The stranger in the suit arrived at the Hartwell Gallery at precisely seven o’clock, which was interesting because the invitation had specified eight. Victoria Hartwell noticed this immediately, the way she noticed everything about the people in her orbit, cataloging and analyzing and filing away for future reference. Men like this one — expensive suit, perfect tailoring, shoes that cost more than most people’s monthly rent — did not make scheduling errors. They made statements.
She watched him from across the room, champagne flute held at a careful angle, her expression set in the particular mask of polite interest that she had perfected over years of attending events she would rather not attend. He was tall, dark-haired, with the kind of bone structure that suggested genetics had been very kind to him. His face was pleasant without being handsome, interesting without being memorable. A face designed for anonymity, for sliding through rooms without being remembered.
And yet she remembered him. She knew she would remember him for a long time.
The gallery was full of the usual suspects — collectors who bought art the way other people bought cars, as status symbols rather than investments; socialites who attended these events because attending events was what one did; critics who would pan everything and everyone regardless of quality. Victoria had seen all of them before, had heard their opinions and their pretensions and their petty rivalries. She found them tedious, most of them. But this stranger was something else.
He moved through the crowd like someone who was used to being watched but did not particularly enjoy it. His eyes swept the room with a regular rhythm, never lingering on anything for too long, always returning to some central point that Victoria could not identify. He was looking for something, or someone. She was suddenly certain of this.
The thought should have interested her more than it did.
She was considering whether to approach him when he turned and looked directly at her. Their eyes met, and Victoria felt something shift in her chest, some subtle rearrangement of internal architecture that she did not understand and did not trust. His expression did not change — remained pleasant, anonymous, carefully neutral — but she had the distinct impression that he knew exactly who she was.
That was the first interesting thing.
The second interesting thing was that he began walking toward her.
“Ms. Hartwell,” he said when he reached her, and his voice was exactly what she expected it to be — cultured, controlled, with an edge of something that she could not quite identify. “I’m pleased to meet you. I’m Sebastian Crane.”
He extended his hand, and Victoria took it, noting the warmth of his grip, the steadiness of his hold, the way he did not hold on for longer than was appropriate. Everything about him was correct. And that, she realized, was what made him interesting. In a room full of people who were trying too hard, Sebastian Crane was trying exactly the right amount. Which was, paradoxically, very hard indeed.
“Mr. Crane,” she said. “Are you enjoying the evening?”
“I’m enjoying the company,” he replied, and smiled in a way that did not reach his eyes. “I was hoping you might tell me about the Delacroix piece in the east gallery. The one you’ve labeled as authentic.”
Victoria felt a chill run through her that had nothing to do with the temperature. The Delacroix piece was the centerpiece of the evening’s exhibition, a painting that had been attributed to the famous French romanticist but whose authenticity had been questioned by experts for decades. Victoria herself had authenticated it only six months ago, after months of analysis and research. It was her professional reputation on that painting, her name in the catalog, her career tied to its legitimacy.
And this stranger, this Sebastian Crane, was looking at her with eyes that knew exactly what he was implying.
“It’s authentic,” Victoria said, keeping her voice level. “I’ve spent four months verifying every brushstroke, every pigment sample, every historical document that confirms its provenance.”
“I’m sure you have,” he said. “And I’m sure you’re right. But there are others who would disagree, aren’t there? People who would very much like to prove you wrong?”
The question hung in the air between them, sharp and dangerous. Victoria looked at him, really looked, seeing for the first time the tension beneath the polished surface, the wariness in the set of his shoulders, the way his hands stayed very carefully still at his sides. He was not a collector. He was not an art enthusiast. He was something else entirely, and whatever he was, he had come here looking for her.
“Why are you asking me this?” she said.
“Because I need to know if you’re the kind of person who tells the truth when it’s inconvenient,” he replied. “Or the kind who only tells it when it serves their purposes.”
“That’s a very presumptuous question from a man I’ve known for thirty seconds.”
“It’s a very necessary question,” he said, “given the circumstances. I’m here on behalf of someone who is very interested in your work, Ms. Hartwell. Someone who has followed your career with great attention. And someone who may need your services in the very near future.”
Victoria set down her champagne flute. “You have my attention.”
“I thought I might,” Sebastian Crane said, and for the first time, his smile reached his eyes. “Shall we find somewhere quieter to talk?”
The stranger in the suit had made his statement. Now it remained to be seen what he actually wanted.