GENEVIÈVE
Roux practically plastered himself to my right leg, daring Grepper to try something as I entered the villa. I ran a hand over the dark, intersecting stripes of his back, trying to keep us both calm.
Grepper closed the door behind us, cutting us off from the blizzard. Burning logs crackled in the living room fireplace — a big, featureless slab of concrete — and though the temperature was balmy, the space was anything but warm. All that polished concrete gave the place an industrial feel, while cool gray and black furnishings reinforced the masculine vibe.
Clearly, Hot Young Thing hadn’t had a say in decorating. Otherwise, the place would be all fluffy pillows and pastels. She was younger than me, with triple the bra size, which hinted at the type of services she provided for Grepper.
At his gesture, she scampered away like a well-trained poodle.
“May I offer you a drink?” Grepper asked as if this were a social call and not a rapidly unraveling art heist.
“No, thank you.” I stood sideways to the fire, warming my hands while glancing at a wall made entirely of glass. On a clear day, the view over the lake and mountains would be breathtaking. Even now, the sight of snow falling over pines was gorgeous.
He helped himself to a drink, then made himself comfortable on a sleek black leather recliner.
“So, my painting…” he prompted.
I shook my head. “I’m not interested in your painting. I’m interested inmypainting.”
“The one I bought at auction?”
“The one concealing a second painting.”
He sipped his drink, then placed it aside. “The artwork was my purchase. Hence, it is my property.”
“I’m only interested in the front painting. The one of a château.”
He studied me for a moment, keeping his cards close to his chest.
“As I said, it’s mine. Do you wish to purchase it from me?”
Roux lashed his tail, reminding me time was ticking.
“It’s not worth anything,” I pointed out.
“On the contrary. I paid €95,000 for it.”
“No, you paid €95,000 for a Monet. Quite a bargain, really.”
His eyes danced, congratulating me. Not that he came out and admitted as much. He just stuck up a finger, indicating for me to wait while he stepped into the adjoining study.
Roux chuffed at me in disapproval.The painting doesn’t matter, Gen. We need to get out of here safely.
“You mean,thislovely painting?” Grepper reappeared with my father’s canvas in his hands.
Justthe canvas, removed from the frame, meaning the Monet was elsewhere.
A lump filled my throat, and I nodded. “My father painted it.”
“Thomas Durand.” He touched the tiny signature in the bottom corner. “He certainly had some skill.”
I frowned at his use of the past tense. Chez Robert had only listed my father’s name and the date of the painting. How did Grepper know my father was dead?
“It can’t possibly have any value to you, but it has great sentimental value for my family,” I said.
“Perhaps, but I’ve grown fond of it.” He rolled it up and placed it aside.
“I propose a trade,” I said, making poor Roux tense all over again.
