The Gilded Chain

by Lauren Smith

  She was an artist, not a small-time hobbyist, and had the makings to be a modern master. Wes would do everything in his power to provide her the training and the opportunities to make that possible. But right now, she was a beautiful young woman in a bed and that was all he could think about. Her golden hair caught the slanting sunlight and it reflected like a halo around her face.

  “Mine,” he whispered. You are mine. The need to possess her, to know her every thought, to fulfill her every desire was overwhelming. Wes didn’t believe in love, let alone love at first sight, but he believed in obsession at first sight. And he was obsessed with Callie.

  He took a few more steps to the side of the bed. A small pattern of goose bumps on the flesh of her arms and a little shiver caused him to frown. The open windows let in a chilly breeze and she’d probably been too tired to notice. Wes retrieved a thin afghan blanket from the closet and gently draped it over her. She didn’t stir even when he caressed her cheek with his knuckles. He was satisfied she would be all right to rest a few more hours, before he woke her. The trick with international travel was to sleep only a short time to recover from jetlag.

  He paused in the doorway, gazing at her. “Le monde vous attend, mon petit chef-d’oeuvre.” The world awaits you my little masterpiece.

  While she slept, he would see to a few things in his office. Wes went back downstairs to his study and took a seat behind his desk. The old gallows writing table was fashioned from myrtle burr veneers with herringbone and a black leather inlay top, turned legs, and brass drawer pulls and castors. It was a solid antique he had found hidden away in the dusty storage room of an old antique shop in Montmartre, the artist district. The seller hadn’t known the desk’s value but Wes had. It had required a fair amount of restoration work, but now it was a fine desk. He smoothed his fingertips over the polished wood. How many great men had lived their lives at this desk?

  As his laptop buzzed to life, Wes leaned back in the leather desk chair and checked his phone. A few texts from Royce, most of it unimportant, except for the last text.

  Royce: Mortons have FBI video footage back. Sent it to your secure e-mail.

  Finally. He had been waiting for the FBI to return the footage on the robbery of the Goya and now he had a chance to see it for himself. Royce would have informed him of any arrests or progress in the case if the FBI or the Mortons were aware of anything.

  Keying in his password, he accessed the secured private e-mail he used and found Royce’s e-mail with a zip file. As it downloaded, Wes waited, oddly a little nervous. Stealing a painting was dangerous and hard. Whoever had achieved this was not a low-level smash-and-grab-type thief. The man was methodical and precise. His only mistake was the slight damage to the original frame. A detail overlooked because it was so small and the thief’s focus had no doubt been primarily on the Goya.

  The video opened and began to play. The white-and-black screen contained a shot of the hallway of the main collection. Many of the guests weren’t in that portion of the gallery. It was a secluded area. Suddenly a woman appeared on the screen, leading a man by the hand. The man laughed, stumbled, and caught the woman about the waist. He pressed her against the wall, far too close to the Goya as he kissed her. The Goya’s small frame was to the far right, just at the edge of the camera’s view. The Mortons had a lapse in complete viewing of their gallery on camera. That was a risk that would have to be rectified immediately.

  The man in the video moved his face away as he bent to put his mouth on the woman’s neck. Her face turned toward the camera, the light illuminating her clearly.

  Corrine Vanderholt.

  What a naughty girl. He almost smiled, distracted by her ruthless seduction of some poor partygoer. The man had no idea what a viper Corrine was. Forcing his attention away from Corrine’s indiscretions he looked back to the right, searching for the edge of the Goya.

  His heart beat hard and he blinked rapidly. A flash of movement. Like the picture frame tilted slightly.

  The Goya was gone. In that brief moment, the switch had been cunningly and quickly made. Wes rewound the frames and slowed down the speed. To the left, Corrine was throwing her head back as the man thrust a hand up her dress and kissed the top of her breasts. It was distracting. Damn distracting, but not in a good way. He used a notepad from his desk and covered the left side of the screen, and then he studied the edge of the Goya’s frame. It moved, slower this time as the frames relayed the picture on the screen. The thief removed the piece and put the forgery in its place. The Mortons security system didn’t have wall sensors, only cameras. The Goya was small. It could be removed and rolled and put in a small bag. Plenty of women had brought handbags to the party.

  “Fuck,” Wes muttered. The Mortons didn’t have any other camera angles. There was no way to tell who had pinched the painting. He spent the next hour watching the guests leave through the front door, eyes trained on the ladies’ bags. None of them were big enough to carry the Goya.

  Another dead end.

  He e-mailed Royce, telling him to get the security at the Morton house reassessed and pointed out several other key weaknesses. Royce could cover and walk the Mortons through the needed changes.

  The rest of his inbox was full of e-mails from clients and industry contacts. An avid art buyer and close friend, Dimitri Razin, was going to be at the Louvre tonight and wanted to meet Wes for dinner before they took a look at the piece Dimitri was considering purchasing. For security reasons, it was being analyzed and stored at the museum rather than at an auction house. Razin always used Wes to consult on pieces and examine their provenances. Wes replied to the e-mail, letting Razin know he’d meet him at Fouquet’s on the Champs-Élysées at seven thirty and then they could go to the Louvre.

  A smile curved his lips. It would be fun to take Callie to the Louvre at night. The lighting of the glass pyramid after sunset was stunning. And she could get a good taste of the Louvre in a very private, exclusive way.

  After a quick glance at his watch, he realized it was nearly lunch time. Callie should be getting up soon. If she slept too long her internal body clock would never adjust. He shut his computer down and went back to the kitchen, to brew some coffee, a Parisian blend Françoise knew he favored. When he heard soft footfalls on the stairs he grinned.

  * * *

  Coffee.

  Callie could smell it. Warm, dark, sinfully good. Like the taste of Wes, exotic, wild, and a promise of dark eroticism. The scent of the delicious brew pulled her out of a heavy sleep. Bleary-eyed she peered down at the light blanket covering her. She didn’t remember that on her bed when she’d decided to take a quick nap. Had Wes found her napping and put it over her? The thought of someone caring for her made her entire body warm up and it felt fuzzy in a strange and pleasing sort of way. She lifted her left wrist and checked the time.

  Noon.

  She’d slept for two hours. Callie tossed the blanket aside and got out of the bed. She moved to the bathroom and then through Wes’s room. When she reached the top of the stairs, the coffee scent hit her with full force. She followed the tantalizing aroma into the kitchen. Wes was resting against the granite-topped island, a mug in his hand. When she drew closer, he held out the mug for her.

  “Here, this will wake you up.” He pressed the cup into her hands and then reached behind his back and retrieved a white plate with what looked like soft baguettes flicked with dark spots.

  “What is that?” She took the plate and eyed it curiously.

  He chuckled. “I promise you’ll like it. I ran to a patisserie while you slept. It’s brioche au chocolat. Basically it’s sweetbread with chocolate baked into it.”

  Callie’s mouth watered at the description and she set her coffee down on the counter. She took a nibble of the bread, and its sweetness hit her with an explosion of taste. The dark chocolate added to the flavor but tamed the sugary bread to perfection.

  “Well?” Wes asked, eyes alight with anticipation.

  “I think�
��—she paused and licked chocolate off one of her fingers—“that if this is how the French always eat breakfast, I’m never going home.” She was teasing as she found another finger covered in chocolate and she started to move it toward her mouth.

  Wes caught her wrist with one of his hands, keeping her from moving, and then he dipped his head, sucking her index finger into his mouth. Callie’s lips parted in silent inhalation. A sharp stab of arousal shot through her still-sluggish body. His tongue stroked her finger and then he nipped the pad before releasing it. Callie stared at him, shock, excitement, and confusion rippling through her in dizzying waves. How could he turn her on her head and make her feel so hot and alive? She didn’t want to feel like that, not after Fenn, but Wes was forcing her to experience it despite her every intention to not feel that way ever again.

  He wound a lock of her hair around one of his fingers and played with it, a dark, intent look in his eyes that made her nervous.

  “I know you feel it, Callie.”

  Attraction. He didn’t have to say the word. She turned her face away, knowing a blush betrayed her as always.

  “I’ll wait, but soon you’ll have to embrace it or you’ll drive us both crazy.” He stepped back. “Now,” he said calmly, like the Wes she knew, a man in control. “Finish your breakfast. We have some errands to run before tonight.” He began to prepare another mug of coffee and motioned for her to sit at the table.

  Callie tried not to think about him and the attraction she felt. It wasn’t something she was ready to deal with, so she kept her focus on his last sentence.

  “What’s happening tonight?”

  “We’re meeting a friend and client of mine at a restaurant on the Champs-Élysées and then we’re going to the Louvre for a quick inspection of a painting after-hours.” The way he said “we” did something funny inside her chest and she almost smiled.

  “The Louvre?” She knew he was going to take her, but she hadn’t thought it would be this soon, or at night, after-hours. The man really was well connected.

  “We can go after it closes?”

  Wes nodded. “I can get us in. I knew a few people. I’ll explain tonight on the way to dinner. For now, finish your brioche. There’s fruit juice in the fridge. Then shower and change. We’ll go out for a few hours.”

  “Okay.” Callie didn’t usually like to be bossed around, but she was way out of her depth. She didn’t remember much from her one year of high school French and she had no idea of what to do, what to see, or where to go in Paris. She had to trust Wes. The man came here often enough that he owned an apartment. It was logical to put her fate in his hands, but she couldn’t feel that it was symbolic of something more.

  Callie went up to the large bathroom between their two rooms and explored the shower. It was expensive looking with quite a few jets that aimed at her lower back. A set of towels was on the counter, ready for use, and Callie quickly retrieved her toiletries from her duffel bag. An expensive-looking bottle of French shampoo and conditioner were already in the shower. When she used them they filled the room with the scent of peppermint.

  After showering and changing, she was ready to leave and tucked her wallet, passport, and money into her purse. She had some money saved, not a lot, but she figured she could visit a few discount stores, assuming there were any around here.

  Wes was waiting for her in the library, a thick book in his hands as he reclined in a wine-colored leather chair.

  “There you are.” He smiled as he set the book aside and rose to his feet. When he held out his hand, she took it. “It’s time we buy you something decent to wear.”

  * * *

  “It’s too much…” she whispered fretfully, eyeing the massive stack of clothes.

  Wes had dragged her through the entire Galeries Lafayette with its multiple levels and hundreds of shops. She’d refused to enter the store when she viewed price tags that made her eyes pop out of her head. The evening gowns, the jewelry, and the shoes…She tried them all on at Wes’s insistence and had twirled in front of him more than once while he sat on a sofa and watched like a king of an ancient land, waiting to be entertained.

  More than once his eyes lit up when she’d worn certain things. Like the red evening gown that had a tight shell-cupped bodice but flared out at the waist in folds. It looked like something Grace Kelly would have worn. Classy, yet still sensual. Wes’s eyes had heated up enough that she could almost feel the burn on her bare skin. He’d waved over one of the eager store attendants and she’d bent down to listen as he whispered something in her ear, and then she straightened and rushed away.

  Callie touched the smooth red satin of the dress. It was lovely. All of the things she’d tried on today had been. So far she’d purchased only one blouse, and she’d held out her euros with a shaky hand, trying not to think how much that one item set her back. The exchange rate was not strong for the dollar and she winced as she paid for it.

  “Come here, Callie.” Wes pointed at a spot on the floor in front of him.

  She moved, the gown’s train whispering over the crème carpet as she came to a stop in front of him. He parted his knees and reached out to hold her hips as he straightened on the couch. His face was level with her breasts as he gazed up at her. It was a strange sensation to be looking down at him. She did not feel any more power over him than before, but the position made her body hum with awareness.

  “Do not worry about the expense. I’ve been buying everything that looks good on you.”

  “What?” She tried to pull away but he held on to her hips.

  “No, no, no, my little Callie. You are exactly where I wish you to be. Now listen carefully. I brought you here, and I will pay for everything because it’s part of my end of the bet we made. I expect nothing for these gifts, so do not even think about telling me I’m trying to buy you. I’m not. It simply pleases me to give you what you deserve. Do not argue with me or that spanking I promised will happen. And if I spank you…” His eyes churned with inner storms. “Then I won’t be able to control myself and I’ll take you to bed. Do you understand?”

  Callie nodded frantically, trying to escape his hold again and he let her.

  “The dress is perfect. Go and change. I think we’ve bought half the clothes in the Galeries Lafayette today.” He grinned, the traces of that dark side nearly gone. There was still a shadow, just at the edge of her vision, one that reminded her that the part of himself he fought to control wasn’t far from the surface.

  The store clerks packaged up the purchases and would have them delivered. Callie tried not to think of how overwhelming it all was. Or how young and foolish she felt compared to the tall, skinny, young women with perfect hair and makeup who attended to Wes all day. He hadn’t looked at them, not really, but Callie still felt that at any moment he’d decide his interest in her had been a passing fancy. A crazy one at that and he’d ship her back to Colorado on the first available flight.

  Wes handed the cashier a black credit card and the woman’s eyes grew round. He didn’t seem to notice the woman’s reaction.

  “There’s a champagne and coffee bar here if you’d like something,” Wes suggested.

  Callie shook her head. She felt a little…light-headed.

  “Can we do something outside? I think I need some fresh air and would like to walk.”

  Wes touched the back of his hand to her forehead. “Are you all right? You feel fine.”

  “I am.” She brushed his hand away.

  “Very well, a walk it is.”

  He led her out of the huge mall and back onto the streets. The tourists were out, crowding the streets and crosswalks. Wes wrapped an arm around her shoulder. At any other time she would have pulled away, resisted the touch, but people in the crowds seemed to part when Wes walked, and if he was touching her, she was afforded the same rite of passage. She knew what held them in awe. Wes was incredibly attractive with his chiseled features and brooding stares. He looked like he stepped out of the pages of a
fashion magazine. But it was more than that. It was the way he moved with a panther-like grace and a sense of innate authority. And she was with him. That little fact never ceased to puzzle her.

  He took her to a place called La Grand Épicerie de Paris and when she saw all of the rows of walnut shelves covered with rare, exotic chocolate brands she actually giggled.

  “Choose as many as you like,” he encouraged and gave a little push on her lower back.

  After several long minutes, she selected two bars of milk chocolate. One had a beautiful pen-and-ink drawing of Notre Dame on it and the other had a red man and woman silhouette as they leaned in to kiss.

  “Why those two?” Wes whispered, his voice right in her ear. She jumped and his hands settled on her hips.

  “I, well, I like the art.” She peeped up at him through shyly lowered lashes. She hoped he understood, that when something appealed to an artist, no other explanation was needed.

  “Then those two it is. We just have to make one more stop.” He guided her to the basement, which had brilliant white and walnut shelves with thousands of alcoholic beverages, all high end. Wes strode right past the aisles of expensive wine and went to a glass-enclosed room that held what Callie assumed were the most pricey items. He selected one of the cognacs. The little sign read “Cognac Louis XIII—Rare case.” Callie’s mouth dropped open as she saw the tiny price tag on the box. “18,060,20 €.”

  “Eighteen thousand euros?” she whispered in shock. Oh my God. That was twenty thousand dollars.

  “Only the best. It’s a century old. We’ll taste it tonight, after the Louvre.”