Beauty & Her Billionaire Boss. Barbara Wallace
back in his chair, Frederic found himself wishing he’d been paying attention when she approached. Whenever he saw Piper at the apartment, she wore either her chef’s jacket or that awful maid uniform that was the antithesis of every French maid fantasy ever written. This sundress, however... The bright colors definitely suited her better. Plus, there was an expanse of flesh around her shoulders he didn’t normally get to enjoy.
“Are you meeting a classmate?” he asked. A date would certainly explain the dress. Why he was suddenly intrigued by her social life, Frederic wasn’t sure, except that the memory of her crying by the kitchen counter refused to leave him. He found it odd, an attractive American—and she was attractive as that expanse of skin attested—spending her evenings in Paris alone.
“I’m supposed to meet with someone at the Rose d’Arms,” she said. “It’s a retirement home a block or so from here.”
“Looking for a surrogate grandmother?”
“Hardly,” she said with a laugh. A very pleasant-sounding laugh, too. Like bells. “I’m doing a favor for my sister.”
“At a retirement home?”
“It’s a long story. I won’t bore you with the details. I really just stopped by to say hello. I’ll let you get back to whatever it was you were...”
“Please. Stay. We can kill time together.”
“Are you sure?”
There was hesitancy in her voice. Frederic couldn’t blame her. Eight months of hardly talking, and now here they were on their third conversation in two days. “I wouldn’t have offered if I wasn’t sure,” he told her. “There is no reason for the two of us to sit at separate tables when we are both by ourselves. Besides, you have me intrigued.”
The café had arranged the tables as so many cafés in the city did, with the seats side by side so that patrons could enjoy the view. As Piper slipped into the seat beside his, Frederic was struck by an aroma of vanilla and spices that made his mouth water. “Did you bake today?” he asked.
“No. I skipped class. Why?”
“No reason.” Who knew a person could smell delicious? “Tell me this long story of yours.”
Piper took a deep breath. “Apparently, Ana, my sister’s boss, lived with an artist here in Paris in the seventies and posed for a bunch of paintings. Her great-nephew, Stuart, is hoping to surprise her with one as a gift, so Patience asked me if I would talk to the artist’s sister to see if any of his paintings survived.”
“Doesn’t your sister realize there are easier ways to track down an artist’s work? If he is well-known...”
“This is where it gets complicated.”
She paused while the waitress brought his espresso and she placed her order.
“Complicated how?”
“The artist died in an accident a long time ago. According to Ana, he would have been huge—like Picasso huge—but then Theodore Duchenko went and bought up...”
“Wait...” Frederic needed to go back a step. “Did you say Theodore Duchenko?”
Piper nodded. “That’s right. Patience works for his sister, Ana Duchenko.”
Unbelievable. Duchenko Silver was world renowned. Frederic knew curators who gushed over adding a piece of the famed Russian silver to their collections. As for the late Theodore Duchenko, the man had been considered one of the most ruthless tycoons of the twentieth century. “You’re saying that you’re trying to track down a portrait of Ana Duchenko.”
“Not just a portrait. A nude,” Piper replied. “Nigel painted a bunch, and they were supposedly pretty racy, which is why...”
“Duchenko wanted them destroyed,” he finished for her. “This is astounding. The Duchenko name, it is...well, let us say that if a portrait still exists, the significance in terms of pop culture alone would be immeasurable.”
“I don’t think Stuart cares if the painting has any kind of value—he just wants to give his aunt back a piece of her history. The way my sister tells it, Ana truly loved the man.”
The waitress returned with her café au lait. “It’s all very tragic, really,” Piper said, taking a sip.
Tragic but exciting. Frederic found his curiosity piqued in a way he hadn’t felt in years. Not since his university days. “There is nothing like the thrill of discovering a new artist,” he told her. “The euphoria, it hits you like a...” The sexual metaphor was too crude to share with a woman. He settled for saying “There are few pleasures like it. I envy you.”
“The whole thing is probably a long shot.”
“Perhaps,” he said, reaching for his drink. It quite probably was, in fact. “But long shot or not, the chase is always exciting.”
“Want to come with me?”
Frederic set his cup down with a clink so he could focus his gaze on her. “Pardon?”
“You just said you envied my going on the hunt. Besides, I don’t know anything about art. What if there’s a giant painting of Ana hanging on this woman’s wall? How will I know if it’s worth Stuart’s money?”
And she thought he was the best person to evaluate? “You just said the painting wasn’t about value.”
“It isn’t.” There was silence as she shifted in her chair. When she spoke again, Frederic heard a change in her voice. It became lower, with less spark. “Never mind. It was only a suggestion.”
“No, I’d love to join you.” Unsettled by the sadness he thought he heard in her voice, he spoke without thinking.
The smile worked its way back into her voice. “Awesome! I’ll finish my coffee and we’ll go.”
A visit to a retirement home, Frederic said to himself as he sipped his espresso. To meet with an old woman. No harm in that.
Why, then, did he feel as if he was getting involved in something more?
* * *
There wasn’t, of course, an undiscovered painting hanging in Marie’s apartment. Only a very tall, pinched-looking woman wearing a velvet tracksuit. She greeted the two of them with a wide smile. “A professor. How exciting,” she gushed, squeezing his hand. “Please come in.”
“I knew you’d be a hit,” Piper murmured as she stepped inside.
Frederic grinned in response. His insides were feeling the thrill of the hunt.
While he still wasn’t entirely sure why Piper had asked him to come along, he’d decided to embrace the opportunity. Who knew when another chance would cross his path? Or, for that matter, come with such an attractive package. Piper was far enough into the room that he could finally see her figure. She had curves a sculpture would love. Soft and supple. The kind meant to be traced by a person’s hands.
That’s it. He was getting rid of the maid’s uniform.
“What period do you study, Professor?” Marie was asking. The older woman was already limping across the sitting room en route to the bookcase.
“Medieval. Pre-Romanesque mostly.”
“Nigel would have called you stuck in the past, but then he prided himself on being antiestablishment. We all did back then. Please, have a seat.”
She gestured to a sofa barely large enough to deserve the label. Feeling overly large, he perched on the edge of the seat and wondered how a woman Marie’s height could ever sit comfortably. The cushion dipped and Piper sat beside him. Vanilla and spice teased his nostrils again. It was like walking into the most pleasant bakery on earth every time the woman sat down.
“He had such promise, my brother. My mother used to