Altered Images

by Maxine Barry

  During his lecture he’d been quite up-front and honest about why, as a businessman, he hated fakers. But he’d also spoken with sincere passion about the immorality of forging the works of other, greater, geniuses.

  It had made Frederica feel absurdly guilty. Even now, she could remember standing at the back of the room, feeling as guilty as sin when his green eyes swept over her as he spoke. And yet, it was not as if he was looking at her particularly—although she felt her guilt must be written in large letters on her forehead. No, he’d seemed to be talking to the entire student body and watching each of them with sharp, all-seeing eyes, almost as if he was looking for something, some sign in particular.

  She sighed as she drank the last of her tea, and sent up a silent ‘sorry’ to Forbes-Wright, talented artist. She hoped, wherever he was, that he really didn’t mind that she was going to copy his painting. Then she shook her head at herself. It was no good feeling guilty. She’d made up her mind to try painting a copy of ‘The Old Mill and Swans’, so best get on with it.

  And it was all Lorcan Greene’s fault. She’d returned to Oxford determined to forget her father’s outrageous plea, and if Lorcan Greene hadn’t been there, sweeping her off her feet and being so damned arrogant and challenging, she wouldn’t be here at Rainbow House now . . . about to raid the family attic for a 200-year-old canvas.

  She climbed the stairs to the top floor, pausing to admire a Jackson Pollock on the landing, one of her father’s few ‘lucky acquisitions’, before forcing her feet onward and upward.

  The attic at Rainbow House was probably unique in that all the accumulated ‘rubbish’ was art-related, so it didn’t take her long to find what she was looking for. She already knew that one of her ancestors, a particularly talentless lady called Ariadne Delacroix, had painted several truly awful paintings. With a tape-measure in hand, and hope in her heart, Frederica inspected the canvases for her ancestor’s signature.

  She coughed in the dust, and grumbled her father’s name under her breath, but eventually found what she was looking for. What’s more, one of Ariadne’s efforts, dated around the same time as ‘The Old Mill’, was exactly the same size as the Forbes-Wright original. Although she could have cut down a bigger canvas to size, of course, Frederica was determined to take no chances. She was going to do this thing properly. And an expert like Lorcan might be able to tell if a canvas had recently been made smaller. She hadn’t read about Keating’s meticulous attention to detail for nothing.

  She lugged the painting downstairs and propped it up in the kitchen, careful to wash her dirty hands in the sink before giving the canvas a microscopic scrutiny. Canvases came in all sorts and types. There were the linen ones made from flax, that she favoured at the School. She would always degrease those, use a pumice stone on them, then add other layers of primer herself. Mounting and stretching was another time-consuming business too. Non-artists were always surprised by the amount of work that had to be done before an artist even picked up a paintbrush. But she wouldn’t have to worry about any of that with this canvas, of course. It was perfect as it was: the right age, size, and type. It was just what Forbes-Wright would have used for his original painting of the Old Mill.

  She’d have to be careful how she cleaned Ariadne’s picture off, though. Not even a minute trace of it must be left. She quickly wrapped the canvas in an old sheet from under the stairs, and, not wanting to give her father the satisfaction of knowing what she’d done, washed up her cup and put it away, leaving no trace of her visit behind her.

  She was by now used to lugging ungainly equipment about, so the journey back on the train presented her with no difficulties.

  Once back in Oxford, she took the canvas straight to her workspace at the Ruskin, and paid another visit to the tiny library. Although she knew well enough how she herself would set about cleaning the canvas for repainting, what she really needed to know was how Forbes-Wright would have cleaned a canvas in his day. She wasn’t sure if even Lorcan Greene would be able to tell whether or not modern chemicals had seeped into a canvas, but she was taking no chances.

  Without quite knowing why, or how, it had become utterly important to her that she create a forgery that the great Lorcan Green could not detect. It was as if, on some primitive level, he’d challenged her so outrageously that she was determined to beat him, come what may. She was also uncomfortably aware, on some soul-deep level, that the challenge he’d issued had nothing to do with painting, and everything to do with the way her heart beat faster whenever he was around. But since there was nothing she could do about being attracted to him—all right, hopelessly, devastatingly attracted to him—there was something she could do about competing with him on his home ground . . . art. And, more specifically, the forging of art.

  And so she spent the rest of the afternoon learning about how a Victorian would have set about preparing a canvas. And first thing the next morning, she began the task with vim and relish, humming softly beneath under her breath as she worked. There was something about helping her father out of a jam, and putting one over on the superior Lorcan Greene at the same time, that made her feel downright cheerful!

  * * *

  Lorcan awoke that morning pleasantly aware of the sunshine outside. It was Friday, and he was in Oxford.

  As his friend Inspector Richard Braine had predicted, he’d found somewhere to lay his head—renting a spacious, two-storey house on Five Mile Drive, a cherry-tree-lined avenue in prestigious North Oxford.

  He shaved and dressed in a pair of dark-cream slacks, a hand-tooled leather belt that an ex-girlfriend had brought him back from Spain and, in deference to the heat-haze building up outside, a dazzlingly white, cool silk shirt. He was the epitome of an elegant, classically good-looking Englishman about to enjoy a summer’s day.

  As he drove his faithful Aston Martin down the Banbury Road towards the centre of town, he fully intended to check out the Botanical Gardens. So when he found himself making his way to the Ruskin instead, he smiled ruefully, acknowledged his subconscious whim, and let himself into the cool hall. On the second floor he quickly realised that the School didn’t really start to come alive until well after ten. It was now only nine-fifteen. Suddenly he heard a noise above him. It sounded as if someone had dropped something heavy. Vaguely curious, he sprinted lightly on up to the stairs and walked quietly across the paint-daubed floor.

  A glimpse of curly, auburn hair, glowing like fire in a stray misty beam of sunlight, told him the identity of the student long before he reached her workspace, and he felt his footsteps faltering. Although he was loath to admit it, even to himself, he didn’t really want to see or talk to Frederica Delacroix.

  He tried telling himself that his reluctance was merely precautionary. A wise man’s decision to distance himself from the temptation of forbidden fruit. But the simple fact was that Frederica had been haunting his dreams ever since their first meeting on Monday. Those freckles of hers had featured in many restless nights’ twisting and turning.

  So, reluctantly, and yet with a growing sense of pleasure that he couldn’t deny was both dangerous and enjoyable, he found himself, once more, walking silently up behind her, watching her work. He felt a bit like a teenager with a crush, getting an unexpected and forbidden glimpse of the object of his desire. Ridiculous. But heady.

  She was dressed in the ubiquitous dirty smock, and her hands were filthy. Not surprising, when he realised what she was doing. Cleaning a canvas. Even half-erased, the disappearing painting had obviously been hideous and amateurish in the extreme. There was no way it could have been one of her own efforts. He stepped a bit closer, looking at the beetle in one corner. As ill-painted as it was, he could see that the artist had been influenced by a certain style.

  He frowned. If he had to make a guess, he’d say the painting had been done by a Victorian trying to ape his or her betters.

  Lorcan was about to make a discreet noise and advertise his presence, when suddenly he realised that she wasn’t
using a common stripping agent. In fact, she was using such an old-fashioned mixture that it was taking her much longer, and required much more elbow grease, than it should have done.

  What the hell . . . ? Every suspicious cell in his body began to tingle. Why was a modern artist using such a laborious and old-fashioned way to remove paint? And why, if it came to that, was she removing it at all?

  Frederica’s movements gradually slowed. She’d been aware of a chill down the back of her neck for some time, but had been too busy to take any notice. Now she could feel a tightness in her breast that was making her nipples tingle. When, she thought desperately, but with a leap of unstoppable excitement and gladness, had she felt that before? With a sharp upward movement of her chin, she shot a rapid glance over her shoulder.

  And speared him with her brown eyes.

  Lorcan took a sharp breath, caught by surprise at the sudden confrontation with those velvety depths. ‘Hello again,’ he said smoothly, and forced himself to smile.

  Frederica licked lips gone suddenly dry. ‘Hello Mr Greene. I wanted to tell you how much I . . . er . . . I enjoyed your lecture the other day.’

  ‘Please, call me Lorcan,’ he corrected her briskly. The ‘Mr Greene’ had made him feel about a hundred-years-old. ‘And I’m glad I didn’t bore you.’ His eyes swept to the canvas again. Suddenly, he was sure that his lecture about art-forgery hadn’t bored her at all. Far from if, in fact.

  He felt an unaccountable sinking feeling deep inside him. He knew he should be elated. Richard had asked him to keep his eyes open for something unusual, especially amongst the students. And here he was, his excellent instincts screaming at him that he’d stumbled on to something, and all he could feel was . . . dismay.

  ‘Oh no, it was really, really interesting,’ Frederica said hastily, wishing she could stop herself from gushing. She must sound like a right ninny.

  Lorcan nodded at the canvas. ‘Not one of yours, I trust?’ he teased craftily.

  Frederica laughed. ‘Oh no. No . . . er . . . a friend of mine had an aunt who hated it. Said I could have it . . . to re-use the canvas, I mean,’ she stuttered, blushing, wishing a hole would open up and swallow her.

  She’s not a very good liar, Lorcan thought, with a mixture of savagery and relief. Savagery, because he hated being taken for a fool—especially by this woman. And relief because . . . well . . . because it showed that she wasn’t an habitual liar. Which was something, at least. ‘I see,’ he murmured. ‘But surely you’re not so hard up that you have to scrounge old canvases?’ he demanded, his disbelief obvious.

  Frederica drew in a shaky breath. A nervous voice at the back of her head piped up with some sound, if obvious, advice. Don’t panic! But he didn’t believe her, she knew that. And as she looked at his openly mocking smile, she knew she had better do something to salvage the situation. And quick!

  She tilted her head back and laughed. ‘Don’t you believe it! We can’t all be millionaires you know,’ she said, with just a little bit of a snap. ‘Despite what impressions you might have formed, we only get a small allowance from the Ruskin. We get a materials bursary from our own college, too, but that hardly covers the cost of paint. Believe me, the chance of a canvas for nothing isn’t something to be sniffed at.’

  Now that, Lorcan acknowledged, had the unmistakable ring of truth about it. It was also a little too clever, a little too pat. He knew when he was being played with. And although he’d been dreaming of playing games with this beautiful young lady all night long, this wasn’t exactly what he’d had in mind.

  ‘I see. Well, in that case let me contribute by taking you out to dinner tomorrow night,’ he said smoothly, not missing the sudden mix of dismay and pleasure that flared in her dark, velvety eyes. ‘If you don’t have to spend those precious pennies on anything as mundane as food, you can treat yourself to another tube or two of cadmium yellow.’

  Although his voice was teasing, and his smile light, Frederica sensed the hidden gleam of a predator behind the facade. He definitely had the eyes of a tiger—all smoky-green, dangerous indolence.

  A warning voice was screaming from the back of Frederica’s mind, telling her to run. To head for cover. To say no. To make some excuse—any excuse, not to spend time alone with him. She had nothing to wear, for instance. She was washing her hair . . . anything. It was almost overwhelming—this sense she had of being way out of her league.

  But another, even more persistent voice, told her not to be such a chicken. Men of the world were a danger all women had to face sometime or other. And shy virgins had better learn to sink or swim along with all the others.

  ‘Thank you, I’d love to,’ she heard a voice say.

  Her voice!

  Lorcan smiled. ‘Great. I’ll pick you up about seven then. Where?’

  ‘I’m at St Bede’s. In the Woodstock Road.’

  ‘I’ll find it,’ he promised, gave her one last, long, thoughtful look, then was gone.

  Frederica let her breath out in a whoosh. Wow! She leaned weakly against the wall. She supposed she should be flattered. Lorcan Greene had his pick of beautiful women. But he’d invited her out to dinner. A hitherto unheard, and really wild, voice began to stir inside her, wondering what it would actually be like to take Lorcan Greene as her lover. Her first lover. It would certainly be an experience.

  But she quickly quashed that incredible thought. Prepared to do battle with Lorcan Greene when it came to the world of art, she might be. But take him on the intimate, personal battleground that was the bedroom? Forget it!

  Frederica would have been even more panic-stricken if she’d realised that Lorcan, at that very moment, was heading for the admin office, determined to find out all he could about the background of one Frederica Delacroix. And he was bound to learn that she was hardly the poverty-stricken student she pretended to be—indeed, that the Delacroixes were renowned art collectors themselves. If he did discover everything about her Frederica would have reason to be flat-out terrified.

  But she didn’t know any of that.

  And as for the predatory gleam that leapt into Lorcan’s eyes as he contemplated his forthcoming date with Frederica Delacroix . . . ? Well, it would have been enough to make even the most seasoned of women think twice.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  ‘You should let yourself go a bit more,’ Reeve said, his voice rich with persuasion. He leaned across the table and reached for Annis’s hand, rubbing his thumb caressingly over the tops of her knuckles. ‘A woman like you shouldn’t be so stand-offish.’

  Annis smiled softly. ‘Oh? I wasn’t aware that I was.’

  Reeve shrugged. ‘You shouldn’t be so shy, then. Let yourself have some fun, for a change.’ His voice dropped a suggestive octave. ‘You might like it.’

  Annis laughed, a cool, silvery, tinkling laugh that carried well. ‘And what exactly did you have in mind? As if I couldn’t guess.’

  ‘Now, now,’ Reeve wagged a finger at her. ‘Don’t go all prudish on me. You know what they say about all work and no play . . .’ He lifted her hand, about to kiss it . . .

  ‘OK that’s perfect,’ Ray said, his bald head gleaming in the overhead lighting. The rest of the cast gave them a small ripple of applause. Annis quickly snatched her hand away and moved back from the trestle table. The unfurnished flat had now been fitted with rudimentary tables, chairs, and a few props. Rehearsals proper were well under way.

  ‘Of course, this scene takes place long before Reeve announces he knows who killed John,’ Ray explained. ‘He’s a bit of a Casanova. Reeve, you can flirt with some of the conference-going ladies to add authenticity to your character.’

  ‘That shouldn’t be much of a hardship,’ Annis muttered under her breath. But Reeve obviously had good hearing, for he shot her a sharp look from under his dark brows. His lips, though, couldn’t help but twitch. Could she, by any stretch of the imagination, be jealous?

  Ray gave them both a wary look. Never had he seen sexual tension shimmer
so obviously between two people.

  Reeve said something to Gerry, who laughed huskily, then whispered something to Julie, who blushed.

  Annis scowled. Older redheads and very-nearly-schoolgirls. The man certainly had a wide repertoire. Just as she was thinking this, Reeve swivelled round on the rickety chair and caught her in mid-scowl.

  He grinned. Yep, no doubt about it. Miss Annis Whittington was positively green with jealousy. Annis didn’t remove the scowl. She’d been fairly and squarely caught out, and in cases like this, attack was always the best form of defence. ‘Why are you grinning like a very bad impression of a Cheshire Cat?’ she hissed at him. ‘I don’t see that in the scene.’

  Reeve allowed himself a small sigh and a shrug. ‘You really are uptight, aren’t you?’ he said loudly.

  Annis started. ‘What? Who the hell . . . ?’ She saw him tap the script knowingly, and blushed, realising what he’d done. It was a line from the scene they were rehearsing.

  Annis’s face suddenly softened. ‘It’s not that, Reeve, precious,’ she purred, reading her own lines with perfect timing, determined not to be outdone.

  Ray nodded in approval. If nothing else, their personal feud would keep them distracted. Of them all, Ray had come to see Annis and Reeve as the most astute. If anyone realised that something odd was going on, it would be these two.

  The cast worked solidly for an hour, then were given an hour and a half off for lunch. As they all trooped outside, Norman Rix glanced up the busy road. ‘There’s a café just round the corner I know, serves great fish and chips. Cheap too. Who’s up for it?’ Naturally, everyone was.

  Annis felt a hand curl around her arm, and stopped dead in the middle of the street. She tilted her head sharply, knowing full well who it was who had hold of her. Nobody else would ever dare manhandle her except Reeve Morgan.

  ‘Don’t tell me you’re not on a permanent diet,’ he drawled, watching her flashing eyes warily. ‘My flat’s just a bus ride away. I’ve got some fresh crayfish and salad on offer.’