Chapter 3
Olivia smoothed her hands down her hips, an unconscious move that a former lover had once told her was sexy. Really, she was just trying to wipe the sweat from her hands. A bomb had destroyed a valuable painting. And it was all her fault?
She couldn’t breathe. The Byam Shaw was invaluable. She should have been more careful. But how could she have known it was wired to blow? Bollocks. She’d really screwed up.
Why hadn’t Mr. Maxwell shown up one minute earlier? If he had known this might happen, he should have called on his way to the museum.
But she wouldn’t blame him. She wanted to get the facts and figure this out.
She shoved her hands into her skirt pockets to hide their shaking. It was no way for a future detective constable to act. Especially one who wanted to prove herself invaluable to the Arts and Antiquities Unit.
This was the worst day of her life. Unless she factored in the handsome man standing beside her. He smelled faintly of Burberry cologne, a bit woodsy, and so appealing. Especially when it had been a while since she’d inhaled the scent of a sexy man.
“A week ago,” Mr. Maxwell said, “in the Wexler gallery in Soho, I was called in to inspect a similar incident. It was another hasty pudding work, which had been pinned over an original work. Only we didn’t get photos to inspect the evidence because when a gallery employee removed the painting from the wall, he set off the bomb, which destroyed the painting beneath and left the employee with second-degree burns and possible facial damage.
“It’s all in the hang wire,” he explained. “Unfortunately, the Soho employee who found the vandalized painting had no reason to expect a bomb, either. Did you contact the bomb squad?” he called out as Camila popped in.
“They’re on their way. But I don’t understand why— Oh my.” The museum director’s jaw dropped at the sight of the damaged painting. She pressed a skeletal hand to her chest.
“Excellent.” Ethan turned back to the painting, clasping his hands behind his back as he looked over the disaster.
Rather emotionless about the incident, Olivia decided. Which could be his manner when working. She might take a page from his book and keep her feelings under wraps, especially with the director gaping over the damage.
“What happened?” Camila’s high heels clacked as she marched to the painting. “Constable Lawson?”
“Please don’t get too close, Miss Wright,” Ethan said. “The painting was wired to blow at the slightest movement of the frame.”
Camila turned toward them. “Really? But I… I touched it when I found it…” Her voice trailed off, obviously considering what could have happened. “Were you able to determine if the original Byam Shaw was stolen, or….?”
“We’re still investigating,” Olivia offered. “I’m sorry, Miss Wright, but if you could give us the room again?”
The director exhaled heavily as she put her fingers to her throat, then nodded and left to answer another person calling her name.
As she joined Ethan’s side, Olivia caught a glimpse of Howard, waiting for her on the bench. Her heart dropped as she realized she’d risked Howard’s life, too. Olivia took a deep breath. She couldn’t let Ethan see how upset she was.
“What is the reason behind vandalizing a priceless work of art?” She leaned forward, inspecting the damaged frame and noting the edges of the original painting beneath in the frayed canvas. “It’s destroyed no matter what.”
“Not exactly. Had the forgery simply been unpinned, it could have been removed without damaging the original beneath. Or so that is what I had assessed from the remains at the Wexler gallery. We might have assessed much the same here, had it not been destroyed.”
He cleared his throat, effecting an admonishing finger in Olivia’s face. She wasn’t going to apologize to feed into his obvious male superiority.
“As for the reasoning behind such vandalism?” he prompted. “I’m not sure. That’s why I’ll be relying on Scotland Yard for, ahem…excellent police work.”
“That will be me you’ll be relying on. And thank you for the compliment, as accidental as it was.”
“So many accidents today, eh?” He winced.
Olivia turned away so he couldn’t see her roll her eyes. Men. Always trying to put a woman in her place. She felt bad enough already, having been the one to trip the bomb.
“I’m going to wait for the bomb squad out in the hall and talk with Miss Wright again,” she told him. “She’ll need to know we suspect it was the original that was destroyed.”
“Fine. Will you ask your forensics man to leave me alone with the painting? I’m sure he’ll need to clear out for the bomb squad anyway.”
“Of course.” Olivia signed to Howard that the bomb squad had been called. Howard got up, put his arm through hers, and walked her out into the hallway, indicating he was going for coffee. She shook her head when he asked if she wanted any.
Olivia found the director and explained Mr. Maxwell’s theory that the original had been underneath. “I concur,” she included. “I can see the painting beneath. It was most likely the Byam Shaw.”
Camila looked ready to faint. She wrung her hands and shook her head miserably. “It was on loan from a private collector.”
Yes, but the museum certainly had it insured. No matter; it was still a tragedy to have lost a one-of-a-kind piece.
Olivia assured her they couldn’t confirm that suspicion one hundred percent until forensics had looked it over back at the lab. She left the distraught museum director as quickly as she could manage. No need to stand around and wait for more derogatory comments regarding her abilities, or lack thereof.
The museum had opened. Patrons were streaming in through the newly refurbished vestibule, but none had seemed to notice or care about the yellow police tape cordoning off a wing of the museum. It was a Wednesday. Not so crowded with tourists.
Seeking a few moments to recoup, Olivia wandered into the next gallery, which shouldn’t see visitors for a while as it was opposite from the entrance. She took out her notebook from the pocket in her skirt and scribbled some notes, including Ethan Maxwell’s name and Interpol. She texted Denise, her go-to girl in dispatch who also did case research, and asked her to pull up all the information she could find on Mr. Maxwell. Denise promised to get right on it.
Olivia tucked away the phone and notebook and sighed, settling her shoulders and releasing the tension in her muscles. She couldn’t get the sound of his accusation out of her head: You’ve destroyed a valuable work of art.
Wanker. The man had no polish whatsoever.
And yet, he was a fine bit of all right. Tall and handsome, yet he held himself with a stiffness that made him appear stand-offish. Or maybe that had been his need to repeatedly admonish her. Yet he also exuded an intensity that she couldn’t disregard. Stubble shadowed his jaw, and his short dark brown hair framed a narrow face with a long nose. His eyes—well, she hadn’t dared look him directly in the eye too long. Olivia had trouble with eye contact. Yes, she knew it was a useful skill when reading lies and assessing a person, but it made her uncomfortable. And much as she’d tried to overcome it, she couldn’t manage more than a few seconds eye contact.
Despite that foible, she was quite skilled at reading people. And Ethan Maxwell was smart, astute, and knowledgeable, and perhaps would make a good partner on this job.
On the other hand, the man was bloody handsome, with a tricky half-smile that threatened to burst into full-on sexy. And that disturbed her. Because lately she was on the hunt. For a lover. Some satisfaction. No strings. Just sex. And Ethan Maxwell would certainly fill that bill.
Interpol had sent an agent, or rather, special agent to assist her. She didn’t need help, thank you very much. But the waning Arts and Antiquities Unit was on its last legs. And it needed all the help it could get. And if working with Interpol would give Superintendent Wellbrute reassurance that she was working with a capable expert, then so be it.
She knew her stuff. But she’d always been handed the lesser cases, such as doing the paperwork and online research for an artwork’s provenance. Need someone to shuffle through dirty, dry warehouses amongst assorted stacks of pottery and broken statues? Just call Olivia. Who should spend hours bent over art catalogs and provenance stamps to assess their legitimacy? She was the first to get those tedious assignments.
Now, with Nigel out sick, she had an opportunity to prove that she was a valuable asset to the department. And no matter how she looked or dressed, she did not belong on the beat writing up traffic violations. Could the men at Scotland Yard be any more condescending?
When Mr. Maxwell had said he’d expected her to be less “lush,” she hadn’t known how to take that. More male judgment? She couldn’t help that she had an ample figure and liked to dress to show her curves. She found dressing in soft clothing and doing her hair when on museum jobs made her more approachable to the client. They talked to her, accepted her as more than just a cop with a notebook.
And yet, when had a man ever called her “lush?” And in a tone that had suggested his interest. Had his eyes twinkled that brief moment she’d looked into them? Just a bit.
She would solve this case. And she would prove herself. With or without Ethan Maxwell’s help. Of course, with him it would be challenging to stay focused on the job and not his handsome looks. And what if he wanted to step over her and take all the credit? She wasn’t going to let that happen.
Olivia realized she had stopped before the painting The Death of the Gravedigger, by the nineteenth century Swiss symbolist painter Carlos Schwabe. She took a moment to study it. The work depicted a dark angel tendering the soul from a dying gravedigger.
And there was something wrong about it.
* * * *
Ethan Maxwell found stepping inside a museum both invigorating and nauseating. The Tate Britain was a gorgeous establishment, filled to its glass-paned dome ceiling with drawings and oils and prints and sculpture. The scent of linseed oil and turpentine teased at his senses. The occasional must from old wood and mildew that had seeped into the cracks of an ancient frame delighted him.
Ethan’s right hand flinched, and his fingers curled to grasp the sable brush he’d not held for years. He’d given up painting. He’d had no choice. It was either quit or sit in Brixton prison for twelve miserable years. An unsavory thought. Six months of incarceration had been long enough.
Thus, this changing of his life. Seeking the high road. Turning over a new leaf. Was it possible for a man like him, who had known nothing but living by the tricks of his trade? He’d been doing just that for two years.
“Anything is possible,” he muttered from his vantage in the hallway, where he watched the bomb squad approach the damaged painting. They would carefully remove the frame and canvas from the wall. The gallery had been evacuated. There was nothing he could do until the evidence had been declared safe to examine. Evidence recovery would sweep the gallery and collect anything pertinent.
He turned and strolled down the hallway, nodding to the forensics man sipping coffee. Roasted coffee beans smelled great, but tea was a necessity.
“She’s in there,” Camila said as he passed her, and though he’d not asked after Constable Lawson, he appreciated the information. Another gallery was a few steps ahead, filled with yet more exquisite masterpieces.
He could do this. His job required that he enter museums and art galleries all the time. All he had to do was keep his eye from wandering to the Van Eyck that used carmine so elegantly it made his jaw drop. And he mustn’t pause before the Rubens that featured lush, silken flesh and gorgeous use of draping. The Heiligenkreuz did not interest him. He wasn’t into medieval Austrian painters. But, oh, the Poussin and its ethereal light….
As Ethan turned the corner and his eyes fell upon a living sculpture, his interest veered from oil and canvas to pale skin and blossoms. The floral dress the Scotland Yard officer wore teased his eyes to gallivant up and down her length, from the generous curves at her hips and bosom, down her sleek legs, and back up to the spill of bouncy titian hair.
After all the darkness the past few years had thrown at him, he appreciated the foray into beauty.
“Like a lush Rubens painting,” he murmured as he approached.
Constable Lawson turned at the hip, her starry blue eyes flashing brightly amidst a frothy flutter of black lashes. “Looking for the Rubens? You just passed it. Down the hall and to the left. I believe it’s still intact, too.”
She was taking the destruction of the Byam Shaw rather roughly. As she should. On the other hand, she had no idea the painting had been wired to explode. If only the information from the Wexler gallery vandalism had been in her hands—but they had asked for discretion.
Too late for that now. The incidents were obviously tied together. And over the past year, Ethan had been keeping an eye on possible connections to a group of international traffickers who were known to deal in Pre-Raphaelite forgeries. But they hadn’t damaged paintings before. This was new. Related? He would find out.
Ethan met Constable Lawson’s brief glance. Beneath sumptuous lashes, her bright and inquisitive eyes held so much. She looked exactly as he wished a woman should: as if she’d stepped out of a painting herself. She absolutely mastered the room with vivid color and not-so-subtle sensuality.
Interesting style choice for a police constable. Had he stuck his foot in his mouth with that previous comment about her lushness? He suspected so, but he couldn’t stop himself from complimenting a woman.
He joined her, gesturing at the painting on the wall she’d been studying. The viridescent soul coved in by the dark angel’s hand and shining against her neck always captured his breath. It spoke to him in ways he could never completely define.
“When did the Tate acquire the Schwabe?” he asked. “I thought this one was usually displayed at the Musee d’Orsay in Paris.”
“I believe it’s on tour with a few others depicting the angels and demons theme. Pity; my focus is currently on the Byam Shaw. This is a fake.”
“A fake?” Ethan smirked and cast the bombshell a sidelong glance. “Surely not. Such a famous painting, and in a well-known museum. What gives you that idea?”
“You don’t see it?”
Her scrutiny penetrated him so sharply he almost felt it burn at his jaw. But he kept his smile as he focused on the glowing green light held within the angel’s hands.
“The soul,” she said with as much reverence as he felt when taking in that green glow.
He swallowed down a sigh of agreement. That green glow depicted the grave digger’s soul. It emanated beyond the canvas and took on a life of its own. Supernatural in its color. Unreal and alien. It meant...so much. But might a forger ever get that detail right?
He’d thought so….
“It’s not right,” she said.
“Is that a hunch?” he asked.
“No, it’s a fact. Take a closer look, why don’t you?”
She strolled out of the room, leaving Ethan to watch her exit from over his shoulder. He followed the shift of her hips and the sway of her body bedazzled in red roses. Most definitely an intriguing woman. But could he actually work with her? She looked to have claws if not handled correctly. Such weapons would only prove a boon to him when in bed.
Leaving the gravedigger to contend with his death, Ethan followed the constable’s wake and caught up to her before she could peek into the gallery with the vandalized Byam Shaw.
“We should take a look in the archives for dates of acquisition and provenance,” he said. “And while we’re waiting for the bomb squad, do you fancy a cup of tea?”
“Tea?” She turned and gave him a look of derision. “Mr. Maxwell, I’m working. I’ve no time for tea.”
“There’s always time for tea. Bloody hell, I’m desperate for a cuppa. And we may see ourselves working together on this case.”
“I had assumed Interpol assigned you to consult with me. That makes us partners.”
He splayed out his arms in a grateful display. “Very well. I’d like to establish some parameters and game play, if that’s all right by you.”
She gave him an assessing look that he fancied held a touch of desire. Of course, that was probably just his overactive imagination. And his incredible ability to draw female attention without even trying.
“Tea it is. I’ll tell Camila to retrieve us when the bomb squad is finished.”