Forty-eight
Peter buckled the belt across his lap just as Mertons had shown him.
Cam twisted the key and the car roared to life.
Even in the shadows of the evening she looked beautiful, and he burned with pride, lust, and a terrified gratitude that for however long he could allow himself to stay, she would be with him.
As she busied herself with the handling of the carriage, something behind him caught his eye.
A warmth came over him as he realized it was the portrait he’d done of her.
“How…?”
“Mertons,” she said inexplicably.
He damned the man silently. He’d asked Mertons to dispose of it and instead he’d given it to her.
“He wanted me to convince you to go back. I was going to return it. Never quite got around to it.” She gave him a lopsided smile, but the lights of a passing car showed lines around her eyes that hadn’t been there a few minutes earlier.
“What is it?” He laid a tentative hand on her wrist. He knew it was the call. She’d laughed it off, but something in her had changed.
“Nothing, it’s…I’m sure it’s nothing.” She pushed the rudder into place and turned the wheel, and the car sailed into traffic.
“Tell me.”
The beacon turned from yellow to red. The car slowed and stopped. Cam pulled a lever until it squealed and touched her lashes with a finger.
“It’s the Van Dyck,” she said. “But it just doesn’t make any sense.”
Peter felt a trace of foreboding. “The painting from Ball?”
“Yes. My boss just called. He says it’s not a Van Dyck.”
Peter’s heart thudded in his chest. “Turn around. I need to return to my rooms.”
* * *
Peter flung open the door and hit the switch for the light. In two strides he was at the desk. But his hopes sank as he flipped to the back of the sketchbook. The letter from Anthony Van Dyck was gone.