which matched her vibrant personality, and her bright eyes and warm smile were always welcome in my world that always seemed more complicated than hers.
As if sensing I needed it, she came over now to give me a hug. “She’s beautiful.” Clara squeezed me into her side.
“First time I saw her I was wearing my favorite floral dress.” I rested my head on Clara’s shoulder for a moment. “Red shoes. I loved those shoes.”
“Oh, Zara, this was a good decision.”
“Yes. She’s meant to be here.”
She paused for a moment and studied me as though being careful with her words. “What about the others?”
The three other paintings we’d saved that night...
Flames rising from our house and licking the air with those monstrous oranges and reds; a hellish glow...
The stench of toxic smoke in my clothes. My hair. My skin. My doll lost to the flames.
Stubbornly, I shook my head, not wanting to remember anything more about that night. “There was always this sense we were protecting Madame Rose by hiding her away.”
Now it was time to step away.
Let it all go. And move on.
“You okay?” came Clara’s reassurance.
I nodded to let her know I was.
It was behind me now, all that grief of dealing with the complex issues of my father’s estate and those endless meetings with softly spoken solicitors where coffee was my only friend. And those journalists who’d begged for a scoop on what plans I had to take the Leighton family legacy into the twenty-first century.
I had no real plans for anything, not really.
Other than settling into my new career. Moving on felt cathartic.
Clara tutted. “Dreadful thing.”
Shaken back into the room, I asked, “What is?”
“No one’s reckless enough to steal from a gallery. Not with all this.” She peered up at one of the discreet cameras.
She was referring to that theft in Chelsea: a portrait by Henry Raeburn had been stolen from a private estate.
“You’re right,” I agreed.
She patted my arm. “You’ll sleep better knowing she’s here.”
“You don’t think it’s connected to what happened in France, do you?”
Rumors had reached the community that some of the wealthiest families in Paris had suffered at the hands of an art thief and that news had set the city’s private dealers and their customers on edge.
“Let’s get some bubbly.” Clara led me back down the hallway. “You have some hobnobbing to do with these art-loving crazies.”
“Thank you for being here.”
“Wouldn’t miss it.”
I forced myself not to look back.
Making our way down the hallway, we continued to admire the collection, pausing here and there until I sensed Clara’s restlessness.
“That’s a nice blouse,” she said. “Gold brings out your eyes.”
I tugged on my pencil skirt. “Marks and Spencer.”
“I thought you were going to say some posh designer. You’re getting close to that birthday.”
Which was Clara’s tactful way of saying my inheritance would kick in on the eve of my twenty-third birthday. Pride had turned my thoughts away from it but these rising costs of living in London had me rethinking that. The idea of having to decide what to do with fifteen million pounds made me nervous. That decision wouldn’t come until next year and I still had time to nudge that thought far away.
A wave of guilt settled in my gut that my inheritance came from my father’s will. I spun round to face Clara. “I got the job!”
“What? Why didn’t you call me?”
“I wanted to tell you in person.”
“Oh, darling, that’s wonderful!”
“I’m officially a forensic art specialist at Huntly Pierre.”
I’d landed my dream job at a high-end firm in the middle of The Strand, and I couldn’t wait to start.
“Zara, that’s wonderful.” She leaped forward and hugged me. “I’m so excited.”
Years of studying art and I was finally being let loose.
“They know about your dad’s penchant for collecting priceless art, then?”
“No, I got this on my own merit.” I lowered my brow, hoping my family name of Leighton wouldn’t follow me around forever. “Have a knack for detecting forgeries apparently.”
Within the texture lies the truth.
Everything Dad knew he’d taught me; an education like no other. It wasn’t only studying at the Courtauld that had given me the talent for knowing the difference between an Uccello and a Masaccio, but my education had begun when my father had instilled in me his rare insight into art before I could even walk, hoping I’d follow in his footsteps.
“It’s in my blood.”
She winked. “The commission you’ll make when you confirm a piece is real should be quite something. These things are worth a fortune.”
“You can’t place a value on pieces like this,” I said wistfully, admiring Constant Troyon’s oil on canvas A Clump of Trees, with its soothing layers of greens and yellows. “For the first time I feel like I’m putting my knowledge to good use.”
“You know what else needs to be in your blood? Booze. More specifically, champagne.” We laughed too loudly as we neared the lift.
Standing back a little, I watched Clara hit the down button and the silver doors slid open. Peering inside that gaping chasm of metal, I felt my haunting phobia of lifts returning, the light inside flickered to taunt me, and my feet refused to move forward as that familiar fear swept over me.
Terror spiked my veins. “Let’s take the stairs.”
She raised her left foot to show off her heels. “I’ll break my neck.”
“You sure?”
“Zara.” She sounded baffled.
“Meet you down there.”
“This is why you have great legs,” her voice echoed after me. “You’re always taking the stairs.”
Her laughter
