“You like art?”
She jerked. She’d been concentrating so hard, she hadn’t heard his soft approach. He’d taken off his jacket and tie, and undone his top two buttons. Just seeing the hollow of his collarbone made her blush, as if he’d stripped off his shirt. “Ah . . .”
“That’s a general question,” he said. “Here, take this.” He handed her a glass of dark red wine.
“I love art.” She didn’t have to play dumb or lie. “Your Keillor is beautiful. The Bosch sketches are amazing. So is the Kirk. You seem to have a thing about monsters.”
“Yes, I do. And the Delaunay? I saw you looking at it. What do you think?”
She looked back at the painting and took a cautious sip of wine, wondering if she should share her reaction.
Better not. She had no business venturing an opinion on that particular painting.
Just tell him it’s pretty. You love pretty pictures. La la la.
“It’s, ah . . stunning,” she faltered.
His mouth twitched. “It’s OK. You can relax. I know.”
“Excuse me?”
“I know that the Delaunay is a fake. So don’t worry.”
“It is?” Relief flooded her, then a fresh stab of fear followed. Was he trying to catch her in a lie, or worse, the truth?
“Come on. You picked up on that right away.”
“And just how do you know that?”
He shrugged. “Your expression. Couldn’t be clearer.”
His tone did not invite argument. “Oh. Well, it’s a good fake,” she said warily. “But I didn’t want to be the one to tell you if you didn’t know.”
“The original is in the vault,” he said. “You’re the first person who’s ever noticed that it’s a reproduction.”
“It’s not like I was sure,” she assured him. “I’m no expert.”
“Don’t lie,” he said softly.
Her belly tightened. “Then we’ll have a very silent evening.”
He gazed up at the Delaunay. “Silence is fine, if lies are the alternative.”
“I, ah, took art history classes my freshman year in college,” she offered hastily. “I wrote a paper about Delaunay.”
“How about that. I’d like to read it.”
“And then you’d know where I went to college.”
“Hadn’t thought about that.” His lips twitched in a brief smile, and he gestured toward the glass she held. “Drink. Maybe a little buzz will make you a better liar.”
“I’ll get drunk instantly,” she warned him. “I haven’t eaten for a while.”
“That’s why I put out something to munch on while we’re waiting for dinner.”
She turned, and saw food on the table. How the hell had he gotten it out there without her noticing? Wheat crackers, sliced cheeses, a dish of meaty Greek olives and another with just cherry tomatoes. A bowl of gold-tinted muscat grapes. “You keep all this fun finger food around to impress the girls?” she asked.
“No, I just burn a lot of energy. I need a lot of high quality fuel. Come on. Eat.”
She followed his lead, and it tasted so damn good. The cheeses were nutty, savory, each more delicious than the last. The olives were tart, the tomatoes a salt-sweet explosion, the grapes perfectly ripe. She felt more centered after only a few bites.
“So is your art an investment?” she asked. “Or do you just like having it?”
“Both. I figure, if I like it and I’m convinced that it’s genuine, then it’s a good bet. Mostly I enjoy looking at them.”
He set aside his wineglass and studied his collection for several moments while she covertly studied him, seizing the opportunity to ogle.
When she dragged her gaze away, she noticed another shelf along the opposite wall with a series of striking carvings on it. All appeared to have been done by the same artist. Some were large, some small. All were of wild animals, some still attached to the rough chunks of wood from which they were carved, as if the animal was trying to escape. She went over to take a closer look, struck by the sense of trapped energy.
“Those are beautiful,” she said. “Who’s the artist?”
He was silent for such a long time, she turned around to repeat the question. Then she realized that he was simply reluctant to answer.
“You?” she guessed. “You did these?”
He shrugged. “I get insomnia.” He sounded almost defensive. “It passes the time.”
She looked back at the carved animals. They were detailed, dynamic. Original.
“You’ve never exhibited your work?” she asked.
“I’m not into that,” he said. “I just like keeping busy.”
“You have a lot of energy,” she commented. “I love them. They’re great.”
He smiled briefly. “Thanks.”
“So why do you have a fake Delaunay on the wall, but Bosch originals?”
“Interesting question. I’ll answer it if you explain how you learned to tell an original from an excellent professional reproduction.”
She shrank back. Put her wineglass on the table. “Some other time. Not now.”