Chapter 13 A Daring Proposition
A Daring Proposition
“Shoot,” Lucia muttered, shaking her fingers as she turned on the faucet and held them under the cool liquid, entranced by the rivulets of water running down her stinging skin. How fitting she’d burn herself. The universe must be laughing.
She’d meant to hide the portrait, but it had slipped her mind, as so many things did these days. Infuriating.
Everything had started so well—or had it, considering Penelope’s research and her suspicions?
With a sigh, she turned off the water, picked up the two mugs and headed toward the bedroom. Not exactly the situation she’d imagined when putting Penelope and bedroom together.
“Here you go.” She handed Penelope her cup.
“Thanks. Are you all right? I heard the commotion and your little curse.”
“Yeah, I’m fine. Splashed some boiling water over my fingers. No biggie.” She sat on the bed. “Little curse? What qualifies as a big one?”
“Definitely not shoot.”
“Noted.”
They sat in silence for a moment, the only sound the ticking clock on the nightstand—a remnant of Annie Walker, the cottage’s previous owner. She’d left Lucia the house for the groceries and long porch chats, as if that had been a hardship.
“So, you wanted to explain,” Penelope said, sipping her tea.
“Not really. You said I should.”
“Semantics.”
Lucia chuckled. “You’re funny.”
“And you’re stalling.”
“Can you blame me?”
“Look, you don’t have to explain anything. I can also just leave and—”
“No! Please…stay.” Lucia’s gaze dropped to the dark liquid in her cup before looking up again. “You’re not by any chance wearing a wire, are you?”
“What?”
“You know, entrapment and all.”
“How would that be entrapment? I’m not law enforcement.”
“You could be working with them.”
“I’m not. And again, I’m not coercing or tricking you into breaking the law. You did that on your own.”
“I painted pictures.”
“Pictures that end up where? In museums? On black markets?”
Lucia shrugged. “Depends.”
Penelope glared at her.
“It’s a long story.”
“I have time.”
“Right,” Lucia said. “I told you I didn’t know my parents and went through foster care until I ran away.”
“Yes.”
“I wasn’t on the streets for too long before I stumbled upon my Italian friend. She saved me, in so many ways, though she’d not say it like that.” A soft smile formed on Lucia’s lips. “We are…a sort of collective dealing in art.”
“The criminal way.”
“So you say.”
“I’m not wearing a wire, Lucia! What? Do you want me to strip naked?”
Lucia coughed, almost spitting out the sip she’d just taken.
Penelope blushed, her gaze finding the floor. “You know what I mean.”
“Yes, well.” Lucia cleared her throat. “We soon discovered that I have a knack for…imitation and we took advantage of that.”
“One way of putting it.”
“What about you?”
“Me? What about me?” Penelope placed her cup on the nightstand.
“What do you want? You could have told your boss or even gone to the police.”
“And say what? The Alessi and Bellini pieces taste the same and even though our five-million-dollar lab confirmed the Bellini as the real deal, I’m not so sure, and oh, yes, I know who really painted them?”
“That’s it?” Lucia swallowed hard against the sharp stab of disappointment.
“That’s what?” Penelope crossed her arms.
“That’s all that’s keeping you from ratting me out?”
Penelope clenched her jaw. “It’s complicated.”
“Isn’t it always?”
“I…I have my own job to finish, and…” Penelope bit her lower lip.
Lucia’s gaze tracked the movement, and heat rushed through her. She’d almost kissed those lips. Despite everything, she still longed to lose herself in Penelope.
“What I want—what I want to do… It involves your world.”
“Your father?”
Penelope stiffened, and the air between them shifted. “What do you know about him?”
“What you told me, but also that he’s in prison. Since he worked in the art world, it’s safe to assume it’s connected.”
“So, pure deduction? No insider knowledge?”
“A little of both.”
“I see.”
“We keep saying that, but all we’ve done is assume, no? So do we really see?”
“Am I your mark? Is that the correct term? Did you show up at the lecture to what? Manipulate me?” Penelope’s voice sounded brittle.
Lucia suppressed the impulse to reach out. Shame spread through her, hot and heavy. “As you said, it’s complicated. Some of my secrets aren’t mine to tell. For the most part, we were interested in your ability to spot fakes. I’m not sure that’s the same as manipulating you.”
“It is when you flirt with me under false pretenses, because you want to…I don’t know. Unbalance me so I lose focus at work.”
“I doubt that’s possible. But no. My interest in you is genuine.” She paused. “Even now.”
Penelope flushed and averted her gaze. “That’s obviously over.”
Lucia leaned forward, her pulse thudding in her ears. “Is it?”
“How can it not be? With everything standing between us now.” She shook her head.
“It seems you want us to be on the same side, though.”
Penelope jumped up, her voice rising. “No! I don’t want to be a part of your—your whole criminal thing!” She waved a hand, as if catching herself. “Empire, whatever.”
“It’s hardly an empire. Also, not mine.”
“Does that matter? You’re still breaking the law.”
“You’ve never done that? Not even a speeding ticket?”
“Why do you keep making these ridiculous comparisons that don’t hold up?”
“All right.” Lucia sighed, standing, too and taking a step closer. “What do you want, Penelope Blackwell?”
Penelope’s breathing hitched. “Justice.”
“For your father?”
“Yes.”
“And you think I can help? After everything?”
“You. Your…collective. Your Italian friend.”
“I’d have to talk to her, and she might not be up for it. She’s not the most trusting person.”
“But she trusts you?”
“Yes.”
“And do you trust me?”
Silence once more settled between them.
“Yes.”
Something in Penelope’s posture relaxed, as if she’d braced for a different answer. “Will you help me?”
“Yes.”
~ ~ ~
After Penelope left, Lucia rushed back home. A part of her had wanted to invite Penelope over earlier, to have the conversation here in a much more comfortable space. Thankfully, she’d resisted that insanity.
Now she was liable to pace a hole in her floors.
The house was quiet except for the soft hum of the old refrigerator and the occasional groan of settling wood. Outside, cicadas buzzed under the heavy afternoon air.
Francesca would murder her, and Skye would stand laughing over her charred corpse. Morbid much?
She’d been going back and forth on how to best approach this, how to prevent Francesca from losing her temper—and there simply wasn’t a way.
Francesca was always an intense person, but with the Madonna on the line and Varnelli lurking, this was a powder keg, and Lucia was about to toss a lit match onto it.
She must have lost her mind.
On the other hand, having an insider like Penelope on their side would be huge (a game changer, really), all but guaranteeing their success.
And it would make it easier to learn about the Meridian’s protocols.
More than that, Penelope would know what was at stake and could make sure the Madonna stayed in the Conservation Lab.
Maybe she could sell that to Francesca?
Lucia halted and took out her phone, her finger hovering over Francesca’s number for a beat. This could get so ugly, but in a strange way, she felt she owed both women the truth, and her best effort.
She pressed dial.
“Yes?”
“Can I come over? We need to talk.”
“I’m home for another two hours, so come right away.”
“On my way.”
And with that, Lucia headed for the car.
No time like the present, they said. She’d find out if that was true.
Thirty minutes later, Lucia slammed her car door shut and strode up the walkway to Francesca’s villa. Heat radiated from the pavement, but her palms were ice-cold.
Her hand shook as she rang the doorbell.
“Come inside and make yourself comfortable. I’ll be right with you.” Francesca ushered her inside before disappearing into her office.
Lucia sat down, her left leg rattling up and down as she chewed on her lower lip. The leather of the chair stuck to the backs of her thighs, amplifying her discomfort.
She stared at the wall across from her, but instead of the immaculate order of Francesca’s living room—white walls, sharp lines, a single abstract painting hung with military precision, the faint scent of espresso clinging to the air—all she saw was Penelope’s face in the soft studio light, wary yet still curious.
Five minutes passed, each one stretching to fill the space of five hours in Lucia’s head—until Francesca joined her.
“What’s up?” She sat in her usual chair.
At first, Lucia only looked at her.
“Lucy? Are you all right? Did something happen?”
“I’m fine. I just…You told me to get closer to Blackwell, and I have, but—”
“What? Skye’s right and you’ve developed a crush?” She waved her off. “That’ll pass again. Just do your job.”
Lucia cleared her throat, avoiding Francesca’s gaze. “No. I meant, I tried to get her to trust me and all that.” A lie, well, at least regarding motivation.
“That’s good. What’s the problem?”
“She knows.”
Francesca’s eyes narrowed. “Knows what?”
“About me, that I painted the Bellini and Alessi.”
“Excuse me? How? Don’t tell me you’ve told her!”
“Of course not. But I also…I didn’t deny it. I mean, she knew. Like she tastes colors or something and she said she knew. She even knew about the Santini!”
Francesca shook her head. “That makes no sense. Even if she has some sort of art synesthesia, wouldn’t that mean she only knew the same artist created all those pieces, not that it’s you?”
Lucia ducked her head. Her heart banged against her ribs, hard and unsteady.
“Lucy, what did you do?”
“I may have invited her to my art studio,” Lucia blurted out in one breath.
Silence.
Lucia shifted, her thumb running along her fingertips.
Francesca blinked. “You did what?” she all but shouted.