“Crumb,” he said huskily and lowered his hand to his side.
“Muffin,” I managed and went for a seat near Adley, avoiding Logan’s ice-cold glare. Tobias gripped the back of my chair and nudged me forward into the desk.
“Thank you.” I wished I’d brought a pen and notepad now so I could pretend to write. “It was a gift from Elena. The muffin, I mean.” I offered a polite smile to Logan. “Our receptionist. It’s blueberry. With blueberry bits in there.”
Logan smirked as though amused.
He didn’t seem to notice, merely rounded the table and took his seat again right next to her.
“Careful,” said Logan, “don’t up-sell Elena too much or I might headhunt her.”
Tobias swiveled casually in his chair. “Let’s leave their staff alone.”
He’d brought his left leg up and crossed it over his right, showing off those fine highly polished leather shoes, and he looked so damn confident, so relaxed, so ridiculously dashing.
“Elena’s been with us for years,” offered Adley. “We’d be lost without her. Shall we go over the details?” Adley opened the beige folder in front of him.
I settled back in my chair, pretending that Tobias hadn’t fixed his stare on me. This seemed like cruel karma after I’d ogled him for a little too long last night.
I avoided his scrutiny by showing interest in the paintings surrounding me. More fakes hung from the walls. The large Jackson Pollock to our left was breathtakingly real. The original was safe in the National Gallery, a tube ride from here. A home away from home during my student days.
Pollock, one of America’s most famous abstract artists, had left a legacy of canvases splashed with brilliant roiling lines and blotches that even today stirred a visceral response. This one, if it had been real, would have fetched at least thirty million pounds if sold today. Luckily, it was in here and off the market so some poor unsuspecting collector with too much money didn’t throw it away on a counterfeit.
I’d once watched my father throw a mug of tea at a forgery. He’d told me afterward the artist had plagiarized the heart and soul of the painter. There was only one explanation for hanging these cruel betrayals up in the east wing. They were used for training.
Dragging my gaze away from the Pollock, I returned my focus to Adley.
He peered over his rounded spectacles at Tobias. “The plan is to authenticate before you buy?”
“It’s a time issue,” said Tobias. “It’s the kind of investment I’m willing to make but only if we can confirm its authenticity.”
“Which painting?” I asked.
“Mr. Wilder is hoping to move fast,” said Logan.
“You’re not going with an American firm?” said Adley.
“Discretion is essential,” replied Logan.
“It’s in the UK?” I wondered why he was not going with the firm he usually used. After all, his vast collection had been authenticated.
“It’s a well-sought-out piece,” said Tobias. “I need discretion.”
“We’re ahead of the curve with this one,” said Logan. “We want to move fast.”
“Huntly Pierre guarantees a strict privacy policy,” said Adley. “Our service is confidential.”
Logan’s glare locked on me. “How long have you worked for the firm?”
“Well, I’ve been with Huntly Pierre—” I looked over at Adley.
He gave a reassuring smile. “I can assure you Ms. Leighton’s art pedigree is exceptional.”
“If you don’t mind,” said Logan. “We’re merely crossing our t’s.”
“Of course.” Adley gestured for her to continue.
Tobias picked up a pen embossed with the company insignia and tapped it on the desk. “Tell us more about you, Ms. Leighton.”
“I studied art here in London.” I smiled, hoping that would allay their concerns. “I’ve loved art all my life.”
Logan opened the beige folder in front of her and read. “Courtauld Institute of Art?”
There was a flipping folder on me?
A wave of nervousness circled my stomach. “Yes, I graduated—”
“With honors.” Tobias’s stare locked on mine. “Impressive.”
“The Courtauld’s just down the road,” I told them brightly. “I can arrange a visit if you like.”
Logan’s frown narrowed. “We’re more interested in your current experience.”
“Oh, well, I’ve not been with the firm that long. But I’ve been immersed in the art world all my life. My father was an honorary member of the Royal Academy of Arts.”
“Are you a member?” asked Logan.
“No,” I said, “you have to be voted in. Members are usually practicing artists.”
Tobias reached out for that folder and slid it toward him along the desk. Turning the pages slowly, he seemed to be reading every single line of whatever was in there. If silence could have been considered a weapon he’d mastered the art of using it.
That Jackson Pollock was jarring my nerves, those swirls of white on black, those yellow blotches had hit the canvas with precision. To an untrained eye they would have appeared like a madman’s call for help.
Adley leaned forward. “Zara has a natural flair for—”
“Is this your first day?” Logan sounded incredulous. Tobias’s stare slowly lifted to hold mine.
Making me feel like I’d been caught in a lie. The unfairness of being thrown into the deep end hit me. The fine hairs on my forearms prickled.
“Ms. Leighton?” she said sternly.
“Zara?” Tobias sounded tense.
He’d gone from friendly American to scary interrogator with that steely gaze fixed on mine.
I straightened my back defensively. “As it so happens, yes.”
Logan’s skeptical glare shot toward Adley. “This is your best man?”
“My team is currently invested in a high-profile case,” said Adley.
“You’re essentially saying your staff is too busy for us?” Logan looked annoyed.
Adley seemed unfazed. “Well, as you probably know there have been a couple of art thefts, right here in London. We’ve been brought in by the Met to do what we can to help. See if they’re connected.”
He went on to explain the details. As my world crumbled around me.
This day was meant to be bloody awesome. Now I was about to prove to my new boss I had no right to be here.
Why had I even bothered? Why had I even believed I could make a place for myself in a world that had turned away from my family? I was destined to be discovered as a fraud myself. Might as well just hang me up on the wall.
I was starting to regret ever meeting Tobias Wilder. Even if my thighs were squeezed tight and that tingling between them was disagreeing with my current conclusion: he was beginning to look like a class-A rogue who always got his way. Yet my thoughts kept carrying me back to his secret tattoo, the first Latin word meeting the tip of his V and conveniently leading off toward his forbidden zone.
That video of him I’d watched last night had probably been a ruse to soften those hard edges of his public image.
He