The Chase. Vanessa Fewings

       3

      With my morning latte in hand, I wound my way up the fourteen-story staircase of The Tiriani Building toward the top floor. My fear of being late clashed with my claustrophobia. Taking the elevator was impossible, though, but as every building had stairs it was never an issue and on the positive side it was great for my bum.

      During my interview three weeks ago I’d been wowed by the sprawling view that stretched as far as Canary Wharf, and the interior’s decor of steel and silver solidifying its cutting-edge reputation.

      Pausing between floors to catch my breath and take delicate sips, careful not to spill my drink on my new blue silk blouse or Ralph Lauren skirt, I was close to being late for that 9:30 a.m. staff meeting. My first introduction to Huntly Pierre’s elite crack team of investigators had kept me up all night with a mixture of excitement and nerves.

      I patted myself on the back with how well I’d already coped with disaster this morning. My curling iron broke seconds after switching it on so I’d had to shove my wayward locks into a neat chignon.

      Huntly Pierre took up the top six floors and was a modern masterpiece of architecture smack-dab in the middle of The Strand, and the kind of real estate that proved the company was thriving. I’d been brought on for my special brand of expertise garnered from that art history degree I’d earned at Courtauld. This was truly my dream job. I would soon be hanging out at galleries all day, chatting with other art lovers, and my nosy personality would get its daily fix.

      My face flushed as I recalled last night’s highlight at The Otillie, meeting the enigmatic Mr. Wilder. I’d fallen asleep with my laptop open on his pretty boy face.

      One thing was for sure, he was the outdoorsy type and had a thing for motorbikes and sports cars, or any kind of speed, for that matter.

      Soon after I’d gotten home from the gallery I’d sat riveted to my screen as I’d watched what was hailed as a rare insight into his life filmed last year and aired on national television. He’d taken the interviewer on a private tour of his Los Angeles gallery. As they’d strolled through The Wilder, perusing his fine collection of paintings, Tobias had sincerely expressed his passion for seeing art education continued in schools.

      I’d let out a sigh as I’d watched him express his belief that students benefited greatly from learning to see beyond the ordinary—

      “They must be taught to look closer,” he’d fervidly expressed. “They must be shown how to peer through the enlightened lens of art and develop the skills that will lead them to experience creative lives.”

      That short journalistic piece had highlighted his serious nature, which I’d glimpsed last night. Though when Tobias had finally relaxed a little, enough to smile into the camera, he might as well have been looking through the screen at me.

      My face burned brighter at the seeming chink in that bad boy charm that threatened to disarm my defenses.

      Though there was tragedy in his past too. I found an article on him from five years ago, written in the Telegraph Online. His parents had died in a plane crash when he was a boy. Perhaps this was why he was so driven; he was running away from the pain. He’d refused to comment on that aspect of his life, preferring instead to keep it private.

      There had been photo after photo of the press catching him making supersonic exits at every opportunity, his hair messed up and his sunglasses shielding those stunning green eyes. The press had christened him “Mr. Elusive” and it suited him.

      Now that I knew it wasn’t unusual for him to perform a disappearing act I didn’t feel like it had been me who’d scared him away with any number of my usual social blunders.

      I wished I’d savored that sun-kissed body a little more but I’d been so shocked to see a living, breathing masterpiece subtly flexing his muscles in The Otillie’s basement.

      I felt a wave of melancholy that I’d never know the meaning of that Latin inscription on his well-toned torso. I wondered if he had any more of those mysterious inked inscriptions on any other part of his body.

      I flinched and almost bit through my lip.

      And burst through the top-floor exit with a little too much gusto.

      That caffeine had evidently kicked in, and I startled Elena, the receptionist, forcing her to spring to her feet to greet me.

      “Morning exercise,” I managed breathlessly.

      “Good morning, Zara.” She sang the words in that heavy Glasgow accent.

      I’d fallen for Elena’s easy breezy charm the day of my interview when she made me laugh with her cheeky humor. She’d worked here for years and seemed to know the inside scoop on everyone. I loved her fashion sense, that daring miniskirt just above her knees and those fine leather boots, which seemed a statement of her unwavering confidence—I’d overheard her on the phone handling difficult clients—her purple sweater added a dash of color.

      A rush of movement came at me.

      Danny Kenner swept past me with the biggest grin. “Hi there.”

      His accent reminded me of Tobias’s, but Danny had a Californian lilt whereas Tobias’s had an indistinguishable husky edge.

      His ripped jeans and Lacoste jumper, along with his Nike sneakers, revealed Huntly Pierre’s more casual approach to their dress code.

      I smiled after him.

      Danny had made me feel welcome during my first visit here, and we’d hit it off straight away with our shared love of “anything” by Rembrandt and Starbucks.

      Elena beamed at him. “They got a fingerprint on the Jaeger case.”

      My gaze snapped after Danny, wanting to run after him and hear more.

      Last night, the same evening I’d dropped Madame Rose off at The Otillie, there’d been a theft from a private house in Holland Park.

      This morning, I’d been riveted to the TV as the BBC newscaster had reported that nothing else had been taken. The Jaeger family had lost their greatest heirloom, an 1896 Edvard Munch, and were predictably devastated.

      This second theft in under a month in London was sending the art community into a spin. The police were scrambling for clues and had brought in the team at Huntly Pierre.

      Part of this job was also comforting the victims and I prided myself that with my tragic history I’d flourish with that aspect of my profession. I knew what it felt like to lose what had essentially become a friend; for some, art had a way of drawing you in and holding you spellbound for a lifetime.

      I felt a rush of excitement that I was finally here.

      “Your meeting with the staff got pushed,” she said. “The boss has a last-minute change in schedule.”

      “I imagine everyone’s crazy busy,” I said. “How are you handling the press?”

      “Everything