MARC STARED at the receiver, a sly smile on his face. What kind of monster had he created? Give the girl a little room and she was ready to take over the investigation. But he could sure as hell use another cool head. David was almost no help in making clear-headed, objective evaluations. He had been fine sitting around giving opinions while they were planning the operation.
But now with this Met thing on his back, David’s mind was even less focused. As far as he was concerned, everyone in Amanda’s “group” was capable of the forgeries. Marc had been hoping for a more astute appraisal of their abilities and reactions to his poses as Antonio.
And besides, David wasn’t nearly as much fun to be around as Ace.
He was being pulled under. Like in the over-life-sized Burne-Jones pre-Raphaelite painting at a Met exhibit where the enticing mermaid was dragging a naked sailor into the briny depths. And the snoozing guy didn’t look all that unhappy.
Marc’s thoughts were interrupted when the director of Cambiare International came back into the sleek rosewood and chrome office.
“Is there any other way we might be of assistance, Mr. Parkerson? I’m sorry the insurance representative wasn’t able to make the meeting. His flight was delayed, I understand. He’ll be pleased to know your investigation is proceeding well. Shall I set up a meeting when he arrives or shall I have him personally get in touch with you?”
“Have him give me a call.” Marc shook the elegant man’s hand and moved to the doorway. “So nothing new has shown up on the market since the last drawing surfaced?”
“No, and our buyers have definitely concluded the provenance was falsified. We’re certainly not professionals, but it does appear the last several came through the Village gallery and can be traced to your brother’s class.” He escorted Marc into the elegant, simply-appointed, outer reception area. “I’m rather looking forward to discovering the artist,” he continued. “A formidable talent. What a shame for it to be employed so deviously.”
Marc nodded in agreement. “Yes. Unfortunately, it’s not only the talent involved but the vanity. Money might certainly be a factor, but usually much less so than the self-inflating knowledge they can pull off such a stunt.”
The director grimaced. “Indeed. The Queen is most displeased. She was so looking forward to enhancing her collection.”
Marc laughed. “I thought she owned everything the old guy had ever produced anyway.” He pushed open the heavy glass doors leading onto upper Madison Avenue.
The director smiled. “The ‘old guy’ was very prolific. Thank you again.”
Marc headed south toward his lady-love.
THE AIR around the circular Pulitzer Fountain still filled with evergreens from the winter season held more than a promise of springtime. The pigeons were busier, more aggressive, out to fleece every early out-of-town visitor they could entice with their fluttering wings and swooping forays.
Amanda remembered Trafalgar Square in London as a child. Never been back. Daddy couldn’t bear the idea. Or at least Amanda thought she remembered it. There were vague memories of hazy 8mm movies that her brothers had surreptitiously projected when Daddy wasn’t around. She wished she had known the attractive young woman shepherding the tiny child through the swarms of swirling birds. Amanda shook off the memory.
“The boat sank- get over it.” She smiled ruefully and pulled her tailored topcoat tighter against the crisp air. A friend had given her a T-shirt emblazoned with the pleading exhortation to counter Amanda’s ravings about what a wonderful love story the movie Titanic was.
The T-shirt’s reproof had served her well on more than one occasion.
Behind the line of hansom cabs lined up across the street, the haze of new green over Central Park forecast more than a promise of a lush burgeoning. It had been a mild winter with tons of rain. The buds were busting to burst forth.
Amanda felt the same way. She turned to start toward the imposing hotel and the bar at the renowned Oak Room.
He came loping across Fifth Avenue, face ablaze with delight at seeing her before he had expected. Her heart leapt into her throat and she felt a shiver of excitement. He still wore his Clark Kent horn rims. Her Superman.
“Hi.” He grabbed her and held her close.
Her heart pounded and her temples throbbed. She was limp in his enfolding arms; held securely by his powerful grasp. Her breasts pressed against the solid, sculpted, muscular frame, evident even through his suit and light overcoat. His hips snugged easily against hers. Only a few hours ago he had held her tight and then eased her away.
Now it felt as if he would never let her go.
She rested her arms tentatively on the wide shoulders sloping to envelop her. The strong musculature flexed as his possessive hands gently explored her back. Her breasts felt the expansion of his lungs as his body inhaled the scent of her hair where he had buried his face.
He pulled back and looked happily into her eyes. “I missed you.”
She had not missed him. She had a business to run. An investigation to inquire into. And besides, she knew she would see him again… always.
“D’ja find out anything?” He held her hand, proprietarily, as they strolled around the magnificent Beaux Arts marble fountain.
“Both Mr. Wilde and Nathan have the ability to have picked the locks of the office.”
“Wilde, again? And Nathan? Well you never know who’s adept at what, do you? Except we do know the guy didn’t take the time to pick the lock at your place. He was intent on getting in, even if someone were inside. Obviously a very urgent need to know something.”
Adrenaline surged through Amanda. “You don’t think he’ll come back?”
“Might.” Marc’s look was cautious. “But I doubt it. He seems to have done a pretty good search before we got there. And you two are bolted in safely now. Mr. Raymondo was very thorough.” He grinned.
She wanted to touch the crinkled eyes.
“Somebody could have picked the lock on the front door. To let somebody else in. Cissy might not have let him in at all.” Marc’s mind raced as fresh ideas clicked into place in his analytical brain. “Let’s go down by the lake. It’s hard to think with all the traffic up here.”
They quickly crossed the street and descended a granite stairway. A wide walk skirted the nearby body of water inside the park. Many other strollers were enjoying the early evening. Marc pulled Amanda to an empty bench.
“I had been thinking this Wilde thing is too pat. Too coincidental. But, maybe we should pay more attention. You say the man doesn’t need money. Then that would play into the ego thing. Most forgers have their own private agenda. He’s a big man. Physically. Michelangelo was a big man. Is he gay?”
“Michelangelo? Michelangelo forgeries? From our class?” She sat back against the chilly wood, letting the cold shock her out of her instant reaction of overwhelming excitement that someone she knew was even capable of such a thing. Who could it be? Her mind skipped eagerly about.
“Gay? Wilde? I have no earthly idea. Why? Was Michelangelo supposed to be gay, too? Is that part of the ego thing?”
“Who knows. I’m just casting about for anything else we might be able to add into the mix.” He tossed a stone into the water.
“Could I see one of the drawings?” Amanda asked. She could hardly contain her excitement. “Are they available?” Someone she knew. In her class. How amazing!
“You want to see one of the forgeries?” Marc studied her carefully. She knew the artists intimately. Knew their
