4. Jenn

Chapter 4

Jenn

Tuesday afternoon, I stood in a room off the main office of the De Rosa Gallery. All around me, paintings were stacked against the walls, sculptures lined the shelves, and various antiques hid in their jars and boxes. The gallery itself was minimalist, showcasing some of the finest items Massimo owned or was consigning, while the back office was jam-packed.

A ten-by-twenty area had been earmarked for studying and cleaning pieces, including a tall worktable with an open space underneath it. Tools and chemicals crammed two shelves under the table, while more hid in cabinets lining the walls.

The space was a fraction of what my Aunt Penny had at home, but Dante had explained they contracted out more complex jobs to shops across Europe, depending on the specialists required.

I had the painting out of its frame and off the stretcher and was writing out a plan in my notebook. The painting was an early nineteenth-century pastoral scene by John Constable—two feet by two and a half, typical of his outdoor work. The brushwork was loose, giving an almost hazy appearance to the painting from a distance, but close up, I could see every stroke laid with skill and precision.

Maybe too much precision?

Aunt Penny would have handled something like this at home. However, Massimo’s regular conservator had made comprehensive notes the last time he cleaned it, so I had a solid starting point. I simply had to collect solvents, brushes, cotton, and other tools to clean a faint layer of dirt off the top, then apply a fresh layer of varnish.

I ran a hand over the bend at the edge of the painting, where it had wrapped around the stretcher. The small workshop didn’t have a heat or vacuum table, so I’d have to use simpler hand-held tools to remove the indentation before cleaning it.

There was a knock at the door, and Dante appeared. “I’m going across the street for coffee.”

As I looked up, he paused and smiled, his gaze resting on my outstretched hand. I snapped my hand back. “Sorry. I was getting a feel for the artwork.”

He came closer, stopping across the table from me, and ran a finger along the indented edge. “My father always told me not to touch things that don’t belong to me.”

I swallowed hard. Was I getting in trouble, or was he flirting? “Difficult to clean it without touching it.”

“Perhaps you should teach me how, so I also have an excuse.” Dante was exactly the kind of man I needed. A smoldering Italian who loved art—clear from the way he caressed the canvas—whose father owned not just one of the yachts in the harbor, but an art gallery in Monaco, and who knew how much else. He was a rich, charming distraction from my reality.

What was he like in bed? Did you seriously think that? Maybe he could get me over my cheating ex?

He wouldn’t, though. And that wasn’t what my trip was about. It was about freeing myself—not getting tangled up again. And the last thing I needed was to get involved with someone, even for a night.

Men are a hassle, Jenn. Remember that.

He rested his hands on the worktable. “Would you like a drink? It would only take us fifteen or thirty minutes.”

“Thanks for the offer, but I…” I tapped the stack of notes. “I need to get ahead of the project first.”

“I’ll bring you something, then?” He was persistent, if nothing else.

“That’d be nice.”

He gave a slight bow and left.

Yeah, Dante was the kind of man my father would approve of. Who my friends would high-five me over. No one would give me the side-eye if I brought him home.

Why couldn’t I have met him when my life was under control?

I sighed and paced the length of the conservation area, considering my next steps. Smooth out the creases, do a quick test along the edge to confirm the required solvents, and away I could go. Or maybe run the tests first to ensure I had sufficient materials for the cleaning?

If we had to order anything from Nice, Paris, or elsewhere, it would be best to have the order in as soon as possible. I pulled bottles of acetone and distilled water from a shelf at the back of the room, then donned a pair of nitrile gloves, a mask, and safety goggles. Step one: dilute the acetone.

After double-checking the notes, I rolled a few swabs, creating tools out of sticks and cotton batting. I dipped a swab into the solvent, pressed the edge of the canvas flat, and froze. Aunt Penny normally verified everything for me. This was a Constable. They expected it would fetch over two hundred thousand at the auction on Friday night.

What if I’d misinterpreted something?

What if I had the acetone concentration wrong?

What if I was supposed to warm the solution and had the wrong temperature?

Working without my safety net had my stomach twisting in as many knots as seeing Emmett last night. He said he’d drop by the gallery. I’d put on a little extra eye makeup this morning. My pulse had even jumped every time the front door’s bell had chimed.

Maybe that was the real reason I turned down Dante’s offer of going for coffee.

What if I missed Emmett’s visit?

Scarlett had called me last night, apologized for putting me in a tight spot with Emmett’s alias, and explained her team was in town searching for leads on a stolen Egyptian scarab. I’d told her a little about the surprise trip to Monaco but skipped the why. If I told her about Simon cheating on me…

I squeezed my eyes shut and stretched out my neck. He’d brought me flowers afterward. Apologized. Swore it was one time only. Part of me wanted the asshole back.

And that’s your problem, isn’t it? I opened my eyes and shook my head at myself. Yeah, that’s exactly your problem, Jenn.

I was almost thirty years old, and my biological clock was ticking. Kelley had just given birth. Heather got close but wound up divorced. And Scarlett? She’d been engaged, but lost her fiancé in a tragic accident two years ago. Her new boyfriend would propose by Christmas—we were all sure of it.

And me?

Instead of settling down with a man who wanted to help me with my clock, I continued dating the most self-centered, egotistical, inconsiderate jerks I could find.

Screw all of them.

“Or focus on work,” I muttered to myself. Quiet . The last thing I needed was for Massimo or one of his employees to walk in on my self-doubts or hear them as they passed by.

There was no need to fear or worry. I was a strong, capable, intelligent woman.

I flattened the edge and rolled the solvent onto a tiny square, less than an inch. Left it to settle for ten seconds, then wiped it clean with another piece of?—

Oh, shit!

The paint smeared as I wiped.

My heart leaped into my throat.

What did I do wrong?

I triple and quadruple-checked the conservator’s notes. Re-read the bottles. Examined the cotton in case it had been contaminated.

But everything was right. I was sure of it.

Were the instructions wrong? Were they for a different painting? No. It was a stack of papers, which Dante had delivered in a plain folder. The folder and each sheet were labeled ‘Constable, John, “Wheatfield from the Lock,” Oil on canvas, 1810.’

“Come va?”

I let out a squeak and spun to face the doorway, where the Italian voice had come from.

A man with a scar across his cheek stood there, dressed in black slacks and a tailored blue shirt. He took a step into the room and smiled. The way his scar puckered, the friendly gesture was unnerving.

“Sorry.” I shook my head and tossed the swab and cotton into the disposal jar, doing my best to regain my calm. “You startled me.”

“Your work goes well?”

“It does. Thank you.” I nodded too rapidly, stopping myself before I apologized again. He doesn’t know your test failed. Stop sounding nervous. “Although I’m just starting.”

“You can finish before the auction?”

Dante had introduced me to the guard on duty that morning, to the man at the front desk, and reintroduced me to Massimo’s assistant. He’d advised me the guard would stop in from time to time—which he had—but that everyone else would likely leave me to work in peace for the day.

No warnings about a scary-looking man with a scar.

I picked up the conservator’s notes and positioned them over the smudge. “It’ll only take a few days.”

He came closer, cocking his head. “You’re not as experienced as his regular conservator?”

What did that mean? Was a few days too long? Dante had said the regular conservator wasn’t full-time, but he had training. I had training. “Massimo negotiated a contract with my boss. They discussed my qualifications.”

“But Dante hired you, yes?”

What did that have to do with?—

Wait. Does he think you’re sleeping with Dante for this job? I straightened my spine. “I’m sorry, sir, but I have work to finish for the De Rosas.”

“He’s a handsome man. Wealthy.” He leaned on the worktable, ignoring my subtle attempt at asking him to leave. “As is his father.”

A few streaks of gray laced the hair at his temples. Paired with the faint lines around his eyes, he was likely in his forties. At his age, he should have known better than to accuse a woman of sleeping her way into a job. They were paying well, but certainly not that well.

“They’re my clients. I hadn’t noticed.” Total lie, but it had nothing to do with the job.

He nodded slowly, scanning the painting. “I meant no offense.”

“Of course not.” I kept my hand on the sheet of paper, just in case. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to get back to work.”

“Be sure you do your best.” He headed for the door. “Massimo has promised we’ll see a healthy profit from the sale.”

Jackass.

Once I was alone again, I grabbed a loupe from under the worktable and examined the damaged area. If I’d done everything right, the dirt should have lifted, leaving the paint alone. But a tiny section had lifted all the way to the canvas. This wasn’t right.

I removed my protective gear before grabbing my phone from my purse. I dialed Aunt Penny’s number as I crossed to the farthest corner of the small room. She’d know what to do.

“Jenny Girl,” she said in her breezy tone. “How’s Monte Carlo?”

“Good.” Weird. “But I need some advice.”

“You’re a talented?—”

“Not like that.” I didn’t need my ego stroked or my confidence bolstered. I spoke quickly—too quickly?—summarizing the steps I’d taken with the painting and my results. “I know I’m overreacting, but…” I stared at the open doorway, cupping my hand over my mouth to ensure no one else heard me. “How could I have gotten it so wrong?”

She clucked her tongue in the way she did when she was thinking. “Have you spoken with the De Rosas about this?”

“No, should I?”

“You have a mismatch between an expert’s notes and your experience. The first thing you need to do is figure out which one is wrong.”

Wrong? “His notes wouldn’t be.”

“In that case, the painting may be.” Was she saying what I thought she was saying? Did she think it could be a fake? “You don’t have much time available, so I’ll put you in touch with a conservator I met at a conference earlier this year. He has a lot of experience with fakes and forgeries, and his wife is also an art crime investigator. They’ll be able to advise you on the quickest way to figure it out.”

I stared at the sliver of canvas I’d revealed with the acetone. Should I leave? Tell them I’ll be back tomorrow? What if Penny’s contact calls me back right away? Should I wait and see what he says? “What do I do in the meantime?”

“Do what I’ve been teaching you. Do your own experiments. Inspect the paint—is it genuinely oil? Does it feel like it’s been on the canvas for two hundred years? Are the polymers cross-linked yet? Does the craquelure look right? Take notes on everything.”

Another deep breath. I didn’t know what two-hundred-year-old craquelure looked like on a John Constable painting. And it wasn’t like Monaco was large enough that I could find a museum with other pieces to compare. Maybe in Nice? Or the Internet.

“You can do this, Jenn. I wouldn’t have agreed to the project if I didn’t think you could.”

So much for a simple cleaning.