style="font-size:15px;"> “Does Levi know she’s back?” Finn asked.
Carrick raised his shoulders. “I don’t know.”
“Should we give him a heads-up?” Ronan asked, thinking of their close friend.
Levi and the Murphy brothers had stayed friends after his breakup with Tanna, but Levi never spoke about their vibrant and gorgeous sister, refused to look at the many pictures of her in the Murphys’ Beacon Hill house. By the way he now acted, nobody would suspect that, at one time, Levi had loved Tanna.
While they were all tight with Levi, he and Carrick had the closest relationship. And as Carrick was the eldest, being the bearer of news, both good and bad, was his responsibility. “I’ll tell him.” He picked up his phone and dialed his friend’s number. Putting the call on speaker, he waited for Levi’s terse greeting.
“Yo.”
Carrick exchanged a wry smile with Ronan. Levi was taciturn and abrupt and never used three words when one would do.
Carrick opted to shoot from the hip, the way Levi preferred. “Just a call to let you know Tanna is back in town and she’ll be here for about six weeks or so.”
Levi waited a beat before he responded. When he did, his tone was colder than an Arctic blizzard. “Too late. She’s here.”
Carrick heard the call disconnect and shook his head. He took the coffee Ronan held out to him and sighed. “Levi should really stop wearing his heart on his sleeve.”
Ronan smiled at Carrick’s sarcasm. “Yep. And he really shouldn’t be so open and forthcoming.” Ro leaned back against the credenza and crossed his foot over his ankle. “Well, he’s been told. That’s all we can do.”
“I have news...” Finn stated after a moment’s silence. “And it’s big.”
Happy to get off the subject of his sister’s and best friend’s nonrelationship, Carrick turned his attention to Finn. His younger brother was normally the definition of cool and collected, so the excitement on his face was strange to see.
“As you know, Isabel Mounton-Matthews left her entire estate to Keely Matthews and to Joa Jones, whom she took in when Joa was fourteen. Keely and Joa have decided to sell most of Isabel’s extensive collection to raise funds for Isabel’s foundation and we are handling the sale.”
The company they’d jointly inherited, Murphy International, was one of the most exclusive auction houses in the world, renowned for the quality and rarity of the pieces of art passing through their hands. The sale of Isabel’s well-documented art collection would be one of the biggest in the past decade and the items were causing a stir in their wealthy art and auction circles. “I’ve been cataloging the collection and I’ve come across three paintings I think might be sleepers—”
Carrick exchanged a quick, excited look with Ronan. A “sleeper” was an artwork whose real value or attribution had been missed by either the owner or art dealers.
“Keely said that Isabel thought it was painted by Winslow Homer. Two are iffy but there’s one that makes me think it might be.”
“Provenance?” Ronan asked. In their world, provenance was everything.
Finn shook his head. “There’s nothing but Isabel’s suspicions. But, damn, the painting I saw, stylistically, looked like it might be one of his depictions of African American rural life.”
“A lost Winslow Homer?” Homer was one of the country’s most revered artists and a lost painting by him would set the art world on fire. Carrick would get excited but he also knew fraudsters loved to fake Homer. And they were good at it. “It sounds too good to be true.”
Ronan looked at Finn, who was their resident art historian. “Are you going to chase this down?”
“I’d love to but I’m slammed. And I think we need an expert in nineteenth-century American painters.” Finn gestured to Carrick’s phone. “If the paintings are by Homer, it would have to be authenticated by you-know-who.”
You-know-who, she-who-should-not-be-named, Satan’s Bride.
Also known as his ex-wife.
Tamlyn had written the catalogue raisonné, the definitive work detailing all of Winslow Homer’s work. If Tamlyn didn’t believe the paintings were by Homer, the canvas wouldn’t be worth diddly-squat.
“We need a specialist art detective, preferably someone Tamlyn trusts, to run the tests, to track down any provenance,” Finn stated. “Tamlyn takes every opportunity to smear your name, Carrick. She’s vindictive enough to dismiss these paintings just because you brought them to her attention. But if we hire someone she respects, someone she works with regularly, we might have a shot of getting a decent result.”
Carrick and Tamlyn’s marriage had been brief. It was a relationship he now deeply regretted. They’d both been ridiculously unhappy and when, after a year, he’d asked for a divorce, Tamlyn punished him by dragging his reputation through the court of public opinion. Since he’d never, not once, publicly defended himself, Carrick, in certain social circles, was still considered to be a bad husband at best, an adulterer at worst.
Good thing he didn’t give a crap what people thought.
At least his reputation as an honest art dealer and auctioneer was still intact, and that was all that mattered.
“Okay, point taken.” He looked at Finn. “Find me an art detective whose opinion Tamlyn Smith respects.”
“I’ll find someone,” Finn told him and then his mouth curved into a smile. “And that’s Tamlyn Smith-Murphy to you, son.”
Carrick resisted the urge to punch his youngest brother. Finn was yanking his chain and he’d learned not to respond. But he wished Tamlyn would stop using his surname, dammit. Yeah, she was an art appraiser and in the art world using the name Murphy added gravitas. But surely, when you’d screwed a guy six ways to Sunday—physically, emotionally, financially and mentally—you forfeited the right to use his name?
Carrick looked at Finn and ignored his building headache. “Find someone with impeccable references and unimpeachable references. The sooner we establish provenance, the more publicity we can generate for the sale.”
Ronan nodded. “This sale is going to be huge.”
Carrick agreed. “And profitable.”
Tanna put the plate holding two thick sandwiches on the small table next to Levi’s chair and picked up a state-of-the-art tablet to make way for his large mug of coffee. Levi immediately lifted the cup to his mouth, his low groan reminding her of the sound he’d made the few times they kissed.
For two people who’d been about to legally and morally bind themselves to each other for the rest of their lives, they hadn’t indulged in a lot of public displays of affection. Or even private displays of affection.
For the first few months of their relationship, she’d been in too much pain, and when she started to feel better, Levi had treated her like spun sugar. On leaving the hospital,
