Forged in Deception

Chapter 1 Misapplied Talent

Misapplied Talent

The heat clung to Lucia like a second skin as she headed toward Atlanta’s Meridian Museum of Art to listen to a presentation about art authentication and the challenges of identifying forgeries.

The late afternoon sun baked the sidewalk, and the humid July air made her regret the dark jeans she’d worn.

She couldn’t believe she’d let Francesca talk her into this, yet here she was.

Inside, she headed straight for one of their lecture rooms, picking a seat in the back that offered a good view of the podium. Her bag, the portfolio binder tucked inside, went on the floor beside her.

The air smelled faintly chemical—of cleaner or floor polish, maybe—and the hall hummed with quiet conversation and the soft scrape of chairs. The room filled quickly, and ten minutes later, the lights dimmed.

A woman strode toward the podium with sure steps, smiling as the soft clack of her heels echoed on the wooden floor, and placed her hands on the lectern.

“Welcome, my fellow art enthusiasts. I’m Doctor Penelope Blackwell, and I hope you’ll enjoy tonight’s session: ‘The Fine Line: Identifying Forgeries in the Art World.’”

Lucia let out a slow breath and shifted in her seat.

While she’d researched biographical information on her target, she’d never bothered with a picture.

Maybe if she had, Blackwell’s face—with its near-perfect symmetry that made Lucia’s fingers itch for her paints and canvas—wouldn’t be so distracting.

“Why should we care about forgeries?” Blackwell’s gaze swept the room. “I once had a student who asked, ‘Why bother? Shouldn’t we be happy people can create art rivaling the greats? Isn’t that talent, too? More art for the masses,’ he’d said.”

Blackwell was beautiful, with striking dark eyes, long black hair swept into an elegant twist, and pale skin that seemed almost luminous under the harsh auditorium lights.

She had the kind of face that didn’t just photograph well but demanded to be painted.

But it wasn’t just her appearance—it was the way she spoke, with a calm, certain, effortless command of the room.

She held Lucia’s interest from the introduction with her rare take on forgeries, even if she clearly disagreed with her erstwhile student.

“Forgeries destabilize more than collections. They undermine trust, finances, and even nations’ claims to their heritage. Some of you may recall the recent scandals that pushed many museums to reauthenticate their holdings,” Blackwell continued.

Lucia repositioned herself.

“Now, let us take a closer look…”

After the thirty-minute talk, followed by a fifteen-minute Q&A, the crowd loosened and thinned. Some dawdled, hovering nearby to talk to Blackwell one-on-one, much like Lucia had planned. She wanted to be last.

To pass the time, she lingered near the artwork on display, feigning casual interest.

Even the Meridian’s lecture rooms featured art: an intricate Italian marble sculpture Francesca would have appreciated, and an oil painting of a raging sea, so vivid in its execution, it made Lucia shiver.

She imagined the cold spray, the roar of unseen waves just beyond the canvas edge.

Lucia studied them between shooting glances toward Blackwell, waiting for her moment to approach.

When it came, she found herself oddly tongue-tied, gripping her bag as she halted in front of the lectern.

“May I help you?” Blackwell asked when Lucia simply stood there, staring.

Heat bloomed in Lucia’s cheeks. She cleared her throat.

“Yes, uh. I really enjoyed your lecture. It was…different.”

Blackwell tilted her head.

“In a good way,” Lucia added quickly. “You spoke about forgery as if it’s an art in itself.”

Blackwell frowned slightly. “I wouldn’t go that far, but yes. There is skill involved. Misapplied, but skill nonetheless.”

“Right. Yes. Anyway…” Lucia forced herself to focus.

“My name is Lucia Rossi. I’m an art restorer and consultant for private collectors.

A client of mine recently acquired a painting rumored to be from Benedetto Alessi’s lost collection, but there’s no provenance.

It could be an incredible discovery, or a brilliant fake. ”

Blackwell’s gaze sharpened with what looked like interest. “I see.”

“Before they commit to a full report, I suggested it wouldn’t hurt to consult an expert. Off the record, of course.”

Blackwell studied her for a moment, as if assessing something beyond Lucia’s words, then finally nodded. “As long as you understand this is a preliminary assessment, not an official statement.”

“Of course.” Lucia unzipped her bag and pulled out a leather-bound portfolio nested between protective foam sheets, carefully removing a small, aged canvas before handing it over. “There’s no title,” she added. “It was found without additional documentation.”

Blackwell scanned the painting. “You’re lucky. Alessi is one of my favorites.”

Lucia held back a smile. Indeed. That was the point.

“At first glance, it’s well made, but I’d bet it’s a fake.” Blackwell trailed a finger over the canvas. “The aging looks correct, though I’d need a more thorough analysis to be sure, considering forgers know how to fake that, too.”

Lucia stepped closer, her thoughts faltering when she caught a whiff of Blackwell’s perfume, a subtle, soft scent she couldn’t place but that made her want to lean in closer. “What gives it away?”

Blackwell met her gaze.

“I mean, how do you know it’s not real? It looks quite authentic to me.”

Tilting the canvas toward the light, Blackwell gestured near the figure’s sleeve. “Alessi’s known works have a more controlled, deliberate stroke, especially in how he painted folds of fabric.

“This is close, but here, see this flourish? It’s looser, more instinctual. Almost like the artist wasn’t copying Alessi so much as…channeling him.”

“Channeling?” Lucia asked, unmoving.

“Yes. The best forgers make the worst artists, in a way.”

Lucia’s eyebrows rose. “Excuse me?”

Blackwell chuckled. “To replicate a painting perfectly, the artist must disappear. Nothing, no personal style, no creative instincts, can creep in. But this one?” She tapped her fingernail lightly near the painted fabric. “It’s ambitious.”

“Because it’s not just a replica but a new painting in the artist’s style?”

“Exactly. It’s far easier to copy an existing piece than to create something from scratch and claim it’s a long-lost discovery.

” Blackwell’s gaze lingered on the painting, something like admiration flickering behind her scrutiny.

“But the irony is, a convincing forgery has to lack something…a soul, I suppose.”

Lucia’s stomach tightened. What did Blackwell see? “And this one doesn’t?”

“No. That’s what makes it fascinating. Whoever did this, they are too talented to forge.”

Lucia didn’t know what to make of such a strange blend of compliment and insult, though it caused a surge of pride to shoot through her, which she immediately quashed. This was only the first test.

Next came what counted: the Bellini. Lucia needed to make Blackwell believe it was real. The Collective needed this in.

Lucia shook her head. “If I may, I have one more painting to show you. It’s not new, more of a lost piece another one of my clients discovered in the estate of his late uncle.”

“You’ve got quite the illustrious clientele, Ms. Rossi.”

“I’ve been in the business for a while.”

Blackwell laughed. “Really? When did you start, grade school?”

“Good genes,” Lucia said. “Melanin helps, too.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

“I’m thirty-three. Not exactly a spring chicken.”

“Agree to disagree. The painting?” Blackwell arched an eyebrow.

Lucia stifled a curse. “Oh, yes, of course.” Why couldn’t Blackwell be a boring old man?

She dug back into her portfolio and pulled out another, similar-sized canvas, this one secured in its own cloth wrap and slid into a custom sleeve.

Blackwell gasped, pulling the canvas closer.

Lucia stiffened. This was it. If Blackwell saw through this, they—

“Is this…Matteo Bellini’s Lament for the Evening Star? It’s been lost for over a hundred years! Most scholars believed it was destroyed when Austro-Hungarian forces raided the Bellini estate during their occupation late in World War I.”

“Yes.” Lucia swallowed her sigh of relief. So far, so good.

Blackwell’s gaze locked onto the painting of a lone woman looking toward the horizon at twilight, bathed in fading light.

Lucia had fallen in love with this painting and Bellini’s work when she was a teenager, and for a while, she’d lived and breathed Bellini.

The image still moved her: the brushwork soft but precise, the light breaking around the figure’s silhouette in golden smudges, the sorrow woven into the pose so vivid, it felt personal.

While it wasn’t easy to create a painting that only existed in pictures, Lucia considered this her best work, and she’d slaved endless hours on it. It had to fool Blackwell, or their hill got even steeper.

After minutes ticked by without a verdict, Lucia shifted. “What do you think?”

“This could be real. Again, we’d need a closer analysis than what I can offer here, but so far, I can’t detect anything hinting at it being a forgery.”

Lucia’s pulse kicked up. She barely stopped herself from preening, but warmth curled deep inside her. “My client will be pleased to hear that.” Francesca would love this. They had expected much less cooperation.

“Any chance he wants to donate it to the Meridian?”

“Doubtful.”

“A loan perhaps?”

Lucia’s lips twitched. “I could ask and let you know.”

“I’d love that.” Blackwell smiled.

For a second, Lucia almost forgot to breathe. How she wished they’d met under different circumstances.

“Would you like me to keep the paintings for a deeper analysis?”

“Oh, yes. You never know. Maybe the Alessi is from another era and his style had changed a little. Or he’d experimented.” Lucia returned the canvases into the portfolio and handed it over.

“Thank you. Anything is possible, but I wouldn’t recommend getting your client’s hopes up.”

“I’d never.”

Blackwell rummaged in her briefcase and pulled out a business card, flipping it between her fingers, gazing at Lucia for a moment.

“This is… I don’t usually do this.” She looked around, picking up a pen from the lectern and scribbling something on the back—her script ornate, beautiful.

She handed it to Lucia. “Give me a call.” Blackwell paused. “That’s my cell on the back.”

“Oh, OK. Thank you.” Lucia grasped the card.

“It was nice meeting you, Ms. Rossi.” Blackwell smiled again, packing up her remaining belongings before giving Lucia a small wave and heading out of the room.

She was left standing there, feeling almost lightheaded, Blackwell’s card still stuck between her fingers. This had both worked better than expected and not gone according to plan at all. She’d made an impression on Blackwell, though probably not for the right reasons.

Lucia straightened. She couldn’t afford to get sidetracked.

This wasn’t flirtation. It was a mission, and it had only just begun.