clifford smiled. “Of course I am.”
“I mean about us. About this.”
“I’m pretty sure she already knows,” Clifford said.
Chapter Eleven
“You know what I’d really love to do?” Annette said.
“Yes,” Clifford said. “And I’m willing. Do you want to do that here, or go back to the bedroom?”
“Very funny,” Annette said. “I’m serious.”
“So am I,” Clifford said.
“I’m sure you are,” Annette replied. “But right this minute, I want to talk about artwork. This forger’s got to be out there somewhere. I don’t believe this is the first time Hans has pulled this trick. It’s just the first time he caught you.”
“And Wilbur.” Clifford smiled. “Don’t forget about that.”
“Never,” Annette said. “But you two aren’t the only victims. I’m sure of that.” She shook her head. “I’d love to track him down and bring him to justice.”
“I’d love that too,” Clifford said. “This guy’s got $22 million of my money. Not that I’m going to make a big fuss about something like that, but it does piss me off.”
“Understandable.” Annette smiled. “That’s like me losing every dollar I’ve ever made in my life, and then some.”
Clifford nodded. “Knowing someone went to all the trouble of creating these paintings specifically to fool me, or someone like me – it’s just wrong. Maybe they think it’s a victimless crime, but it’s not, really. The money I spent on this bogus Magritte is money that can’t go to a legitimate artist who’s truly earned it. Or their family, as the case may be.”
“It’s bad for the industry, too,” Annette said. “The art world runs on trust. Of course, we authenticate as much as possible. You check the provenance, the materials used, everything you can check. But sometimes there’s nothing to check, and you have to move forward on the word of the person offering you the painting.”
“That’s exactly what happened with Hans,” Clifford exclaimed. “And at first I thought he was innocent – that he’d gotten burned by a bad painting. But for that to happen two times in a row?” He shook his head. “It’s hard for me to believe that could happen.”
“If we can track down the money, we can get it back,” Annette said. “One way or another.”
Clifford nodded enthusiastically. “I told Madison we’ll pay a ten percent reward on any recovered funds.” His eyes narrowed as he looked at Annette. “That means if you find it, you’re looking to come into three million dollars or so.”
“That would be wonderful,” Annette said. “I’d never have to worry about keeping my job at Feigenbaum’s ever again.”
“What would you do if you had three million?”
Annette laughed. “I’d have to find a rich boyfriend. I wouldn’t want some guy who’s dating me just because I have money.”
Clifford burst out laughing. “Do you have anyone in mind, or will any old rich guy do?”
“Well, you’ve done really well during the audition phase,” Annette said, leaning in to give Clifford a kiss. “You deserve the first crack at the role.”
“In that case,” Clifford said, “We’d better get going and find that money.”
Chapter Twelve
“So what are you looking at there?” Clifford asked Annette. They were seated side by side on the couch in the Clifford Park office; she had her laptop open and was peering intently at the screen.
“Well,” she said, “we’re pretty sure that Hans didn’t do the paintings himself.” They’d spent hours researching Hans’ background; nothing they could find indicated he had the slightest amount of artistic talent. “That means he had to have someone else paint them.”
Clifford nodded. “That part’s easy enough,” he said. “Finding who this someone else actually is another story.” He stood up and walked over to the window. “It could be anyone, anywhere. Anybody out there.”
“No,” Annette said. “It couldn’t be anyone, anywhere. It has to be someone Hans knows.” She frowned, read some text on the screen, and then scrolled down. “Someone he’s connected with.”
“Forgers have LinkedIn?” Clifford asked, laughing a little.
“Artists do,” Annette countered. “And what do you think ‘available for commission’ really means?”
Clifford stopped laughing and leaned closer to look at Annette’s screen. He studied the profile picture and frowned. “Tell me she’s not that way,” he said. “I bought Madison one of her paintings for her birthday last year.”
Annette looked at Clifford, eyes wide. “Happy Birthday, Madison!” Prices for work by that particular artist started in the low hundred thousands.
Clifford shrugged. “She was having a hard time turning forty-one. Forty, she had no trouble with. Forty-one, it was the end of the world.”
“Just so you know,” Annette replied, “I expect to be extremely traumatized on my twenty-fifth birthday.” She smiled broadly. “Which is April 12th.”
Clifford smiled. “Duly noted.”
“I’ve never heard a rumor of her being involved in anything like that,” Annette said, returning her attention to the screen. “She and Hans are connected, that’s all. He knows a lot of artists. It’s to be expected.”
“How will you know which one is the forger?”
“I got us this far,” Annette said, “I thought I’d leave that part up to you.”
“Oh, great,” Clifford said. He walked to his desk and pressed a button on his phone.
“Yes, sir?”
“Hold on a minute,” Clifford said. He looked up at Annette. “What are you going to want for dinner?”
Annette shrugged, flustered by the question. “I don’t know…anything, I guess.”
Clifford spoke into his phone. “So you’ve got that. We need a dinner of anything, I guess sent up. For two, please.” He chuckled. “And a couple of bottles of wine to go with that.”
“Yes, sir. We’ll have that to you shortly.”
Clifford returned to Annette’s side, bemused by her expression. “What?” he said. “I’m hungry, and it looks like we’re in for a long, long night.”
Annette stared at him for a long second. It didn’t seem the slightest bit unusual to Clifford that he could pick up the phone and simply command that a meal is brought to him. Most of the time, Annette tried not to think about the fact that her lover was so very rich, but there were moments when she just couldn’t ignore it.
“Your cook’s going to just love that order,” she said with a laugh. “Two orders of anything? We’ll get cat food served up to us on a silver platter.”
Clifford laughed. “Are you kidding? Max loves that, when he can make whatever he feels like. I mostly leave it up to him.”
“Really?”
“He says it’s more fun that way. And if I’ve learned anything in my life, it’s people do their best work when they’re having fun.”
“Well,” Annette said, letting her body lean against Clifford’s for a long moment, “I’m not sure how much I enjoy playing Girl Detective, but it’s fun spending time with you.”
Clifford put his arms around Annette, drawing her close for a kiss. “It’s the best possible way to spend time.” His second kiss was more passionate than the first; his hand dropped to gently cup her breast. “In fact, our forger will still be out there tomorrow. We could adjourn for the evening, go upstairs and…”
/>
Annette felt her heart start racing. Excitement coursed through her body the way it did every time Clifford really looked at her. The intensity in his blue eyes was electrifying. Captured in his gaze was the purest desire, a want the likes of which she’d never seen before.
But she also had a job to do. As much as she wanted to make love to Clifford, she also desperately wanted to find this forger. Recovering Clifford’s lost millions would not only prove her worth as an art appraiser, but it would also put Annette on a financial footing that, while nowhere near equal to Clifford’s vast wealth, would certainly free her to pursue a relationship with him without being accused of being a gold-digger or worse.
“If you hadn’t of just ordered dinner, that’s exactly what we’d do,” she said with a kiss and a smile. She let her hands wander just enough to gauge Clifford’s desire; his eyes closed when she pressed against the protruding front of his trousers. “But you did, and we do have to find this guy.”
“One more kiss,” Clifford said. “I want to see if I can change your mind.”
Annette leaned forward into the kiss. Clifford took her breath away with even the most casual peck. This embrace, when he was explicitly trying to seduce her, left her head spinning.
Their lips had just parted, and Annette was more than willing to forget about the forger and let Clifford lead her to his bedroom when a knock came on the office door.
It was Max. “Here you are, sir,” he announced, wheeling a cart into the room. “Two orders of anything, I guess, cooked to perfection, and paired with some lovely California red.” He lifted a silver dome to reveal what looked like some very well done chicken, surrounded by a heaping pile of bright green asparagus spears and earthy brown mushrooms.
“Pheasant, Max?” Clifford smiled. “You are spoiling me.”
“That’s my job. But you’re not officially spoiled until you have dessert.” Max leaned over to tap the second shelf on his cart. “There’s a chocolate torte here you’ll adore. Raspberries liqueur in the ganache; fresh cream in the silver bowl. Mind you don’t forget.”
“How could I forget?” Clifford said. “Thank you, Max.” His smile was very genuine. “Anything I guess is my absolute favorite dinner.”
Max left smiling.
“Now, where were we?” Clifford asked.
“I was trying to keep us on track,” Annette said, “But honestly, right now, I really want to eat.”
Clifford laughed. “I knew you’d be hungry.” He walked to the tray and brought a plate back to Annette. “Do you like pheasant?”
“I don’t know,” she replied. “I’ve never had it. They live in the woods all around my parent’s place in New Hampshire, but we never got hungry enough to actually eat them.”
“That’s a pity,” Clifford said. He stabbed at his plate with a heavy silver fork. “They’re delicious. You’ve been missing out.”
Annette took a bite, surprised at how tender and juicy the meat was. “I see that,” she said. “Although I’m sure Max is much better at cooking them than my Mother would be.”
They ate a few bites, and then Annette’s computer beeped, dominating their attention. “What’s that?” Clifford asked.
“It’s just a Facebook notification,” Annette said. She glanced at the screen. “One of my friends just posted about her new show. She’s a printmaker.”
“She did that on Facebook, not LinkedIn?” Clifford asked.
“LinkedIn’s more of a professional space,” Annette explained. “Facebook is casual. Everyone’s on Facebook.”
“Is Hans on Facebook?”
“Let’s check,” Annette replied. A few keystrokes brought the art dealer’s profile up. “It looks like he hasn’t posted in about a week and a half.”
“Well, if I were hiding from Wilbur Ross, I wouldn’t be posting on Facebook either,” Clifford said. “It would lead his goons right to me.”
“That’s true,” Annette said. “As it is, right now, we can’t tell where he is. We can only tell where he’s been.” She scrolled through the pictures Hans had posted over the previous six weeks. “Our boy spends a lot of time in Belgium.”
“That’s Prague,” Clifford corrected. “I recognize that shopfront.”
“Okay,” Annette said. She continued reading Wilbur’s feed until she came across a picture of an inn. The small building was set in a wooded countryside, where pine trees grew close together against a cerulean sky. “That’s not Prague.”
Clifford shook his head. “No, I don’t know where that is.”
Annette examined the picture closely. “It’s Maine,” she said. “See the sign there? The Millinocket Motel.” She shook her head. “That’s way up there in Maine. Great fishing. You can hunt moose. But there’s no reason for a man like Hans to go there…unless…”
“Unless that’s where his forger lives.” Clifford sprang to his feet and pulled his phone out of his pocket.
“What are you doing?” Annette asked.
“I’m going to call Jerry and tell him I need the plane ready. We’re going to Maine.”
Annette laughed. “I can’t believe I’m going to say this to you, but you can’t get there from here.” She shook her head. “Not in a plane. The closest airport’s got to be seven, eight hours out. If we’re going to that part of Maine, we’re going to need to drive.”
Chapter Thirteen
“Well, this is certainly a new look on you,” Clifford said. He took his time checking Annette out. She was wearing a green checkered flannel shirt open over a white t-shirt, blue jeans and a pair of hiking boots. “Very woodsy.”
“It’s an old look, thank you very much.” Annette looked at Clifford and shook her head. “You’re the one who has to get ready,” she said. “I can’t take you hiking through the woods wearing that.”
Clifford looked down at himself. He was wearing charcoal gray slacks and a pink hued button down shirt. The entire ensemble probably cost more than what Annette made in a month, she thought, but it was hardly practical.
“Do you really think we’re going into the wilderness?” Clifford asked.
“It’s Maine,” Annette laughed. “The wilderness comes to you. Besides,” she added, “did you think we’re just going to walk up to every door in town, knocking and saying, “Hallo! Do you happen to have any world class painters hereabouts doing the odd spot of forgery on the side?” She shook her head. “I think we’re going to need to be a little more subtle than that.”
“We’ll have time to make up our plan on the way,” Clifford said. “My GPS says it’s a nine-hour drive.” He cocked his head. “Are you sure we don’t want to have a driver?”
“I know the way,” Annette replied. “Taking the back roads, we’ll get there in like seven hours. Maybe six and a half.”
“Oh, well, in that case,” Clifford said with a laugh. “I leave you in charge of this endeavor.”
“Good,” Annette said. “First, we’ll get you changed.”
Once Clifford was appropriately attired, they hit the road. The journey took close to eight hours, but neither of them noticed; the entire trip was spent telling each other about their childhoods.
“And that was the end of my chemistry career,” Clifford laughed. “Mother told me she’d spent enough money restoring the school’s laboratory. So I wound up in an art appreciation class instead.”
“That’s where you discovered Dali?” Annette asked.
“Our teacher was terrible. I recognize that now, after the fact, but at the time, I didn’t know,” Clifford said. “We were supposed to learn all about art. The different ages, all the styles, a true overview. Instead, he focused on sharing what he liked personally.”
“And so your taste was formed by his,” Annette said with a shrug. “It happens to all of us, in one way or another.”
“Mother was furious. She wanted me to appreciate the finer things. Dali, Miro, Magritte – she thought it was all garbage.”
“Some people love Monet,” Annett
e said. “Different strokes for different folks.”
Clifford laughed. “That’s the sort of bourgeois thinking that would drive Mother batty.” His voice rose an octave as he mimicked his mother’s voice. “Some things are just objectively better than others, darling. It doesn’t matter if you like them or not.” A note of bitterness crept into his recitation. “And if you have the money for artwork, why not choose the best artwork?”
“She didn’t get it.”
“She never tried,” Clifford said. “As far as I know, she never saw any piece of art for its own sake. All of her purchases were based on other people’s opinions and recommendations.” He took a deep breath. “When she passed, Feigenbaum’s helped me sell most of her collection. That’s how I paid for my first major pieces.”
Annette nodded. It wasn’t an unusual story. The taste for art seldom passed from generation to generation unchanged; the works that delighted the parents would bore the child, while the children’s choices tended to horrify their elders.
“You’ve come quite a way since then.”
“What about you?” Clifford asked. “How did you wind up giving your life to art?”
“That decision was made for me,” Annette said. “My parents had a gallery. Nothing grand, not like Feigenbaum’s.” She smiled. “I remember we always had at least one painting of a white-tailed deer on offer. That and speckled trout. Duck decoys were big for a while.”
Clifford nodded. “I’ve been in that kind of place. They have their own…charm.”
Annette smiled. “You’re kind. I grew up knowing there had to be more. That there had to be work that was better. That would speak to things beyond what I could see in the woods.” She laughed. “It was New Hampshire, for god’s sake. I knew what was in the woods.”
“Have you found what you were looking for?” Clifford asked. “At college? At Feigenbaum’s?” His voice deepened, and he looked at Annette out of the corner of his eye. “At my place?”
“Those are two very different questions,” Annette replied. “College was amazing. It opened my eyes to things I never even imagined. Asian art. African art. And then Feigenbaum’s – that’s been an exceptional experience.” She took a deep breath. “There I have to say that I’ve found what I’m looking for. I haven’t even begun to see all of it yet, but I know I’m on the right track.”
The Virgin Secretary: A Billionaire Romance Page 30