Page 37 of The Chase
“The man who broke your heart?”
“Zach.”
“Zach’s an idiot. Don’t take him back.”
The door flew open and a scantily dressed masked woman burst out, her cheeks flushed, her laughter loud, her hair a mass of post-fucked curls, and following behind hurried two men, their clothes as disheveled as their hair.
Tobias gave them a respectful wave as he watched them head off down the hallway. He reached for my hand and pulled me in—
A state room, perhaps where visiting dignitaries would be welcomed and no doubt impressed with the finery. Plush red carpet, white-and-gold wallpaper, candelabras, a few statues here and there on podiums, and the most striking collection of wall-to-wall paintings by Francisco Goya.
“The last of the great masters.” My breath caught as the words fell away.
Turning around and around to look at the others, I smiled brightly, exhilarated to be given the chance to experience these rare wonders, a private collection that rivaled those shown in the finest galleries.
I wanted to leap onto Tobias and wrap myself around him in a hug to thank him for bringing me.
He moved fast and gestured me to follow quickly.
Above the large unlit fireplace hungLa Maja Vestida, an exquisite oil painting by Goya, finished somewhere around 1805.
The beautiful subject held a timeless smile, her long chaste white dress showing off her curves, over which she wore a short yellow jacket. A pink sash snug around her waist. Her hands were held above her head as she reclined in a sensual pose on a couch.
“This is her?”
Tobias’s gaze held the painting.
I admired her natural beauty, flushed cheeks from wine or making love, her eyes twinkling as though humoring Goya with her patience to sit still as he painted.
Tobias neared me and reached inside his jacket pocket, his strong hand brushing my thigh as he searched for it. “One second.”
He removed my small magnifier and handed it to me.
Easing off my mask, I let it hang from my neck by the ribbon.
He walked across the room and pulled a chair over to the fireplace and gestured for me to climb up. I kicked off my heels and used his hand to support my balance as I stood on the chair. I sprang into action, peering through my magnifier and studying the elegant strokes of Goya’s signature.
I lowered the magnifier and handed it back to him. “We have a problem.”
He tucked my magnifier away. “Metric frame?”
“Yes.”
“Two hundred years ago they hadn’t gone metric.”
“Exactly.”
“Keep going.”
“Do you think they’ve started?” I asked.
“What?”
“The orgy?”
“Zara, the painting, please.” He suppressed a smile.
“I need to see the back.” I glanced at the door. “Can we take it down?”
