“Negotiate. Otherwise, go with the Dürer in the corner. It’s less well known, but in good shape. If you’ll excuse me, I need to find Belinda.”
Simon would look after Gabe, so Henry turned his focus to his task. He stared at the drawing and wondered why anyone would go through the trouble of stealing a painting worth a million-plus pounds, only to recover a mere fraction of the value.
Several gentlemen arrived in front of the Picasso and debated the merits of it. Not wishing to be caught lacking in art intelligence, Henry wandered away to find the Dürer.
Chapter Fifteen
The exhibit offered too many distractions. How could Alex act like an empty vessel when the hosts were exhibiting Luxembourg Gardens by Henri Matisse? Was this the first time it had been seen since it was stolen in 2006? When she walked out of the building tonight, she might never see it again. The thought depressed her. She wanted to stare at it to absorb the colors and the emotion, but she’d risk giving herself away and placing Simon and Henry in danger if someone discovered her identity. What would her mother do in this situation? She paused at her stupid question. Her mother would never be in this situation.
After Simon abandoned her to a group of buyers from Bahrain, every man in her vicinity tried to proposition her. The name Simon Dunn carried weight in these circles, because they backed off immediately upon realizing she was his, at least for the night.
She spoke softly with whomever she met and tried to merge into the background. Her champagne glass had been refilled as soon as it dropped to one-third full. She’d be passed out on the floor if she drank all the champagne offered to her. Roman and his cronies seemed to like their women impaired and would be offering champagne throughout the evening. Alex placed her now-full drink on a decorative table with other glasses to speak to whomever was within her vicinity. When the conversation waned, she lifted up a nearly empty glass next to hers and wandered away. Within two minutes, she was holding a full glass again.
The echoes inside the room enhanced the volume, rhythm, and cadence of the guests’ accents. On a normal night, she’d listen in to pick up new phrases and practice her comprehension. Tonight, however, her eavesdropping had to focus on things related to Henry’s painting.
A familiar French tenor voice carried over the wall and straight into her gut. Brian Fouchet, one of Luc’s art dealers. She ambled away, but kept tabs on his whereabouts. If Luc was in the building as well, her entire plan could end without beginning.
Sipping more champagne, she glanced up at a Picasso drawing. She knew the one. It was one of thirty-three from his sketchbook stolen in 2009. The paper had been manhandled and the charcoal had faded in places, but it was otherwise in decent condition. She heard someone approach and turned to see Henry standing next to her, mouthwatering in a Dior tuxedo. He wore wealth well.
“Mr. Fisher. Are you enjoying yourself?” She faced Henry, away from the opening to the room where Brian stood.
Henry acted disinterested in her. She was glad. Her heart bounding with excitement over his appearance would not help her monitor Brian’s movements.
“I’m disappointed in the lack of quality portraits in the gallery.” He brushed an arm across the scooped opening in the back of her dress, but didn’t linger.
“Portraits must be a popular form of art.” She held her voice steady through the bloom of shivers he’d caused. “I had my portrait done in high school. It sits over the fireplace in the den of my parents’ main house. Standing for hours was dreadful.”
“I would imagine.” He was drinking scotch. Hopefully, not too much. He needed to remain clearheaded. “What do you think of this drawing?”
Her eyes lifted to the painting, while her ears listened for Brian, still standing on the other side of the partition. “I like it. It’s a Renoir, if I’m not mistaken?”
“I think it’s Picasso. It’s hard to tell all the artists apart.”
“Are you going to buy it?” She couldn’t hear Brian anymore. A surge of panic prepped her legs to run, but common sense forced her to remain in place.
Henry continued talking, unaware of the threat within his arm span. “I’m debating between this and the Dürer.”
Fluffing the long side of her hair over half her face, she leaned in to whisper to Henry. “Do you want my opinion?” She rolled her finger over the rim of her champagne flute, trying to ignore the tension gripping her heart and freezing her muscles.
“I’d love your opinion.” Henry sounded fascinated.
Brian moved behind her as she spoke to Henry. He was speaking French to one of the Russians. Something about creative financing options.
When he passed her, she took a deep breath. Her shoulders relaxed as the beat of Brian’s footsteps faded away. “I would take the Picasso.”
“You would?” He smiled with laughter sparkling in his eyes, pretending her opinion didn’t matter. Despite his actions, he’d listen to her.
She swirled the champagne in the flute. “Absolutely. I mean, he’s super famous. I’ve never heard of Durber before.”
“I think you mean Dürer.” Roman strolled up to her, encircled her waist, and pulled her close as though he’d purchased her for the night. Simon had warned her that Roman, as host, could and often did take advantage of his position to get closer to the wives and girlfriends of his guests. He wasn’t as tall as her two companions, but he had five armed guards who provided him with all the strength he needed.
“That’s exactly who I meant.” She tried to act impressed with his wealth, power, and grandeur, but it may have come across as too welcoming of his advances. He began rubbing her arm with his thumb.
“Are you buying?” Roman asked Henry.
“I’m interested in the Picasso. Any other buyers?”
Roman nodded. “Two. Make me your best offer.”
Henry stared at the sketch. His brow furrowed for a moment as though he needed to think about what to say next. “Forty, cash at the door.”