Page 2 of The Chase
Though minutes before, there had been the inescapable mayhem of a swinging climbing rope, flying feathers and scrambling hands to rein in the chaos.
Basically, he was fucked.
And he’d still gotten away with a Titian.
Closing the file, my heartbeat quickened with a fierce resolve to see this case closed and have this heist go down in history as the one that got him caught.
1
One week earlier
She’ll be safe here.
Since I’d first made the decision to leave her at The Otillie, I’d been reciting this mantra to reassure myself. I can even remember what I was wearing that early winter morning when I’d first set eyes on my belovedMadame Rose.
To me, myMadame Rosewas so much more than a painting. She represented my childhood, my innocence, my strongest connection to my father. Rose had been a woman of her day—my father had told me this as he’d raised his bidding paddle and with one sweep of his wrist he’d securedMadame Rose Récamieras ours, outbidding every other art collector at Sotheby’s. Adding another masterpiece to his already vast personal gallery back when I’d called Kensington home.
Zara, within the texture lies the truth, he’d told me as he nudged me closer to the canvas.Can you see?
As I’d taken in—or at least tried with the perception of a ten-year-old—the brilliance of that French artist on that century-aged painting, I’d sensed life would never be the same. I’d known in the depths of my soul art would always be my one true love.
Tonight, I’d been so fazed about coming here that I’d forgotten to wear a coat that would have offset the chill of a London autumn and the cold temperature the gallery was kept at to preserve its treasures within.
Art galleries were quiet places with hushed whispers as respectful visitors paid homage to the genius of artists who’d left their indelible mark. Many of these painters had languished in poverty even after giving so much. As a child I’d always wanted to travel back in time to watch them work and tell them their talent had been worth all they’d sacrificed.
My stilettos clicked along the marble uncomfortably loudly as I nearedMadame Rose Récamier. She’d hung in my bedroom and watched over me for years.
Stepping closer, my gaze roamed over her, marveling at those pristine strokes giving Rose a stunning realism.
I gave the softest sigh.
The year was 1803 when Jacques Momar had captured a moment in time with this Parisian socialite and, as I trailed my fingers through my auburn locks, I recalled how I’d wanted to be her. Chestnut irises, we had that in common, but her fiery gaze reflected a life of daring—one she’d chosen to live on her terms.Madame Rose Récamierhad been known for her love of neoclassical fashion and her controversial interest in politics. She’d stunned Paris with her tenacity. Her reputation to enamor with her smart wit and intelligence had been expressed so beautifully as she reclined on that satin chaise lounge, her head thrown back and her gaze held firmly on the artist Monsieur Momar. In her expression there was love. As time went on I’d realized that look proved an affair had transpired between them. The kind of passion I’d only ever read about.
I saw something I’d never noticed before—uncertainty—the emotion starkly vivid and painfully real.
In his will my father had leftMadame Récamierto me. And now I was leaving her here.
“She’s haunting,” Clara whispered, shaking me from my daydream. It was just like her to know I needed a few moments alone with Rose to say goodbye.
It felt comforting having my best friend here.
No matter how many months went by without seeing Clara, it felt like mere minutes had passed between us. She’d always come through for me, and I for her.
Her diamante-crystal, halter-neck dress made her look gorgeous, as always. She had a couple of inches on me and her thick blond curls were a contrast to my long auburn hair. Her high cheekbones were a reflection of the confidence that had helped her succeed as an advertising photographer. Her voluptuousness was a contrast to my smaller curvy figure. “Rubinesque,” she’d called herself, 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...
