Art of Deception - Renaissance

"The second major break was when you identified Carina as the elusive forger we've been pursuing for more than a decade."

"What does she have to do with this?" I asked, though I suspected I knew the answer.

"Potentially a great deal. You see, Mr. Weber, I don't believe we recovered these two paintings by accident. I believe we were meant to find them."

"Because they're forgeries."

"Exactly. The originals have already been sold. Once the recovered paintings have been authenticated, the search for them will end, and the buyers of the originals can rest easier. I'm sure Fletcher charges his clients a hefty premium for the added peace of mind."

"Well, you'll know soon enough whether the paintings are genuine. The Tate's in-house forensic specialist is very good. I'm sure she'll get to the bottom of it."

Ratliff frowned. "I don't share your confidence. It should have been impossible to steal four paintings from the Tate. Fletcher must have been working with someone on the inside. Since I don't know who at the Tate served as his accomplice, the safest approach is to trust no one.

"That's why I want someone else to examine the paintings, too. Someone who is properly motivated."

I knew where he was heading, and I didn't like it.

"And why would I be properly motivated?" I asked.

"Chivalry! You want to protect the woman you love. And I can help you do it." He held up an index finger. "If you can prove the paintings are fake, and if you can convince Carina to testify that Fletcher had her copy them from the stolen originals."

He watched me, trying to gauge my reaction. I kept my expression neutral.

"You're familiar with the UK's Protected Persons Service?" he continued.

I nodded.

"In exchange for her testimony, Carina would be granted immunity, securely relocated, and given a new identity."

"She'd never do it. They'd go after her sister."

"As immediate family, her sister would be eligible for the same protection."

As much as I disliked Ratliff, it was a reasonable deal. In fact, it was probably Carina's best chance to secure her freedom and her sister's safety.

"Why didn't you contact me with this offer as soon as you recovered the paintings?"

"Because there are those on my team who think it's a mistake to trust you. They might be right. But then yesterday you materialized at our front door. It'd be a shame to waste such a good opportunity."

"If I were to agree," I said, "it would have to be on my own terms. No contact. No undercover tails. Carina's too smart. She'd see you coming a mile away."

Ratliff looked annoyed. "Believe it or not, Mr. Weber, we've done this type of thing before. You can reel her in. I'll be waiting with the net."

He could tell I was wavering and reached out his hand.

"Here's my card. Think it over and get back to me."

I took the card and rose to leave. As I reached the door, Ratliff called out to me.

"Mr. Weber?" He waited for me to turn to face him. "Patience may be a virtue, but it's one I lack. Don't keep me waiting on that phone call."

*******

I'd never been to the Tate. Its architecture and artwork were as breathtaking as I expected. But as I roamed the galleries with brochure and floor plan in hand, I found it hard to appreciate any of it.

The rush of excitement I'd felt after Mila and I solved the mystery of Carina's icon had vanished. It had been replaced by a deep sense of foreboding about Ratliff's offer.

Part of the reason for my apprehension was simple: I didn't like him. But it was more than that. Was I worried that he wouldn't follow through with the offer? Or was I worried that he would, and that I'd never see her again?

I set a leisurely pace through the various galleries. I had no idea what I was looking for, so I figured I could take my time not finding it.

I skimmed the "About the Tate" section of the museum's brochure as I walked and noted that it was built on the site of the former Millbank Prison. I smiled. No matter where I went, I just couldn't seem to escape the intersection of art and crime.

In a small gallery off the main hallway, I spotted a woman with red hair and a beret admiring a Henry Moore sculpture. My pulse quickened. She had the same height and build as Carina.

Keeping my distance, I circled the sculpture until I could make out her profile. It wasn't Carina.

I swallowed my disappointment and meandered toward the interior galleries, where nine separate rooms held the world's largest collection of J.M.W. Turner's paintings, watercolors, and sketches. Gorgeous seascapes and landscapes dotted the walls.

Several rooms featured a conspicuous empty space on their wall, marking the spot where a stolen painting had once been mounted. Rectangular white labels, severed from their longtime companions, were all that remained. The labels had once served as guides, describing to their readers what had been created. Now they served as epitaphs, mourning what had been lost.

The museum was clever to keep the lone labels on display. They drew almost as much attention as the artwork itself. Couples paused and stared, leaning close and whispering to each other. A young girl tugged on her mother's sleeve and pointed to a barren space on the wall. Her mother bent down and spoke softly in her ear, and I watched as the young girl's eyes widened with surprise.

Somewhere below us, two of those missing paintings were likely being examined by the Tate's forensic specialist to determine their authenticity. If I accepted Ratliff's offer, I'd get the chance to inspect them myself. And if I could prove they were forged by Carina—if I was good enough to beat her—then I might just be able to save her.

I found myself standing before The Shipwreck, one of Turner's best-known works. A harrowing scene, it depicted survivors struggling to stay afloat in small boats buffeted by the raging sea. One moment, they had been hopeful travelers. The next, they'd been plunged into cold and darkness, abandoned to the mercy of forces beyond their control.

As I studied the contrast between the inky sky and white froth of the waves, I felt a presence beside me. I glanced to my right.

A tall man in his early 60s with thin, shoulder-length blond hair stood admiring the painting. He looked the same as he had when I first met him in Carina's apartment, the day I'd discovered she was a forger.

Maxime, or Max, was Carina's business partner and closest confidante. He specialized in acquiring the rare and unique pigments, wood, and other materials that she needed to perfect her forgeries. I suspected those weren't his only skills.

Max stood with his left arm crossed and his right propping up his chin. The fingers of his right hand covered his mouth. His left hand held a brochure. He showed no indication that he noticed me.

I followed his lead and kept my eyes trained on the painting. Without looking in my direction, he spoke softly through his hand in a thick French accent. "Drop your brochure."

I leaned forward to examine the painting more closely and let the brochure I was holding slip through my fingers. I pretended I hadn't noticed.

It sawed through the air and landed near Max's feet. He picked it up and tapped my shoulder. I turned, and he handed it back to me. I knew without looking that he had switched it with his.

I thanked him and he nodded. We both went back to studying the painting. After a few minutes, he turned and walked away.

The urge to examine the brochure was almost overwhelming, but I forced myself to wait ten minutes before unfolding it. On the inner flap Max had written a time, the names of two streets, and a license plate number.

An hour later, I stood at the corner watching for the car. I scrolled through my phone as though I was waiting for an Uber. A dark blue SUV slowed to a stop and the driver rolled down his window.

"Mr. Weber?" the driver asked. I nodded and joined him in the car.

We switched cars twice. Each one had a new driver. I thought back to when Monica's crew had kidnapped me during the Renoir theft and shuttled me between vehicles. It wasn't a pleasant memory. My palms began to sweat.

When we switched to the third and final car, I was relieved to find Max was the driver. As he pulled onto the main road, I exhaled and slumped back into the seat.

"It's nice to see a familiar face," I said.

Max nodded but didn't answer.

"Where are we going?"

He tossed me what looked like a large black cloth.

"A gift for you," he said.

I unfolded the cloth and discovered it was an oversized sleep mask. Printed on the fabric was a poor reproduction of Van Gogh's Starry Night.

"Cute," I said.

"She thought you would like it. Now put it on." Max spoke with an edge to his voice.

"I really appreciate you going through all this trouble for me, Max."

"I am not doing it for you."

I realized he was sticking his neck out to help, but I found his gruff demeanor grating. "Did I do something wrong? Because I—"

"No. Put on the mask."

I strapped the mask around my face and pulled it snug. Only the dimmest of light seeped through the sides. I made a show of pressing the fabric tightly to my face. It was clear Max didn't want me to see where we were going, so I wanted to reassure him.

"Better?" I asked.

"Better. Not as ugly."

"You're hilarious."

I relaxed into the headrest. A moment later I felt Max's hand waving in front of my face.

"Stop that, please," I said.

His arm froze, then he waved again. I swatted his hand away. "Quit it."

"You can see?" he asked.

"No. But I can feel your big arm moving the air in front of my face. You're not a ninja."

"Not a what?"

"Never mind." I sighed.

"Give me your phone," he said.

"What? Why?"

"To play Angry Birds," he said, annoyed. "I need to pull the battery to disable geolocation. You will get it back later."

I held up my phone and he snatched it from my open palm.

We sat in silence for several minutes. My fingers drummed absently against the side of the door. "You want to listen to some music?"

"No."

"Great. This should be fun."

"You talk too much. Go to sleep. It will be a while."

"I'm not tired."

"Then pretend so people do not think I am kidnapping you."

Sleeping was a stupid suggestion. I'd been interrogated at Scotland Yard in the morning, played secret agent with Max in the afternoon, and now I was blindfolded in a car on my way to some secret location. The notion I could set all that aside and just doze off was so exasperating it made my head hurt.

I forced myself to take twenty slow, deep breaths to calm down. With each breath, I focused all my attention on the hypnotic hum of the tires on the pavement. By the ninth breath, I'd started to relax. By the fourteenth, my head felt better. I was out before I counted the twentieth.

*******

I awoke to the sound of tires crunching on gravel.

I opened my eyes and was confused for a moment when I couldn't see. Then I remembered the blindfold.

"Can I take this thing off yet?"

"Yes."

I pulled off the sleep mask and took in my surroundings. The gravel road cut a winding path through a broad expanse of open meadow. The setting sun streaked the sky with purple and orange, which meant we'd been driving for at least an hour. At the crest of a hill stood a large wooden house. Standing on the porch, watching our approach, was Carina.

As soon as the car stopped, she bounded off the porch and wrapped me in a tight hug. "You're here," she said, as if trying to convince herself it was true.

She wore light green overalls spattered with a kaleidoscope of paint colors. Her auburn hair was cropped into a stylish pixie cut, and her blue eyes radiated joy.

She pulled away and turned to Max. She gave him a warm smile and touched his forearm. "Thank you for bringing him."

He nodded and returned her smile.

"Someone want to tell me what's going on?" I asked. "Are you in trouble?"

"No," Carina said. "You are. We'll talk inside." She glanced at Max. "Stay for dinner? I made stew."

He shook his head. "Another time." He gave me a stern look, then returned his eyes to hers. "You will call if you need anything, yes?" he asked.

"I'll be fine. Thank you, Max." She stood on her tiptoes and kissed his cheek.

She slipped her hand through mine, and we watched Max's car pull away. When it disappeared over the hill, she pulled me across the grass, onto the porch, and through the door into a spacious kitchen.

Then her lips were on mine, hot and hungry. I pulled her close and backed her against the center island. Her breath smelled faintly of wine.

"Why am I in danger?" I asked as she continued to kiss me.

"Not now. Take off your clothes." She flashed a mischievous grin. "I need to make sure you aren't wearing a wire."

I smiled at the memory of Monica's face when she'd realized I'd not only foiled her attempted theft of the Renoir, but also recorded her confession. Carina's remark may have been playful banter, but I wondered whether it also masked a sliver of mistrust.

Carina untucked my shirt and tugged it over my head. While she fumbled with my belt, I unhooked the straps of her overalls. They fell to the hardwood floor with a metallic clunk, and she swept them aside with her leg. She lifted her arms and I peeled off her shirt.

I cupped her bare breast and closed my mouth over an erect nipple. She hissed and ran her fingers through my hair, then pulled me up into another fierce kiss, nipping my lip with her teeth. Her hand tugged at my cock while I slipped a finger between her folds.

"You're soaked."

She nodded, eyes glassy. "You kept me waiting."

I teased her for a long time until she was moaning and writhing on my hand. She pulled harder on my cock, trying to draw me closer to her opening, but I wouldn't budge.

My fingers strummed her clit faster. We locked eyes. Her mouth hung partly open, then widened into a silent scream as she crashed over the edge.

Her left leg twitched as she convulsed against my hand. Then she slumped forward and pressed her head into my shoulder. I supported her as she recovered, and when she raised her head again, her eyes had a raw intensity.

"I need you inside me. Now."

My hands cupped her ass, and I hoisted her lithe frame into the air. She wrapped her arms and legs around me for support, gasping as I entered her. I lowered her slowly, savoring the feeling of slipping inch-by-inch into her scalding depths.

With a firm thrust, I buried myself fully inside her. She kissed me hard, moaning into my mouth and grinding her hips against me, trying to force me even deeper.

I broke the kiss and used my hands to slide her along the length of my shaft. She leaned back and placed the heels of her hands on the edge of the island for support. She moved with me until we found a rhythm.

I pounded into her, watching her pert breasts dance in circles atop her chest, listening to the wet slap of our bodies joining together.

I kept a steady pace, and soon Carina's soft mews grew louder and higher pitched. When I felt her body stiffen, I knew she was almost there. So was I, but I was determined to last.

"Yes, yes, yes," she whined with each thrust. "So close."

I moved faster, sweat dripping from my brow.

Carina's eyes clenched shut and her head lolled back. "Ffffffuck ..."

I supported her weight as the waves washed over her. When she finally raised her head and met my eyes, she must have sensed my urgency, because she nodded and whispered, "Give it to me."

I slammed into her a dozen more times before clutching her hips against me and groaning my release.

Carina slid to the floor and pressed her chest to mine. My breath came in ragged gasps. She held me until it slowed, then pulled me into a long kiss.

"Work up an appetite?" she asked.

I nodded. "A little bit."

"Good. Because my stew is a work of art." She mimed an exaggerated chef's kiss.

"As humble a chef as you are a painter, I see."

She smacked my butt. "Get dressed, smartass."

The stew was excellent. I inhaled two bowls of it and tore through several hunks of bread. Carina watched me with a smile.

"Have you not eaten since you've been in the UK? We have food here, you know. Restaurants and everything."

"I've been a little busy looking for you," I said. "Speaking of which, what exactly did you mean when you said ..."

She shook her head. "I told you, not now. We're safe here. There'll be plenty of time to talk tomorrow. I promise. But tonight? Tonight is just for us. Okay?"

It was hard to say no, especially when she was sitting across from me in nothing but her overalls. The rest of her clothes were still scattered across the kitchen floor. The bare skin of her upper chest and arms was more than a little distracting.

"Okay. What exactly are we supposed to talk about?" I asked.

"I don't know. You haven't said one word about my hair."

I grinned and decided I might as well play along. "I love what you've done with your hair."

"Thank you! I just thought it was time for a change, you know?" She took a sip of wine. "That and my boyfriend gave the police photos of me to use on their wanted posters. So, you know. Changing it up."

"To change, then" I said, raising my glass.

She raised her glass and gave a wistful smile.

"Pretty fancy place for a hideout," I said.

"This is where I do most of my painting. Quiet. Secluded. Lots of natural light."

"Max come here often?" I asked, trying not to sound jealous.

"All the time. He brings me everything I need to work. Food and other staples, too. Helps me to keep a low profile."

"I don't think he likes me much," I said.

She laughed. "You really are a brilliant detective!"

"What's his problem, anyway?"

"Adam, Max has known me since I was twelve. He mentored me. Supported me. Protected me, not just from police, but from people inside the organization who probably had less-than-pure intentions for a naïve teenage girl. He's been like a father to me. Dads never like the men who date their daughters."

"Did you mention to him how I helped you out of that jam with Monica?"

She frowned. "As I recall, I helped you out of that jam, too. But yes. I tell him everything."

"And?"

She shrugged. "And now he blames you for the police being after me."

"Great."

She stood and walked over to take my plate. "He likes you. He just doesn't like to show it." She bent down and kissed me, then paused and sniffed my shirt. "Whoa. You stink."

"I haven't showered since yesterday. Then you got me all sweaty."

"Ooh, I still haven't given you the grand tour, have I? The master bath has an amazing shower." Her lips grazed my ear. "Big enough for two."

She put my plate on the island, then began walking through the great room toward a hallway on the opposite end of the house. With her back to me, she unhooked the straps of her overalls. They pooled on the floor. She stepped free of them in a single, graceful motion and continued walking.

I stood up so quickly to follow that I knocked over my chair.

*******

I woke the next morning to an empty bed and a note on my pillow.

"Morning, sleepyhead! Fresh clothes for you on the bed. I'll be outside. – C"

I dressed and made my way to the yard. I frowned when I spotted Carina under a small tree on the side of the house. She was talking to Max.

Carina waved when she saw me walking toward them. She raised a white paper bag over her head.

"Max brought breakfast! Fresh croissants."

Max took the bag from her and made his way toward the front door. We exchanged a curt nod as we passed each other.

"Didn't realize we'd be having company," I said as I reached Carina.

She gave me a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes and took my hand. "C'mon. Let's eat."