Henry leaned his gorgeous face directly in front of hers again. Those eyes could hypnotize and seduce the most virtuous woman into his bed. She breathed him in. His breath tasted sweet, like vanilla mixed with one of Simon’s cinnamon buns. His tone, however, contained an acidic edge. “That picture has been in my family since the early eighteen hundreds. She’s my ancestor, Lady Elizabeth Gillett.”
Lady Elizabeth Gillett smiled down on them with the bluest of eyes. Her hair, parted in the middle, had tight curls gracing each side of her face. Although her yellow dress seemed one decade before a true Regency style, the wider waistband and lower neckline made Lady Liz a very sexy ancestor. Studying the paint, Alex observed barely visible cracks throughout the oil brush strokes, as expected with an oil painting older than the advent of locomotives or a new painting created with paint additives.
“I’m sorry. I overstepped my bounds. You didn’t ask for my opinion. You need somebody from one of the big auction houses. They have experts on staff who can give a professional opinion.” She would know. She’d taught many of them.
He shoved his hands into his pockets and stepped back while continuing to stare at the painting. “You think I need an expert appraiser?” His Adam’s apple became more prominent in his neck, although he seemed to be trying to rein in his emotions. “Your claim doesn’t seem plausible.”
She paused, haunted by the disbelief in his expression. As always, her need to prove herself overpowered her need to protect herself.
She studied the painting again, reconfirming her initial assessment. “Her eyes. It’s a reproduction because of her blue eyes. Cerulean blue.”
Henry walked closer to the painting and stared at Lady Liz’s eyes. “I don’t understand.”
“The pigment. There was no way to create cerulean blue in paint until 1860.”
He laughed again, but his face stayed somber. “The painting is a fake because of the color of her eyes?”
Why didn’t I keep my mouth shut?
“How can you identify a specific color?” He faced Alex and looked at her as though she were a specimen in a laboratory. She’d seen the same look in her parents’ eyes.
Always the oddball, the one who didn’t see the world in quite the right way, she needed to explain herself. “A sommelier can distinguish between very similar wines. I discern colors and tints most people can’t. I also recognize most types of wood and gems. If I’m having a particularly good day, I can even determine if the finish on a piece of furniture was done a year ago, a decade ago, or two hundred years ago.”
She pointed with her free hand to a raised brushstroke in Lady Elizabeth’s bodice. “The paint’s been altered as well. See the slight amber line in the crack? Whoever did this added resin to the paint to make it harden and crack like an authentic antique oil painting. An old trick, but effective against untrained eyes.”
She ended her speech with a shrug and a mound of regret for revealing herself too intimately with this stranger. Too bad silence wasn’t her gift.
Henry paced back and forth for several minutes, his eyes never leaving the canvas. Alex left him to his thoughts and stepped toward the foyer.
He ended up directly in front of her, blocking her exit. “How accurate are you?” The lighthearted and sexy Henry had been replaced by a very serious and powerful man.
“I could be wrong.”
Although I’ve haven’t been wrong yet.
“Damn it.” His fist clenched, and his forehead creased with the type of deep lines only revealed by extreme tension.
“Are you okay?” She backed up. She didn’t think he’d hurt her. Would he?
He looked at the painting. His fist remained clenched.
“I’ve been better.” His voice seemed to wrestle back a range of emotions, including a hint of anger and frustration. When he turned toward her again, his emotions had faded like the tide after a full moon. A partial smile appeared on his face, but his eyes remained clouded and impenetrable. “I’d like to spend more time with you tonight. Regrettably, I’ve committed to go somewhere with Simon.”
“You’re going out?”
“The security in the house is first-rate as long as you don’t open the doors for anyone. Trust me, this is the safest location in Oxford.” He stared into her eyes for an uncomfortably long time, probing for something, until his smile finally returned, but it wasn’t his full smile. “Make yourself at home. There’s leftover chicken marsala Simon made in the refrigerator. We can meet up for breakfast. Good night.”
He’s going out? Why would he leave me in the house alone with all his valuables? He doesn’t know me. Not really. Even I wouldn’t trust me in this place.
He left her standing alone in the art gallery with small masterpieces on one wall, one very large fake on the other, and a tight knot in her stomach.
His house no longer felt like a sanctuary. She made her way back to the study and turned on the television. Sitting on one of the leather recliners, she flipped the channels until she found a local news station to learn the weather forecast, traffic reports, and any other information necessary to leave this place.
The Yellow Dog Pub came on the screen with a picture of Matt Shaw. He’d been shot dead defending his restaurant from a lone shooter in an apparently random act of violence. No. Not Matt. Alex’s stomach twisted, and she sagged forward, her body shaking uncontrollably.
Tears streamed down her face as she struggled to listen to the news. The illegal import of firearms into Great Britain dominated the discussion. They should be talking about the sweet man who had always offered a smile and a cold beer to whomever walked through the doors of his pub. Instead, they focused on the gunman. The police would never find him. Luc’s connections ensured his subordinate’s anonymity with the law. Her tears turned to sobs. Would anyone be safe around her?
Chapter Five