Chapter 27
Olivia’s legs were numb. Her muscles ached from trying not to move. Reginald had told her she could shift on the chair, but the moment her pressure on the seat decreased by ten percent, the bomb would go off.
She had felt ready to pass out until Ethan had arrived. Now her heartbeat thundered—which she appreciated, because it kept her alert and aware of any sway that might send her tumbling from the chair. She drew in deep breaths as well; the scent of the oil paints was strong enough to keep her focused.
Had Ethan attempted to grab her and leave, they would have both been blown to pieces. She had to focus on what Ethan was doing. He stood before the canvas, staring at the paintbrushes on the easel, while Reginald stalked impatiently behind him.
* * * *
Ethan stared at the paintbrushes. They were possibly hog bristle. His favorite brush was a painter’s workhorse, though he tended to cut and form them into the precise instruments he required. He’d also used sable, the only kind Christopher had used. Of course, Reginald would know that and had copied him. It made him feel strange. As if the forger had been forged. Copied. Reduced to something less.
But no, his half-brother had not half the talent Ethan had. And he was proud of his talent. A talent he’d not exercised in years. One he’d sworn to never again utilize, neither for profit, fame, nor even personal satisfaction.
His fingers curled, aching to touch the long, wooden brush handle. To feel the lightness of the tool, then the added weight after the brush was dipped into paint. To hear the subtle pull of the hairs across the canvas and the sweet sweep of paint flowing in its wake. The smell was like a perfume more seductive than any worn by a woman. Only this, the paint and canvas, could seduce him with so little effort.
Paint was his drug, and he was beginning to feel the shakes.
“What are you waiting for?” Reginald stepped beside him. “As you’ve said, she’ll need to use the loo sooner or later. You’d better hurry.”
Ethan pressed his palms to his chest, unwilling to dive in. To lose himself, because he would. Not in this moment. He must remain sharp. But how could he, with all those luscious brushes and paints sprawled before him? No matter their quality, he could create something sensational from them. Something others would look upon and admire, believe it was a true master’s work, and never suspect it was but a copy.
His fingers curled against his chest. The thunder of his heartbeat pounded in his ears. From across the room, he sniffed the faintest curl of sweetness and sadness.
Ethan closed his eyes, focusing on her vanilla floral perfume. He had to stay on top for Livi. And for the promise he’d made to himself.
As if he wasn’t under enough pressure already, Chester said quietly in his ear, “You know the rules.”
Indeed. Touching paint and canvas would send him directly back to Brixton. Or worse, sharing the dirt next to his father.
“It’s been over two years,” Ethan said slowly, “since I’ve touched a brush.”
“Right. Was that something you agreed to upon your premature release from prison?”
“So you don’t know all about me, then?”
“I know enough. And you are wasting time.” Reginald tapped the canvas. “Paint.”
“It occurs to me, that there is a better way.” Ethan gestured toward the canvas and brushes. “You take up the brush. I’ll direct you. That way, you’ll learn. You’ll have the education you’ve been bawling about not getting. And you’ll gain hands-on experience for future endeavors with your buyers, since the plan to locate the secret studio has fallen through. Yes?”
Reginald scratched his jaw, considering. He glanced to Livi, who looked down and away from the man’s preening gaze. If he had the audacity to refuse, Ethan would strangle him. With the bloody belt.
With a nod, Reginald stepped forward and picked up the brush. “I would like to learn. Thank you, Ethan. Now, it’s…her face.” He splayed a hand before the canvas. “I know Rossetti switched models after working for years on this painting, which is probably why I struggle with it so much. Her lips and the nose. I’m just not understanding.”
Obviously the man’s struggle was not going to cease. And this might become a lesson in futility. But Ethan had to give it a try. If Chester were on top of his game, the cavalry should arrive soon enough.
Ethan pointed to the tube of cadmium. “Start with the shadows beneath her lips and move slowly into the highlights.”
“Yes.” Reginald squeezed out some paint onto a palette.
Ethan looked to Livi. He could almost hear her heartbeat pounding. It echoed his own. Their last words had been an argument. A work he had proudly switched with the original had gotten her fired. Humiliated amongst her peers. He’d make things right for her. Soon.
“Two minutes,” Chester reported. “Keep him busy.”
A wave of relief washed through Ethan. He winked at Livi, then turned to give Reginald his complete attention.
“Slowly, and use the pointed round brush.” Ethan leaned in to direct his actions. “These cheap craft-store oils are a sorry replacement for the genuine thing, but with some skill you can make it work.”
Reginald smiled over his shoulder at him, and Ethan couldn’t help a return smile. He wasn’t going to drop his guard, but he needed to keep the man happy. And unaware.
As Reginald placed brush to canvas, Ethan flinched. He shouldn’t have started there. But it didn’t matter. “Are you going to tell me what sort of arrangement you have for the finished work?”
“We’ll see how it looks when I’m done. Can’t dole out too much information, can I?”
“Course not. A good villain never does.”
“I’m not a villain, Ethan. I am honoring Rossetti with my work.”
Christopher Maxwell had said much the same to Ethan over the years. And Ethan had taken on that justifying phrase as well. They were not common criminals. Their work could not be done by most. They were artists who paid homage to the great masters. Yet hearing the same phrase from the lowlife he was forced to make nice with only sickened him.
His arrogance and pride may have harmed so many over the years. And he had Livi to thank for making him understand that. No, he would never lift the brush to canvas again. He could not, and remain faithful to the life he had built. He’d jumped to the other side, the one that ensured the public was not duped and the forgers could not profit from their artwork.
The brush streaked across the subject’s jaw. Ethan caught Reginald’s wrist and placed him back at the position where the shadowing was actually needed. He made a few strokes while holding his hand. Wasn’t as if he were actually holding the brush.
“I messed up,” Reginald said with heavy resignation.
“There are never mess-ups. Only challenges. Anything can be fixed with patience and skill. Just as any masterwork can be recreated. You should know that. You’ve a good start.”
Realizing he’d repeated his father’s words of encouragement, Ethan grimaced. Oh, Christopher, why did you leave this mess for me to clean up?
“Tell me something,” Ethan said as he moved Reginald’s hand slowly across the canvas. “Why place a swift forgery over another forgery? It makes little sense to me.”
“Those works of mine were not swift.”
“Oh.” So those had been his best works?
“You and Christopher got all the notice,” Reginald said. “I simply wanted a moment to myself to stand in the spotlight.”
“Then you went about it all wrong. Your spotlight came attached to a bomb.”
“As I’ve said, I was calling out to you. What color next? I’m not sure. Can you paint in this part here?”
Two minutes had passed. Glancing at Reginald’s belt, Ethan assumed the detonator had to be in the clasp mechanism. He simply had to ensure Reginald couldn’t reach it or fall on it.
“I cannot,” Ethan said. “But I can finish this. Now.”
Delivering a punch to the side of Reginald’s jaw sent the man stumbling. Ethan swung around back and grabbed his arms while he was confused, wrenching them behind and holding firmly so he could not grasp for his belt.
“Send in back-up and the bomb squad,” Ethan told Chester.
Static crackled in his ear as he struggled with Reginald. “Less than a minute,” Chester said.
Ethan wanted to wrestle Reginald to the floor, but couldn’t risk letting go of his arms. He had to contain his hands.
“You tricked me!” Reginald swung forward, pushing his legs behind him in the plank position. Ethan had to hold his entire body weight up by his wrists to keep him from dropping to the floor. He couldn’t maintain that hold, so he twisted Reginald’s wrist and hooked his feet behind Parker’s knee, flipping the man on his back. He pulled Reginald’s arms over his head and slammed his wrists to the floor.
Reginald kicked him.
The attic door flew open. Two policemen wielding guns and shields burst in.
“He’s wearing a detonator,” Ethan said. “I need to keep him pinned to the floor so he can’t activate it. Grab his ankles!”
Parker struggled, nearly wrenching his wrists from Ethan’s grip. It seemed forever before the officer in charge could locate a tranquilizer injection. Just as Parker pulled one hand free, he yelped as the needle was stabbed into his leg. Eyelids fluttering, he went out in two seconds flat. Ethan helped the officer drag him out into the hallway.
“Get that belt off him,” Ethan said. “Carefully.”
Not caring a whit for his brother’s condition, he then rushed to Livi and took her hands. She still could not move. The bomb was still beneath her. He held her face and pressed his forehead to hers. A fine perspiration rimmed her hairline, and her skin was so warm. “I’m so sorry. So sorry. So…”
“I’m okay,” she said softly. “I just want out of here.”
“I can make that happen.” A man in a full blast suit knelt beside Livi’s chair and looked underneath. “We’ve removed the belt and the detonator. Now for the bomb. Might take me five minutes, ten tops. You’ll have to step out of the room, Mr. Maxwell.”
Ethan held Livi’s hand firmly. “I’m not going anywhere. I’ll assume the risk.”
The man stared at him through the narrow protective screen in his helmet. “My boss won’t allow it.”
“Your boss has no jurisdiction over my actions. I believe Interpol supersedes Scotland Yard. Now, please. Work quickly.”
The technician shrugged. He laid down on the floor and tucked his head under the chair.
Ethan grasped both of Livi’s hands and bent to stare into her starry eyes. They were glossy with tears, which cut deep into his heart. He didn’t say anything. Neither did she. But he felt her fear and her worry, and he wanted to hug her, to hold her. To make things right.
Could things be right? She couldn’t handle the fact he was a forger. Former forger. He’d avoided touching the brush when helping Parker. And if he had touched it?
Ethan wouldn’t think about it. He’d survived that challenge. Because she had been there, and he wanted to be a hero in her eyes.
“I owe you an apology,” he told her.
She shook her head. Her lips compressed as if to stifle a sob.
“We parted in anger. The Parrish painting… I’m so sorry.”
“I’m not angry with you. You had no idea what could happen.”
“But I should have. I should have thought beyond myself and the constant need to win my father’s favor. I cannot believe my life has been lived in the shadow of that man.”
“You loved him.”
“I did. But that made me blind to everything else. It stops today, Livi. You are one of those other things that I want to see clearly.”
Her lips wrinkled into a brief smile.
“Almost,” the bomb squad technician said from the floor. “Okay. One last connection. Constable Lawson, I’m going to ask you to stand and dash out of the room as quickly as you can when I give you the signal.”
“Why?” Her voice wobbled.
“Don’t worry. It’s just a precaution.”
“I’m not sure I can.” She searched Ethan’s gaze. “My legs are numb from sitting so long. If I stand, I’ll fall over.”
“I’ve got you.” Ethan leaned over her, wrapping his arm across her shoulders and tucking his hand under her knee. “Will that work for you?” he asked the man beneath the chair. “If I lift her?”
“I’m too heavy for you,” she argued.
“That’ll work,” the man on the floor said. “Ready?”
“Put your arms around me,” Ethan told Livi, not about to argue silly semantics regarding her weight. “Lift your legs so I can get my arm under them.”
She did so, and he could feel her tremble against him. He should have bloodied Reginald’s face for putting her through all this.
“Go!”
Ethan slid his arm completely under Livi’s legs and lifted. Swinging her up gave him the momentum he need to carry her off the chair and through the doorway. He raced around the corner, then set her down on her feet in the hallway about eight feet away from Parker’s immobile body.
Crushing his body against hers, he buried his face against her hair and waited.
“It didn’t go off,” she whispered. “Thank God.”
She slid down the wall, and Ethan slid with her. When she was able to sit, he wanted to pull her into a hug, but he didn’t want to crowd her.
“We did it,” he told her. “Together.”
She nodded, then grabbed his shirt and pulled him in for a kiss.