Chapter 17
Chapter
Seventeen
JO
Imake my way down the corridor, my thoughts buzzing from the discovery of the fake.
I touch my skin where Axel accidentally brushed, and it feels like it is still tingling.
I have to admit, part of me is simultaneously annoyed that his touch affects me so much and yet I am also feeling oddly alive from it.
It’s like the whole world has become brighter and more beautiful. All the colors, more vibrant.
Strange. So strange.
I reach the dining room and pause in the doorway.
Axel is already there, seated at the head of the long mahogany dining table.
He stands courteously when he sees me. The movement is fluid, confident, and my pulse hitches.
His dark jeans are snug across his thighs, and his black T-shirt clings sexily to his chest and shoulders, showing off the lean muscles beneath the fabric.
I am glad I chose to go casual too; gray jeggings and a thin, white jumper, and not the dress I almost wore.
“Jo,” he says, his voice low and dangerously gravelly. “Come with me.”
Where is he taking me? I don’t know, but I don’t hesitate to follow him. I am in this now and there’s no going back. He leads me through a set of double doors that blend so well into the paneling on the dining room wall that I hadn’t noticed them before. They open up into the conservatory.
The last of the evening sunlight pours through the glass panes that makeup both the walls and the ceiling, illuminating the room in a warm amber glow.
The floor tiles are pale cream and black marble.
Sprigs of climbing velvety green ivy cling to the metal structure fixed to the walls.
Beyond that, the gardens stretch out in perfect symmetry.
The metal figure in the middle of the fountain glints in the fading light.
To one side of the room is a generous buffet, laid out neatly on a polished oak sideboard.
There’s a selection of fresh salads. From where I’m standing, I can make out quinoa and roasted vegetables, arugula and cherry tomatoes, and beetroot and goat’s cheese.
A plate of charcuterie meats and cheeses sits beside a basket of artisan breads.
There are also seven lidded silver containers holding hot food.
Little glass bowls hold olives, nuts, and dried fruits, and there’s a chilled bottle of sparkling water on ice alongside two glasses that are so well chilled they have condensation on them.
Even here, in the quiet of the conservatory, the presentation is quite splendid.
Maybe I should let the chef make my dinner more often if this is anything to go by. Axel gestures to the spread.
“I asked the Chef to set us up here because we might be overheard in the dining room. I don’t want to alert anyone else to the fact that we’ve found a problem yet. Let’s keep this between the two of us until we figure it out.”
I nod, appreciating the privacy. “Agreed.”
He fills a plate, and I do the same. I choose a selection of salads, a slice of bread, some Serrano ham, and a couple of slices of cheese.
I find it impossible to even think of eating any of the hot dishes.
The scent of the food is subtle but grounding, and I feel myself beginning to calm down. We can do this. We can work this out.
We settle into wicker chairs across from each other, a low coffee table between us. The incoming light casts a honeyed glow across Axel’s features. He looks calm, and yet there’s an intensity in his eyes that makes me aware of my own pulse again. He pours water into the two glasses.
“So,” he says, taking a bite from a succulent, charcoal-seared, jumbo prawn. “Is this an inside job?”
“I think so,” I reply, trying to keep my voice neutral.
He leans back, his eyes narrowing as he considers me. “The painting came straight from the dealer into the vault. No one else outside of the household should have had access.”
“Right.”
“So, we figure out who did this by going through who could have accessed it.”
“It’s a good starting point,” I say with a nod, reaching for some bread. “Let’s make a list.”
Axel nods and gets up and goes to the sideboard, where he opens one of the drawers and rummages inside. He comes back to his seat with a notepad and a pencil. He offers them to me, and I take them.
We pause for a moment, and then I start.
“Sheldon? He would have access.” I wince guiltily as I say it.
Axel shakes his head. “Yes, he has access. But it’s not him.
He’s got money of his own, and he’s never wanted for anything.
If he wanted it, he got it, no questions asked.
All he had to do was ask. Joseph was generous with his family.
That’s why the will was such a shock to all of us.
I know for a fact that over the years, many millions have flowed into Sheldon’s account.
He would never need to do anything like this. ”
“What about Lydia?” I ask hesitantly.
“Also out,” he says, leaning forward to pick up his glass.
He takes a sip and then goes on. “She has plenty of money already. She doesn’t have access to the vault.
Plus, I’d be surprised if she had any idea where to commission someone both good enough at art and discreet enough to make the fake and keep it quiet. ”
I jot both Sheldon’s and Lydia’s names down in my notebook and then write the reasons why we are ruling them out.
“What about Gavin? I’m sure his salary is astronomical, but it won’t be anything like the money he could make selling that painting. And he seems like a man who has connections in every sphere of life.”
Axel doesn’t even consider Gavin. He shakes his head immediately. “He’s never been alone in the house, and certainly not in the vault. It can’t be him. Also, his biometric ID was only added to the vault just before Joseph died.”
I frown. “One of the staff? Maybe a couple of them in it together? They would have pretty much a free run of the place.”
“It’s highly unlikely,” he says, his tone firm. “Even if they managed to pull off stealing the painting, again they’d need serious contacts in the art world to make this worth it. They don’t have that. And the risk is enormous.”
I chew a bite of ham thoughtfully, trying to anticipate every angle. “You had access and contacts in the art world,” I point out.
“As do you,” Axel says, his mouth curling up in amusement. “But you had no idea your father owned that painting, and you haven’t had time to pull something like this off since you arrived here.”
“And you knew my father was planning to ask me to restore the collection when he requested that I come here before he died. You wouldn’t have been careless enough to leave that fake for me to find.”
“Correct,” Axel says. “So, I think that rules us out.”
I still jot down our names and our reasons for being ruled out. Axel watches me in amusement.
“What? I’m being thorough,” I say, and he just smiles and shakes his head.
“Who does that leave?” I ask.
“A few of your father’s trusted friends have been known to stay over after a late night here. They would have been able to get access to the vault, and they would have contacts that could move something like that.”
“But if he trusted them, doesn’t that rule them out?”
Axel shakes his head. “Anyone who had access to the collection must be investigated. No one gets a free pass.”
“Ok, fair point,” I say. “So, we start investigating the friends. Who are they?”
Axel gives me a couple of names that I don’t recognize, and I jot them down with question marks beside them.
“But we don’t know which one is most likely yet. I’ll do some digging,” Axel says. “Your father used a private investigator a lot. Maybe I’ll give him a call.”
I take a sip of my sparkling water, trying not to get lost in the way the sunlight catches on his cheekbones.
“So, in short,” I say, leaning forward. “Everyone we might have thought could do it is ruled out for motive, opportunity, or both, except these friends. But we don’t know which one is the most likely suspect.”
“Exactly,” he says. His voice is calm, but there’s an undercurrent of something, focus maybe, maybe something else, that makes me swallow hard.
“Before I involve the PI, I’ll start working through my contacts in the art world, see who might have moved the original, or commissioned the fake one. We’ll figure it out.”
“Meanwhile, I’ll start examining the other paintings, and check for more inconsistencies. There might be something we missed.”
He glances at me, and I feel my stomach twist deliciously. The way he looks at me is not cold, not dismissive. There’s recognition, almost an acknowledgment that I can hold my own in this. My pulse hitches.
“You’re good,” he says finally, his tone still clipped but approving. “Better than most people I’d trust with this, but don’t let that go to your head.”
I roll my eyes, and there’s the barest twitch of a smile at the corner of his mouth.
We sit in silence for a moment, eating quietly, the tension between us shifting and crackling in that way that makes me acutely aware of him, the warmth of his proximity, the faint scent of his cologne mixed with something woodsy, the way his shoulders fill the chair, the way his fingers tap the side of his plate almost absentmindedly.
I can’t help the flutter in my chest as I sneak glances at Axel, at the new closeness between us, at the unspoken understanding between us.
There’s a lot I don’t know about him, a lot I’m probably not supposed to know yet, but for this moment, we are a team.
And beneath the strategic, methodical conversation about forgery and theft, the air between us hums with something else.
Something unspoken. Something dangerous. And I won’t lie. I like it.