20. Jenn

Chapter 20

Jenn

“Damn,” I muttered to myself. A section above the trees in the background glowed green under the ultraviolet light. “How’d I not see that?”

Probably because you were so tired when you worked on that section yesterday.

Not like I’d had any better sleep last night. Four blissful hours in Emmett’s arms couldn’t fix staying up too late and nearly being shot at three in the morning.

It was only nine, and the De Rosa Gallery was eerily quiet. Emmett had walked me over after breakfast, and the security guard opened the door for me early, before any other staff had arrived. Emmett had lingered, telling me to be careful, like I was a child.

Did I really try to invite him to touch me again this morning?

‘ It’s not fear ,’ I’d said.

And what did he do? Left to take a call again. He’d never seemed like a workaholic, but the last two days painted a different image of him. Serious, focused, and more interested in his work than me.

Drop it, Jenn.

Two hours, tops, and I could finish the cleaning. Next, check for structural issues with the stretcher and remount the canvas. Then varnishing, drying overnight… I did some quick mental math.

Cutting it close, but doable.

I adjusted my goggles and reached for a thin wooden stick and cotton wad, rolling another fresh swab. Dip in the solvent. Roll over the section under the UV. Wait while the varnish swelled. Clean it off with another swab.

This was my favorite part about the job—the repetitive, almost meditative work, watching the painting return to life. I moved through instinct, my mind a jumble of thoughts. More than anything, I kept revisiting my memory of waking up next to Emmett, his arm draped over me, his bare chest rising and falling against my back.

Such a good memory.

I dropped a dirty swab into the disposal jar and examined the painting, finding another tiny spot in the clouds. “Freaking clouds.”

“Buongiorno.” Dante’s voice carried through the closed door, making me jump. He knocked and opened the door. “You’re in early this morning. And in the dark again.”

“Occupational hazard.” I clicked off the light bar as he turned on the overhead. “I wanted to ensure I finished everything on time for the auction.”

“Need any help?” He walked around the table, coming close enough to kiss my cheek, as though we were old friends.

I hesitated, torn between my desire to prove myself and accepting his company. “No, thanks. I’ve got this.”

“Bene.” He bowed his head slightly. “How did our wager turn out last night?”

I was not having a discussion with Dante about Emmett. “I have a lot of work to do.”

He tilted his head, as though hoping I’d open up. When I didn’t respond, he nodded instead of prying. “Don’t hesitate to ask if you need help or wish to chat. I’ll be working on the ledgers again today, so I’ll be nearby.”

“Thanks.”

After I had the ultraviolet light back on, he left me in the near dark. The clouds called to me, and I took care of three more spots I’d missed yesterday.

The longer I worked, the more Emmett invaded my thoughts. The memory of our single, stolen kiss fifteen years ago flashed through my mind. I’d waited for a repeat that never came. His taste, a mix of mint and the popcorn we’d had at his house, lingered in my imagination.

Time had undoubtedly distorted those memories, but I held onto them.

How many men had I dated since then? How many sexual experiences had I had? Why did my brain keep circling back to him ? Not only during my trip to Monaco, but ever since he dumped me. Not that he actually even dumped me. He just stopped talking to me.

And last night?

Again.

Again!

He turned me down, but I couldn’t stop thinking about him.

“He cares about me,” I grumbled to myself, immediately checking the door to be sure Dante had shut it all the way. Cares enough to take me to bed for a good night’s rest.

My phone pinged, the cheerful sound mercifully pulling me from my spiraling thoughts. A call from Dr. Ferraro at this hour? I peeled off my gloves, pulled down my mask, and retreated further into the room to avoid disturbing Dante.

“Jenn Thatcher speaking.”

“Ahh, Jenn,” said Dr. Ferraro, his Italian accent thicker than Dante’s. “I hope it’s not too early?”

“Not at all.” Time had passed quickly. It was already eleven o’clock in Monaco—five a.m. in Michigan, where he lived. “You?”

He chuckled. “Samantha—my wife—thought to visit the Courtauld and speak with an associate about your case.”

They flew to London for this? Who did that? “In person?”

“Sì, she did. And I think you’ll be glad for it.”

“You found something?”

“We did. My wife is sending you an email with the details now.” No sooner did he say that than a notification popped up on my phone.

My first thought was to put him on speaker and look at the email. I glanced at the closed door. Would Dante hear me? “I’m not somewhere I can open it right now. What is it?”

“Samantha’s contact maintains auction catalogs dating back decades,” Dr. Ferraro said. “We found one which included your Constable painting, recording its sale in 1956. We compared the catalog photograph to the one you sent and found a discrepancy with the signature.”

My heart skipped a beat. “A discrepancy? What kind of discrepancy?”

“The letters B and L are not the same.”

An excited female voice chatted in his background—which must have been his wife. “Tell her how.”

“In the original painting, the letters touch, but in the photos you sent, they do not.”

“They don’t?” I echoed, my mind racing to keep up. I looked at the painting, lying on the worktable, so innocent. “No professional would change a signature.”

“Precisely,” he said.

A trained conservator or restorer would work around a signature. If it was damaged, they’d often leave the damage in place to maintain the painting’s integrity. A signature wasn’t like a leaf, a flower, or a hand, which would be corrected.

His wife’s voice came across from his end. “Tell her she’s dealing with a fake.”

His voice grew fainter as he said, “Bella, per favore?”

“Yeah, yeah,” she said.

What if the one in the catalog was the fake, and I was working on the original?

“As I was saying,” Dr. Ferraro continued, “there were two catalogs which included the painting. The one from 1956 included a photo and a complete provenance. Another, from 1932, had a line drawing of the painting. We can’t use that one to confirm, but it was part of the intact chain of provenance.”

“Shit,” I hissed. “What now?”

“Have you told the owner?”

“Not yet.”

“You should find out what they wish to do.”

I nodded slowly, unable to rip my eyes away from the painting. “I will. Thanks.”

“And my wife would like for you to email her if you have any further questions.”

I thanked him again and clicked off.

Emmett had been right. How did he know? And what did this mean for Dante and the gallery?

I pulled up the documents Dr. Ferraro had sent and reviewed the 1956 catalog photo, placing it next to the Wheatfield I’d been working on. The signatures definitely didn’t match. It was slight, and they were close, but the connection between the B and L was different.

Dante had hired me to work on a fake. But why? It made no sense. He couldn’t have known the truth. Unless it was all about getting me in bed? Would he go that far? And then simply give up because he claimed Emmett was in love with me?

A strangled laugh burst out of me.

Ridiculous.

Me and Emmett. So not in love with me.

I leaned against the worktable.

Dr. Ferraro said to tell the De Rosas about it being a fake. But could I trust Dante? Did he know it was a fake? Had I been wrong about him this whole time?

Face it, Jenn, your judgment when it comes to men is seriously screwed up.

I added a few notes about the conversation to my notebook, stuffed it into my purse, and threw myself back into the cleaning. My thoughts were an even more chaotic mess than before. Muscle memory took over.

What was I going to tell Dante? If this painting was a fake, it couldn’t go to auction. But if Dante was involved in something shady and found out I knew the truth, what would he do to me?

Now you’re being ridiculous. You’ve seen too many movies.

Or you’ve listened to Emmett too much.

Of course, someone had broken into my hotel room. Someone had gone through my things.

But Emmett was the only one who’d pulled a gun on me.

Once I finished the cleaning, I turned on the lights, remounted the painting on its stretcher, and made some repairs to the frame. Too soon, the varnish was drying, its glossy surface catching the light.

And I was out of excuses to avoid confronting Dante.

I stripped off my protective gear, took a deep breath, and went to his office. My knock was met with a distracted, “Yes?”

Dante looked up as I entered, his tense face giving way to a smile, then back to tense. “Is everything all right?”

“We need to talk,” I blurted out before I lost my nerve.

He shifted his posture away from the computer and leaned his elbows on the desk, giving me his full attention. “About?”

“The painting.”

He clasped his hands in front of himself, his brows drawing down. “Will it not be ready?”

I hesitated, studying his face. Was it genuine confusion, or was he a talented liar who knew I was about to tell him I’d figured it out?

“You need to see something,” I said finally, gesturing for him to follow me into the workshop.

I stopped in front of the painting, where it sat near the edge of the table. “When I started cleaning, I noticed a few things that weren’t quite right, so I called an associate and sent him the UV photos you helped me with.”

Dante watched me instead of the painting.

I was alone in a back room of a gallery with a man I’d just met—a wealthy one who Emmett warned me was dangerous. Was I risking my safety? Deep breath. I opened the email on my phone and placed it beside the drying canvas. “This photo was taken in the ’50s, when the painting was sold at auction. If you look closely, you’ll see the signature from the auction catalog and the painting I’ve been working on don’t match.”

Dante leaned in, hovering over the phone and the painting. “They’re close, though?”

Close? Close didn’t count in authenticity. Accuracy did.

“This can’t be right,” he murmured, moving slowly back and forth between my phone and the painting. “Your associate? Who is this? Someone we can trust?”

“His name is Dr. Antonio Ferraro, and he?—”

Dante straightened immediately. “Ferraro?”

“Yes, his family?—”

“I know his family.” He cupped the back of his neck, gaze drifting to the open door to the office. “I need to check something.”

He left without another word, and I followed. Through the office, turned into the short hallway, and to the secure storage room. He punched a code into the panel by the door and pushed the door open.

Emmett’s voice was as clear as if he’d been standing there, saying, ‘Don’t go in there with him.’

But one glance inside captured me. The room was a trove of art and antiquities I had to explore. Glorious marble sculptures lined the walls. Empty frames, paintings in dozens of slots, jewelry boxes, and drawers that hid many treasures.

Emmett had explored the workshop yesterday morning. He would have loved this room even more.

“My father keeps a copy on his yacht.” Dante pulled painting after painting out of the storage slots. “When we arrived, he had everything brought here, because it was more secure while the boat was docked.”

His fingers danced over some larger pieces, and he resumed pulling out everything of roughly the same size as Wheatfield .

“It’s not here.” He opened a large chest at the back, pulling out masses of fabric and dropping them unceremoniously on the ground. “He wouldn’t…”

I scanned the room, searching for anywhere a painting of the right size could be hiding.

Dante finally stopped, hands landing on his hips. He turned to me, his expression grim. “He cleared out a lot of his favorite pieces recently. His yacht is being prepared for his trip to Napoli.”

“Maybe the real one is on his yacht?”

“He’s not a criminal.” Dante’s eyes hardened, betraying—what? Doubt? Why would he leap to defend his father against an accusation I hadn’t made? “And I’m going to prove it to you.”