Chapter 6
CHAPTER
SIX
Who knew Operation Sawyer would involve espionage?
Brooke caught Dean’s signal from the top of the stairs. Sawyer was tucked away in his studio, muttering about needing to paint a million paintings. It was the perfect time to scope out this Anderson woman’s gallery incognito, to see if she checked out.
“Are we wearing all black for our surveillance?” Dean whispered as he came down the last of the steps in the foyer where she, Madison, and Kyle were standing. “Lucky for Madison, she’s already dressed for a quick run into enemy territory.”
“Shut it, Dean,” Madison shot back, dark circles under her eyes from all her recent stress. “Going all cat burglar seems excessive. It’s Sunday night. The gallery isn’t open. We’re just going to take a look.”
“But it would be so much more fun if we do it all in black.” Dean’s playful waggle of the brows had Brooke chuckling. “Too bad my Lady Jacs wasn’t interested in our little surveillance jaunt.”
“Or Axel.” Brooke did a dragon breath as she recalled his stoic response. “He only kissed my forehead and told me not to get arrested.”
“We should go, then,” Kyle noted, shrugging on his coat while everyone else followed suit. “This won’t take long. As Madison said, the gallery is closed.”
Dean danced to the door like the class clown he was. “Should we bring a flashlight?”
She playfully socked him in the arm. “It’ll look like we’re casing the joint. That’s asking for someone to call the police on us. Given how much the French love art, I’m guessing you could be arrested for even thinking of stealing it.”
“God, I love this country,” Dean stated, throwing his scarf over his shoulder. “Okay, Pink Panther, here we come.”
That had everyone chuckling as they let themselves out of the house into the frigid night. When they reached the street, she took the lead and turned right. She knew exactly where the gallery was.
After dinner, she’d slipped off with Madison to look up Phoebe Anderson.
No one was stalking their Sawyer. Except her social media was stylish and filled with the kind of events any person in the arts would respect.
She had impressive degrees and a polished résumé.
Nothing seemed off. No lurid affairs. Professional.
Yes, she had a bold look, but it worked for her. The New York black she’d worn at the Doray had leeched her—something it did to a lot of women, herself included. Her conclusion: if women were supposed to only wear black, the world wouldn’t be in color.
“Did I mention how much I love that we’re doing this?” Dean’s glee was charming. “I’ve always wanted friends who would go to great lengths for me.”
“Well, here we are.” Madison stepped into the street, devoid of cars. “In all our protective glory.”
“Tell me you brought your cleaver, Madison,” Dean begged, making her give a reluctant chuckle.
Brooke was laughing softly herself as she watched Kyle leave the sidewalk and cross to Madison’s side, as if he wanted to keep close to her. Protective? Yes. But it felt more than that. She took a moment to study them, Madison in her usual black and Kyle wearing his new wine-colored wool coat.
She couldn’t take her gaze away from how well they fit together. Sometimes it was like looking at a couple and not two of her roommates.
Everyone in the house knew they were into each other. Everyone also understood why they were fighting their connection.
This was their family. What happened to everyone if they blew up their friendship? Nanine had set her no-fraternization rule all those years ago for a reason. Sex could mess things up.
Only it was more than attraction between them…
She turned at the next right and told herself to focus on Operation Sawyer. Madison had enough on her hands with the opening, and Kyle could take care of himself. If they wanted her help for anything, she was there.
Wasn’t checking on a woman at nearly midnight proof of that?
She was the first to reach the gallery tucked into the curve of the narrow street known for its art galleries.
Call her sentimental, but there was a palpable reverence here.
Other streets in Paris known for fashion had a more excitable energy—even after the stores went dark, prized masterpieces like unique boots, handbags, or that special dress would shine like beacons in the moonlit storefronts.
It was like patrons had left a sliver of their shopping joy in those streets.
But here…a sanctified silence soothed her usually busy soul.
Her steps slowed as she took a deep breath in the cold night. Phoebe had chosen the location well.
“The sign is classy,” Kyle noted as he tipped his head toward the front of the gallery. “Same as the one in London. Good branding.”
“The font choice screams tradition and legacy,” Brooke filled in, “although Ivy Anderson didn’t open her gallery until 1989.”
Dean stepped to the glass and peered inside. “The streetlight isn’t bright enough, but I think there are paintings on the walls.”
“There are,” a woman’s voice suddenly called out in the quiet night.
Brooke looked up. Phoebe Anderson was hanging out of the second-story window, her hair a deep mahogany because of the muted light.
Shit. “Good to know. I’m Brooke Adams, and these are the rest of my friends.
We’re helping Dr. Sawyer Jackson, whom I understand you met today.
We decided to take a look at all of the galleries that have gotten in touch. Yours is our last stop tonight.”
“Nice one,” Dean muttered under his breath as he punched up a smile and waved. “She would live above the gallery.”
“Hey, Phoebe,” Madison called, rocking back in her combat boots. “Good to see you again. I understand you found your way into the restaurant Friday night. How was it?”
“Splendid. As good as any Michelin-starred restaurant I’ve supped at. Why don’t I come down?”
“No need.” Kyle lifted his hand. “It’s cold out. Like Brooke said, we were only doing a walk by—”
“No, I’m coming down.” She eased back through the window, her hair trailing like dark ribbons against the shadowed stone facade.
Dean winced. “I told you we should have worn all black.”
“Wouldn’t have mattered,” Madison told them. “Her window was open. Only I didn’t know it was hers.”
Leave it to Madison to have noticed a detail like that.
“No, this is good.” Kyle’s smile was all business now. “We didn’t plan on meeting her, but now we get to size her up in person. Because online she’s hard to read.”
“Not everyone overshares on social media, Kyle,” Madison said gruffly. “Also, Brooke, you sure know how to tell a cover story. I could have used you when I was sneaking out in high school. My old man always saw through me when he happened to be around.”
“Years of practice in fashion, darling,” she exaggerated in a posh tone. “Now, who’s talking here? She’s going to arrive any sec.”
“Kyle seems to be our chosen leader as head of The Paris Roommates Group,” Dean suggested.
“Brooke knows art better,” Kyle noted. “I defer to her.”
“If you two don’t decide, I’m talking.” Madison set her weight. “And you know what I’m going to talk about.”
Her trusty cleaver. “Fine. I’ll do it,” Brooke said. “But let’s agree to keep this short.”
They heard an exterior door click a few yards away, and then Phoebe Anderson was walking toward them in a lime green coat with a hot pink bandeau covering her ears. Again, bold but stylish. Down to her purple Balenciaga ankle boots.
“I’m sorry we disturbed you,” Brooke said smoothly as Phoebe reached them. “You really didn’t need to come down.”
“Of course I did.” She chuckled, the sound one of profound amusement that had Brooke liking her. “Not like you were interrupting anything. I was only watching The Thomas Crown Affair, the Pierce Brosnan version, for the millionth time.”
“I love that movie,” Dean added, flashing a brilliant smile. “A bored billionaire and a brilliant art caper. Plus, Rene Russo! Every woman should have that see-through black dress.”
Brooke socked him. “Please forget he said that.”
“Why?” She laughed boldly. “I agree. It’s a fabulous dress. But that’s not why we’re freezing on the sidewalk. I’m Phoebe, and you’re Brooke Adams, Dean Harris, and Kyle Taylor. Chef Garcia and I have met. Enchantée.”
Everyone murmured the greeting except Madison.
Phoebe stopped in front of them. “I’ve read about you—The Paris Roommates Group. You’re a tight circle of friends beyond the biz. Something I admire. If some crazy person had stalked one of my friends—art notwithstanding—I’d be checking them out.”
Brooke nodded. “I’m glad we don’t have to pussyfoot around it. We are protective. We also do our due diligence. We’d have come here even if you hadn’t tracked Sawyer down along the Seine.”
Phoebe hunched her shoulders, her breath visible in the cold.
“Can we talk inside? I’m freezing, and when I’m being interrogated, I prefer for it to happen the French way.
With a drink. You did want to see inside the gallery, yes?
Why waste time? I’m sure you have a long list of interested parties, and I do some of my best work at night and under pressure. Like Madison, I imagine.”
“Phoebe, you don’t want to engage with me,” Madison responded, making Brooke want to groan. “I’m no fan of stalkers. I don’t care if it was for art. As a woman, I’d think you’d know better.”
Phoebe halted in front of the gallery’s glass door.
“I do, but Sawyer is a guy, not a woman. I didn’t plan on us going out.
But I found him so compelling, and I honor those rare moments when you feel something unexpected for someone.
Besides, if you knew how powerful it is to be liked by someone for just being yourself.
You have no idea how many people, men especially, have cozied up to me hoping to get to my parents or further their art career. ”