He looked at her, eyes flashing fire across the car’s interior. She was a woman who moved through the world with rare grace. And yet he was beginning to understand that it would be a mistake to underestimate her. That her refined veneer hid something steely and resolute. She was a woman who might allow him to have his way, but when it mattered, she would not be moved.
Perhaps they had even more in common than he first realized.
He sighed and started the car, then pulled out of the hotel parking lot without another word. He would have to choose his battles with Charlotte Duval.
And something told him this might be the first of many.
27
The Belvedere was actually a series of buildings encompassing two historic palaces, the orangery, and the palace stables. Having undergone several periods of destruction and restoration, the entire complex was now perfectly restored, set on a broad parcel of land with sweeping lawns, fine gardens, and several fountains and reflecting pools.
Charlotte walked next to Christophe through the halls of the museum, her heels clicking on the tile floor. They were early by design. Christophe thought it wise to arrive at the Klimt gallery ahead of their contact. Charlotte didn’t disagree. It was possible the woman wouldn’t come alone. It was possible she wouldn’t come at all. Being there first gave them an advantage. They would be able to observe as she entered — if she entered. They would be able to assess the security of the situation, determine if approaching her was a good idea.
The gallery displaying Gustav Klimt’s most famous works was nearly empty. Charlotte had expected it to be crowded, like jockeying for position at the Louvre to get a glimpse of the Mona Lisa or Monet’s Water Lilies. But it was mid-afternoon on a Thursday in May. The tourists were just beginning to arrive in the city for summer, and Vienna’s art lovers were likely at work.
She glanced at her phone.
1:45 p.m.
Fifteen minutes.
They strolled in front of the other pieces. The Portrait of Fritza Riedler, her stern expression managing also to be slightly dreamy. The defiant stance of Mada Primavesi standing in contrast to the innocence of her white lace dress. Christophe didn’t speak, and when she glanced over at him, she found him staring intently at Altar of Dionysus, the naked woman draped across a divan, eyes hooded with either desire or boredom.
Charlotte turned her attention to the painting, wondering what Christophe saw when he looked at it. She was surprised to realize she wanted to ask him. Would they ever get a chance to stroll hand in hand through a museum, pausing in silence, commenting quietly on the pieces that moved them, those they found over-hyped, those that were under-appreciated?
Did she want to do those things with Christophe Marchand?
She pushed the thought aside. This wasn’t a romantic lovers afternoon in Vienna. They were here to find out about Tucker’s Cross. To find out if Stefan Baeder’s search for it had cost him his life, and if it had anything to do with men who had threatened her in Paris.
Besides, she didn’t want to be another trophy for someone like Christophe Marchand. Another thing to add to his collection.
Sex was one thing. Her heart was something else entirely.
They stopped in front of the portrait of Margaret Stonborough. It ran perpendicular to the black wall where The Kiss was hung, and Charlotte pulled out her hand mirror, checked her lipstick, then tilted it so she could see The Kiss behind them.
Christophe made a small sound of understanding, and she glanced at him, surprised to find something like appreciation in his eyes.
Returning her eyes to the mirror, she saw only two people in front of the famous painting — an elderly woman with a large, floral handbag and a young man carrying a sketchpad. She immediately marked him as an art student. Could the woman be the one that had been collaborating with Stefan Baeder?
“Wait.” Christophe touched her arm gently, as if she’d spoken aloud.
As if he knew what she was thinking.
The touch was a brand through the silk of her blouse, and she had a memory of his hands on her breasts, his body between her legs. The memory was physical, and she remembered the sensation of his cock rubbing against the inside of her thigh, his hair brushing against her skin as he took her nipple in his mouth.
She had to swallow against the heat that rushed between her legs. Had to hope the flush in her cheeks wasn’t visible.
A faint clicking got her attention just beyond the gallery. She paused, training her ears to the sound, and realized it was the sound of another woman in heels.
And she was coming closer to the Klimt gallery.
Charlotte glanced at Christophe before turning her eyes back to the portrait in front of them. A moment later the sound moved into the room, the woman striding purposefully toward The Kiss behind them.
Charlotte waited a few seconds, then casually lifted the mirror to her face, pretending to check her lipstick as she tilted the mirror for a better view of the woman who had entered the gallery.
She was tall and slender, wearing a beautifully cut shift, a silk scarf tied around the Chanel bag in her hands. It was difficult to tell her age from behind, but her blond hair was pulled into a neat chignon at the back of her head, and her posture spoke of someone who might once have been a dancer.
Charlotte lowered the mirror, let her eyes slide to Christophe. He gave her a small nod, then shifted as if to move. She put a hand on his arm, closed the compact mirror, and moved in the direction of the woman, stopping for a few seconds to gaze at the other pieces on the wall. When enough time had passed, she moved next to the woman and focused on the painting.
It was breathtaking, the woman in gold disappearing into the mosaic of her lover’s robe, their bodies melting together in a tapestry of saturated color. It radiated light, and Charlotte felt it reach to her beyond the years, a beacon to something gentle and warm.
Ageless.
A sigh escaped her lips, and the woman glanced at her with a smile. “I know just what you mean.”
Charlotte met her eyes, saw that they were a vivid blue. Her face was nearly unlined, but there was something in her eyes that spoke of joy and pain, of miles traveled and challenges met. It was impossible to tell her age. She might have been forty or sixty.
“I forget how lovely it is,” Charlotte said softly. “I haven’t seen it in some time.”
“You’re American,” the woman said. Her accent suggested she was Austrian, or perhaps German.
“Yes.”
The woman nodded. “Of all the wonderful reasons to come to Vienna, she is the best.”
Charlotte smiled. “I quite agree.”
“Are you an art lover then?” the woman asked.
“Oh, yes,” Charlotte said unable to contain her enthusiasm despite the fact that this was no everyday encounter. “I work at The Getty actually.”
The woman looked at her with renewed interest. “How fascinating. In what capacity?”
“I’m a Curatorial Associate. I’m just starting out, but my father owned an antique shop in Paris before his death, so I have an affinity for furniture as well.”
The woman seemed to grow still. “A gallery? In Paris?”
Charlotte kept her eyes on the painting, let the warmth soothe her rapid heartbeat. “Yes.”
“I quite enjoy the galleries in Paris. May I ask which one?”
“Of course,” Charlotte said. “He owned the Galerie Duval. It’s a small shop.”
And now she knew it wasn’t her imagination. The woman had gone very still, shoulders square as if she were bracing herself for a strong wind.
“I’m sorry,” she said, moving to leave. “I don’t know it.”
“Michael Weisman sent us,” Charlotte said quickly. “We’re trying to find out more about Stefan Baeder’s death.”
The woman reached into her handbag and removed her sunglasses. Her hands were shaking. “I don’t know what you are talking about.”
“I think you do,” Charlott
e said. She reached out, gently touched the woman’s arm. “We mean you no harm.”
“We?” She turned to scan the gallery. It was nearly empty now, only a couple walking hand in hand among the paintings, stopping barely long enough to take one in before moving onto the next. They would be in front of The Kiss in moments.
Her gaze came to rest on Christophe, still facing the portrait. From behind he was simply a man in a suit, but Charlotte could see why the woman might be frightened.
“I found a ring in a piece that was sold to my father,” Charlotte said, hoping to draw the woman in before she bolted. “It belonged to Stefan Baeder. Mr. Weisman tells us he was working with you to find Tucker’s Cross before his death.”
The woman looked around, clearly shaken. “Are you a fool? You’re going to get us both killed!”
The words froze Charlotte’s blood, and she followed the woman’s gaze, half expecting someone to appear out of the shadows. But there were no shadows. The gallery was flooded with sun, the paintings carefully curated and displayed to insure the focus remain only on them.
“Who would want to kill us for talking about Tucker’s Cross?” Charlotte asked.
The woman pulled her arm away. “You are making a grave mistake.”
She started for the doorway leading to the rest of the museum. Charlotte hurried after her. “Please, a man has died, and you were one of the last people to see him alive.”
The couple, now standing in front of the Klimt, looked their way before returning their eyes to the painting.
“That isn’t my fault,” the woman hissed. “None of this is my fault. I simply want to be left alone.”
She sounded desperate and afraid. Shame heated Charlotte’s face, and she glanced at Christophe, who had turned and looked to be seconds away from intervening. She shook her head and looked back at the woman.
“No one will ever know you told us anything,” Charlotte said. “You have my word we won’t tell anyone. We’re simply trying to find out what happened.”
“To Stefan or to the cross?” The woman’s eyes were piercing.
Charlotte hesitated. “Both,” she admitted. “Stefan Baeder may have died looking for it. It was his life’s work to find it, and while I didn’t know him, I don’t think it was for money or fame or any other reason except to see it returned.”
“How do you know I care anything about that?” the woman asked. “How do you know Stefan wasn’t simply paying me for information?”
“I don’t,” Charlotte said. “But you come here every Thursday to view The Kiss. I think you love it because it moves you. And you wouldn’t be able to do that if it were hidden away in the darkness, property of a private collector who doesn’t care whether we get to stand in this gallery and be carried away by it.” She paused, struggling to find the words she needed, the truth of why it mattered that art be preserved for everyone to enjoy, that it not be hidden away for the enjoyment of a privileged few. “Isn’t that true of all art? That it belongs to every one of us? What’s the point otherwise?”
The woman glanced around, clearly still nervous, but maybe the slightest bit relieved by the emptiness in the gallery. “Were you lying about the Getty? About being Edgar Duval’s daughter?”
Charlotte reached into her handbag, withdrew her business card from the museum and handed it to the woman. She looked down at it.
“My father died two weeks ago,” Charlotte said. “His death had nothing to do with this. To be honest, we had a… complicated relationship. But he taught me to treasure history and beauty, to honor it and pass it along, one person to the next. That’s what I do.”
The woman looked around one more time before speaking. “There’s a research specialist at Gardner Museum in Boston named Peter Montoya. Tell him Anna Muller sent you to ask about the cross.” She put Charlotte's business card in her handbag, then snapped it shut. “And for god’s sake, never contact me again.”
28
“She sent Baeder to Boston," Charlotte said to Christophe as they made their way through the museum complex. “Or she told him about a contact in Boston. I suppose he didn’t have time to pursue the lead.”
“Is this contact someone who knows about the cross?” Christophe asked.
“She didn’t say exactly, and she was so skittish I was afraid to press her for more information. But it sounds to me like the contact in Boston knows something about it.”
Christophe shook his head. “That would be… remarkable.”
Charlotte knew what he meant. Tucker’s Cross had been missing for over sixty years, and while it was presumed someone, somewhere knew something about its whereabouts, it was still difficult to imagine a real person out in the world with knowledge of its whereabouts.
They exited the museum and made their way out onto the busy street. It was late afternoon, and the sidewalks were scattered with people doing midday errands. Charlotte thought about Stefan Baeder as they walked in silence toward the car park where they'd left the Jag. Has he really been close to a tip on the cross? And how did Anna Muller know someone who knew something about it? Was it possible that a woman who visited The Kiss every Thursday at two p.m. had inside knowledge of a piece that had been lost to the art world for over fifty years? Charlotte wished she’d had more time to talk to the other woman. She would have liked to learn more about her.
But Stefan Baeder and the cross weren’t the only things on her mind; she couldn’t help wondering what this meant for her.
Did she and Christophe go back to Paris now, resume their lives like Vienna hadn’t happened? They’d left the ring with Michael Weisman. It had been the right thing to do given his relationship with Stefan Baeder.
And that meant that technically, her arrangement with Christophe was concluded.
She glanced up at him as they entered the garage and was surprised to feel the pain of regret. They’d only had one night together. She didn’t try to pretend it had been a simple one night stand.
She didn’t like to lie to herself.
The truth was that it had been life-altering in the way something is when it opens a door you didn’t know existed. That’s what sleeping with Christophe had been: like a strong wind blowing open a door to a world of feeling and sensation she hadn’t known existed.
It had been more than the sex, which had been mind-blowing in and of itself. It was the way he touched her. Like she was something precious. Something to be treasured. It had been the way he’d melted into her.
No walls.
No barriers.
There had been no self-consciousness. None of the self-awareness she usually felt when she slept with someone. She’d been… present. Present in a way she’d never experienced. And she’d felt his presence as well. Like he’d been right there with her, immersed in their union and the pure magic of it.
None of which meant anything, of course. It was sex. No declarations had been made. No promises. For all she knew, Christophe was ready to end their liaison, return to Paris, move onto the next beautiful thing.
And isn’t that what she wanted, too? Because the alternative was something she didn’t dare consider.
They had almost reached the car when she noticed Christophe’s footsteps had slowed. It was almost imperceptible, but she noticed it, noticed the space between his footsteps grow slightly further apart.
She glanced up at him, and when he looked back at her, she was glad he’d removed his sunglasses in the dimness of the garage. Because now she could see his eyes, and she knew something was wrong.
But there was something else in his eyes as well.
A warning.
She didn't know what it meant, but she knew instinctively that asking would be a bad idea. She listened instead, tried to still the thoughts racing through her mind as she got a handle on their environment.
And then she heard it: a faint shuffle in the shadows, the soft footfalls of someone trying to be silent in the concrete garage.
Someone was following them.
Or waiting for them.
She saw Christophe’s hand move closer to his jacket, realized he was looking for the weapon he’d left in the glove compartment of the Jag. He locked his hand in hers and squeezed, his eyes on the car, now only about twenty feet away.
She understood. He thought they had a chance of making it to the car. It made sense. Whoever was following them would want information on the cross — information neither of them could offer if they were dead.
The car was closer with every step. Fifteen feet. Ten. Five.
Christophe approached the passenger door. She could feel the tension in his body next to her. Could feel what it was costing him not to hurry to the safety of the car. It was because of her. HIs face was angry, his mouth set into a grim line, and she suddenly had no doubt that his concern was only for her safety.
Christophe Marchand wasn’t a man who cowered from other men. Who hoped for the best. He was a man who cherished beauty — and destroyed ugliness. The men who followed them, the one who had invaded her father’s store, were ugly men with ugly desires. If they wanted the cross, it was for no good purpose.
He was protecting her. She felt it in the gentle pressure of his hand over hers, in the way he stepped in front of her as he opened the car door, shielding her body from view as much as possible.
“Buckle up,” he murmured as she slid into the car.
She followed his instructions, then opened the glove compartment while he made his way around the back of the car. Even this was unusual — he typically crossed in front of the car after getting her settled — and she knew he was using the vehicle as cover.
She removed the gun from the glove compartment. It was heavier than it looked, the substantive weight of it not unwelcome in her present circumstance.
He got behind the wheel, and she held out the gun. She saw the surprise in his eyes as he took it, but it was fleeting. There was no time for anything else. He set the gun on the console between them and started the car.
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