Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 83881 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 419(@200wpm)___ 336(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83881 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 419(@200wpm)___ 336(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
Or perhaps, both.
I set down my glass and found his eyes on me. Intense, golden, and suddenly serious.
“You were in foster homes all your life,” he said.
“Yes.”
He studied me, his gaze dark. “Is there anyone I need to pay a visit to for retribution?”
I was startled but shook my head. “No. I was never abused like some kids. I was just ignored. Overlooked all the time. It’s lonely growing up that way. Never belonging. Looking for a place.”
“You have no family.”
“No.”
He looked away, serious and strong. “Well, you belong right here. With me.”
I had no idea how to respond, so I stayed silent. His words did something to me, though. Lit a small fire within me that healed a little piece of my heart.
“Carolina once told me you were a silent partner in her dad’s firm.”
“I am. I was his first investor. He lost all my money. I gave him more. He learned and grew, and he holds a large chunk of my wealth. He is brilliant with numbers. I make sure his company always has the cash reserves he needs to take the risks that his clients need him to take to make them money.”
“Wow,” was all I could say.
He shrugged. “He’s my brother.”
The silence fell again, and he turned to me.
“I’m a thief,” he said shortly.
“Pardon me?”
“I own art galleries. I do appraisals. I know a lot about art. I’m also a thief.”
I was shocked. “You steal the art you sell?”
He poured us some more wine and shook his head. “No. I won’t go into a great deal of depth, but—” he swirled the wine in his glass “—you should know the man you’re involved with.”
His words gave me another thrill, but I only nodded.
“I was a bit of a troublemaker when I was young. I had light fingers and a knack for breaking in to anything locked. I loved a challenge. I got into some trouble, and my mother put a stop to my foray into the criminal world. She sent me here to visit my aunt and uncle. My uncle was a collector, and I became obsessed with art. Paintings, sculptures, any medium. I loved it all. The masters, new artists. Everything in between. He taught me everything he knew. I studied art. I lived and breathed it. I went to university and then spent two years traipsing around Europe, living on whatever job I could find as long as I could visit galleries. I made friends with artists. Gallery owners. I found some backers and opened a little gallery in London. It failed miserably. But I learned. Got more backers. Found a good clientele. One gallery became two, and that became three. I did a lot of consignments, selling pieces often for more than the owner expected. As my reputation grew, so did my fortune. I have a good eye, and I’m a great negotiator.”
I rolled my eyes at his droll wink. “Are your aunt and uncle alive?”
“No. I inherited his collection, though. Some of his pieces helped me get a start. I’ve bought a few of them back just because he loved them.”
He took a sip of wine.
“The art world has an underbelly. Several, as a matter of fact. There are collectors such as myself who surround themselves with pieces they love. Share them at times.”
“You show your collection?”
“At my gallery, yes. Not all at once, and I admit not every piece, but yes. Very few have ever seen my whole collection or know where I store it. The rumor is a vault in a Central London bank, and I go and look at it on occasion, only keeping a piece or two out at a time.”
“Who started that rumor?”
“Me.”
I scoffed at his casual confession. I wasn’t surprised.
“But it’s here. In the open. You have pieces everywhere.”
“Some are extremely good forgeries because I know if they disappeared, I would never see them again. This estate is under so much protection, it would make your head spin. Getting into my villa is almost impossible. I allow very few people here. My most valuable pieces are in my galleries under tight security. I like the fact that people can see them, marvel at the beauty. I move them around a lot, so it’s harder to plan a theft.”
“I see.”
“There are, however, collectors without honor. They see something they want, and they decide to have it, no matter who it currently belongs to. A private collector, a museum, whatever. They decide to take it.”
“They steal it?”
“Yes.”
“Is Winters one of those types of collectors?”
“Yes.”
“And you stole it back?”
“My ability to figure out any lock and my light fingers have come in handy. I was approached years ago by someone who ran an organization that helped people who have suffered losses because of people like Winters.”
I leaned forward. “You’re like a spy?”