Chapter Four

September 25

The Outskirts of Paris, France

U sing the remote detonator, Clara blew the transformer, and the restoration room was plunged into darkness. Guards were blindly throwing tables and scrambling to catch Clara in the shadows. Chaos reigned as Clara snatched the small painting from the easel and shoved it into the empty duffle. She dropped to her hands and knees and scrambled under a table. Lucien Kite shouted directives. A gun went off, shattering one of the high transom windows.

Clara dashed out the open door and emerged onto a paved parking area where a row of five black SUVs sat side-by-side. Two men in suits came around the tailgate of the center car, drawn by the commotion inside the building. Clara dropped to the ground and belly-crawled under the nearest vehicle, mindful of the priceless work of art in her bag. She emerged from the tailgate and ran toward the surrounding woods as the two drivers jogged in the opposite direction.

Clara ducked behind a thick oak, formulating a strategy. Men were already pouring out of the building in hot pursuit. A small guardhouse marked the gated entrance, and the lone occupant raced out toward a fenced substation with an emergency generator. Clara dashed to the back of the guard house and pinned herself to the exterior wall. Dogs barked in the distance.

With no time to lose, Clara put a new plan in motion. She had learned to be devious and resourceful at the age of six, escaping the clutches of those who would do her harm. Her skill had only grown.

Ten seconds later, two security team members, guns drawn, appeared at the back of the shed.

Clara stood before them. Naked.

She covered her breasts with one hand and her face with the other as she hurled a string of expletives in German. You stupid assholes! Get out of here! I surprised my boyfriend at work, and now I am being assaulted by dogs! You are rapists! You are animals! My boyfriend is chasing some thief and leaves me here alone. I will never speak to him again! Get away from me!

The two men, who couldn’t have been older than twenty, stood momentarily transfixed. Then, one of them whipped out his phone and recorded the encounter with a delighted grin while the other finally mustered the courage to shout over her rant, “Where? Which way did he go?”

Removing her hand from her bare breasts, Clara pointed into the woods. The two men paused for an admiring moment, then took off in the direction she indicated. Clara grabbed the duffle with the painting and the pile of clothes at her feet and darted off through the trees in the opposite direction. The moonlight, which had exposed her earlier, now aided her escape. She ran like the wind. Her car was hidden near the access road, two kilometers away. All around her, dogs barked, and men shouted. She heard another gunshot. Clara never stopped to look, never paused to catch her breath. She raced to the blue fiat concealed under low branches, threw her bundle in the back seat, and peeled out.

The access road was a blind alley. She needed to get to the freeway. If her pursuers blocked her in, there would be no escape. She started the car and floored it. The turn-off was just ahead. There was nothing but darkness in her rearview mirror. One hundred yards, fifty, ten. She took the turn aggressively, the little car fishtailing on the empty thoroughfare. In the pre-dawn hours, traffic was light, but a few cars and trucks were out. A logging truck pulled next to her, the driver swerving. The fellow in the passenger seat was grinning like a child at Christmas.

She was still nude.

Clara threw back a saucy smile and sped up. With one hand, she groped for the T-shirt in the pile of clothes. When she felt the soft fabric, she grabbed the garment and pulled it on. That small matter handled, she pressed down on the gas and sped off toward Paris.

In her rearview mirror, a delivery truck was exiting the autoroute. Only a small Citroen puttered in the distance.

Forty minutes later, Clara pulled into a commuter car park, grabbed her belongings, and exited the Fiat. Dawn was just beginning to paint the sky as she walked to the sleek, black Maserati. In under a minute, Clara had disposed of the items from the heist in the trash, popped the trunk of the luxury car, and pulled a chic gray sheath and matching stilettos from one of four matched pieces of Louis Vuitton luggage. Then she slipped Girl with a Sunflower in among the remaining clothing. Clara twisted her blonde hair into a chignon and fastened it with a clip. In the considerably more elegant driver’s seat, Clara swapped her men’s military watch for a diamond Cartier tank and pressed the button to start the car.

Then, with the ease of an heiress, she sped off toward the Four Seasons Georges V. Hopefully, she could relax at the hotel for a bit before she met her father, Reynard, at his favorite Parisian restaurant, La Coupole.

Her father was an inspiring, if unconventional, role model. He had told her long ago that if she insisted on indulging her penchant for thievery, she should use her talents for good, unlike him. She loved Reynard for understanding her and had taken his words to heart. Tomorrow, Clara would fly to the States and return Girl with a Sunflower to its rightful owner. There was no more satisfying feeling. She was a Ph.D. candidate at one of the finest academic institutions in the world, but Clara’s obsession was tracking down stolen treasures. And her passion was stealing them back.

What had started as a disastrous night had turned into a Broadway musical morning. The sun was up, and Paris had awakened. Clara pulled up to the hotel and waited for the valet to help her out of the car, then stood at the boot as two liveried men unloaded the luggage. On Avenue Georges V, the Citroen she had spotted on the road drove past and turned the corner. The driver, an older man with a bushy mustache, kept his eyes forward.

Smelling money like a bloodhound, the concierge rushed to her side to greet her.

“Madam O’Keefe, we’ve been expecting you.”

Clara had traveled under one of her usual aliases of female artists. This time, it was the American Georgia O’Keeffe. “Thank you…”

“Jean-Pierre.”

“Jean-Pierre,” Clara purred.

She plucked the smallest bag from the cart, the one holding the Renoir, and preceded her entourage into the lobby, where she instructed the concierge—with a sultry smile and a hundred euros—to store the bag in the hotel vault. The man was only too happy to oblige as well as oversee her check-in and escort her to the suite.

The lobby was bustling as visitors and staff hurried across the gleaming marble floor. In the center of the room, beneath a crystal chandelier the size of a Volkswagen, a golden table held a vase of fuchsia poppies, lilacs, and roses one meter in diameter. The room seemed in constant motion, except for one man who sat still as a statue in a yellow wingback chair behind a paper copy of Le Monde . A wisp of steam drifted up from the demitasse on the side table, indicating its recent arrival.

“This way, madam.” The concierge guided Clara to the elevators and whisked them to her Eiffel Tower suite, a crisp, modern living space done in yellow, sage, and teal with a sitting room, cozy dining area overlooking the terrace and—her favorite part—an airy bedroom crowned with the most inviting bed and a stunning view of the Paris skyline.

When her coterie had been tipped and dismissed, Clara kicked off her heels and fell onto the bed, landing in a cloud of Siberian down. The sun peeked through the curtains, and Clara’s thoughts drifted. She didn’t return to Paris often; her painful start to life in Porte Saint-Denis wasn’t a memory she liked to relive.

She hadn’t known a thing about Reynard on that fateful day. Yet she had sought the safety of his soft overcoat and wrapped her tiny body around his legs—anything to escape the man chasing her. Clara hadn’t batted an eye when Reynard shot her pursuer—her definition of morality and justice had been forged in a hotter fire than most. She had climbed into this stranger’s car without hesitation.

All those years ago, they had driven away from Saint-Denis in near-silence. Reynard sat close to the door, looking like a spider was on the other seat. He only said one thing. “ Je suis un criminel. ” I am a criminal . It was odd, really, that such an ominous confession could cement her certainty that she had made the right choice. But it had.

Her instincts about people had always been spot-on.

With one glaring exception.

A soft knock on the door pulled Clara from what was sure to be an infuriating line of thought, and she padded barefoot to the door.

A uniformed young man stood in the hall with a trolley. Pulling the door open, she stepped back, confused, and said, “ Je n’ai pas commandé cela. ” I didn’t order this.

The boy shrugged and followed her inside. “ Je ne sais pas, mais il y a une mot .” I don’t know, but there is a note. He pointed to the small white envelope tipped against the champagne bucket beside a decadent plate of her favorite sugared strawberries and Alain Ducasse chocolates.

After giving him a generous tip and closing the door, Clara plucked the envelope from the serving cart. She imagined the arrogance and condescension before she slid the card out. The message did not disappoint.

Dearest Bluebird,

Fruits for the fruits of your labor.

Enjoy Paris.

X

P.S. Consider using aliases that are NOT famous artists.

You’re making it too easy for me.

Miles Buchanan. She should have known.

Miles had been the man in the -turquoise-blue Citroen. What’s worse, Clara suspected she had walked right by him on the way to her room, sitting in the lobby sipping espresso and reading Le Monde .

The realization didn’t dull her appetite. Clara popped the loosened cork on the champagne, poured herself a glass, and brought the plate of treats into the bedroom. As she sank her teeth into a glistening strawberry, she allowed herself to run through the gamut of emotions Miles Buchanan brought to mind. The order varied depending on the circumstance, but anger was always high on the list, along with disappointment and pity. Today, a different feeling fluttered in her chest, something she couldn’t quite name.

She had noticed the little blue car early in her escape. Miles had been nearby.

She plucked a dark chocolate rectangle from the purple paper and took a bite, nearly groaning as the coffee liqueur flowed across her tongue. It wasn’t the rich flavor warming her heart, however. It was the fact that Miles had been near.

She had been caught, held at gunpoint, and threatened with torture. She dreaded to think what Miles would have done had he known how close she came to being caught. Clara was well aware that any ordinary girl would have prayed for a white knight at that moment. But Clara was far from ordinary. What’s more, she hadn’t needed help.

She took the champagne flute and stepped out on the balcony. A wrought iron fence ringed a cheerful patio dotted with potted plants, cushioned chairs, and a round table. In the distance, the Eiffel Tower stood watch. Clara never tired of the view, but it wasn’t the cathedral spires or landmarks that pulled her to the balcony’s edge. It was a little blue car. She peered over the side of the hotel to the street below.

There, leaning over the top of the Citroen with his hands drumming the roof, Miles Buchanan stared back at her, grinning beneath a big fake mustache. He applauded her, and Clara curtsied in kind. He paused for a moment, his face unreadable from this distance. Then, with a small salute, he slipped into the driver’s seat and sped away.

The sun was fully up when Clara returned to the bedroom. She hung the Prière de ne pas déranger card on the outside doorknob, pulled the blackout shades, and, after slipping into a lovingly worn Columbia T-shirt, climbed into bed. She always seemed to wear the same sad smile when she thought of Miles. Miles Buchanan, the man of many faces, was as comfortable sitting in a CEO’s office as he was throwing darts in a biker bar. Unfortunately, as deft as he was at changing his physical appearance, he was equally inept at tapping into his emotions.

Five years ago, Clara would have swooned at this protective gesture. She would have read into it and analyzed what it meant about his feelings for her. Now, after years of dashed hope and disappointment, she knew. Miles Buchanan didn’t have feelings, or if he did, they were buried under a pile of masks and alternate identities too deep to find. Clara had long ago come to terms with the fact that the man of her dreams and the man who had followed her to this hotel were two very different people.

Unfortunately for her, they looked exactly alike.

So, while she couldn’t stop the warmth from spreading in her chest, Clara forced her mind to think of other things: fainting goats, lemon gelato, Basquiat’s Warrior , anything to ignore those inextinguishable glowing embers of hope. Maybe they would finally burn out.

T hirty-six hours later, Clara sat in the rented car in the shade of a coconut palm and watched as Anya Schmidt opened the door of her Palm Springs home. She picked up the brown-paper-wrapped parcel and glanced up and down the quiet street. The woman was ninety-three but moved gracefully as she lifted the package and slipped her finger under the tape as she returned to the air-conditioned house. The plate glass windows of the Spanish-style home gave Clara a view into the main living area where Anya now stood. The brown paper fluttered to the floor. As Anya turned the painting over and realized what she held, one hand went to her mouth. She stood for long minutes and stared. Readjusting her grasp, Anya Schmidt sank into an easy chair. Clara saw her bright eyes move over the canvas, her fingers hovering just above the paint, an aura of memories surrounding her. Then Anya stood and hurried back to the front stoop. She turned the Renoir and held it to the heavens. With damp cheeks, Anya rechecked the street, her eyes pausing on the dark rental. Clara read Anya’s lips as she mouthed God bless you before disappearing inside.

This feeling never got old. Being a thief was a thrill; it tapped into some ingrained need to flirt with danger and punish bad actors. Part of it was selfish, no doubt. Clara had never experienced anything close to the mounting tension and cathartic release of stealing. But the satisfaction of seeing the rightful owner reunited with their property? That was the lasting sensation. Stealing was the lightning strike, fast and exhilarating, but making things right was the thunder that rolled through her in fulfilling waves.

Clara pulled away from the curb and entered the GPS instructions for the airport.

Her business concluded, Clara had other tasks on her mind. Her eye caught the corner of the thick card peeking from the top of her Goyard tote. It was the note Miles had left at the hotel in Paris. A slow smile spread across her face. When she got back to New York, she would show Miles that she would not be outfoxed.