“No. I didn’t.” I look up at him. “The threats didn’t stop. And now, I’m sitting in a safehouse with a former special operations soldier who claims to be a journalist.”
“Iama journalist. Sometimes.”
I scoff and ask, “And the rest of the time?”
“The rest of the time, I do what needs to be done to pay the bills. Security consultation. Private investigation. Background checks for wealthy clients who want to know if their business partners are legitimate.”
“Is that what you’re doing here? Checking if my family is legitimate?”
“Your family is about as far from legitimate as you can get while still operating businesses that pay taxes.”
“At least you’re honest about it.”
“I try to be.” He studies me with those blue eyes that seem to see too much. “You miss London.”
Tony doesn’t answer. We sit in silence for a moment, and I’m struck by how comfortable it is. How easy it feels to talk to him despite knowing he’s hiding things. Despite the fact that he showed up in Moscow, and my life has been a disaster ever since.
“Can I ask you something?” he finally asks.
I press my lips together and nod. “You can ask. I might not answer.”
“The art authentication thing. Can you use it on people?”
“What do you mean?”
“Reading inconsistencies. Spotting forgeries. Can you do that with people, too? Can you tell when someone is pretending to be something they’re not?”
“Usually.”
“And what do you see when you look at me?”
I could lie or deflect. I could tell him I see what he wants me to see. But something about the way he’s asking makes me want to be honest.
“I see someone who’s very good at playing roles. Someone who knows how to blend into whatever environment he’s in.” I tilt my head. “But I also see someone who’s not entirely comfortable with deception. You’re good at it, but you don’t enjoy it.”
“Perceptive.”
“It’s my job.” I stand and carry my empty cup to the kitchen. “Anything else you want to know?”
Tony follows me. “Yes. When you authenticate a piece, what happens when you can’t tell if it’s real or fake? When the evidence is inconclusive?”
I rinse the cup and set it in the sink. “Then I keep looking. I find more evidence. Consult with experts. I don’t stop until you know the truth.”
“And if you never find conclusive proof?”
“There’s always proof if you know where to look.”
Tony steps up behind me before I can turn around. Close enough to feel his body heat seeping into my back. His hand comes to rest on the counter beside mine, caging me in without touching me.
“Why are you asking?” My voice comes out breathier than I intend.
“Because I think you’re trying to authenticate me.” His breath ghosts across the back of my neck, and I suppress a shiver. “Figuring out if I’m real or a very good forgery.”
I turn slowly, which puts us face to face with maybe six inches between us. His blue eyes are darker this close, and his pupils are dilated. “And you’re curious what conclusion I’ll reach.”
“Very curious.” His free hand lifts, and for a second, I think he’s going to touch my face. Instead, he brushes a strand of hair that’s come loose from my ponytail behind my ear. It makes my pulse jump.
“I haven’t decided.”
