Chapter 1
Misapplied Talent
The heat clung to Lucia like a second skin as she headed toward Atlanta’s Meridian Museum of Art to listen to a presentation about art authentication and the challenges of identifying forgeries. The late afternoon sun baked the sidewalk, and the humid July air made her regret the dark jeans she’d worn.
She couldn’t believe she’d let Francesca talk her into this, yet here she was.
Inside, she headed straight for one of their lecture rooms, picking a seat in the back that offered a good view of the podium. Her bag, the portfolio binder tucked inside, went on the floor beside her.
The air smelled faintly chemical—of cleaner or floor polish, maybe—and the hall hummed with quiet conversation and the soft scrape of chairs. The room filled quickly, and ten minutes later, the lights dimmed.
A woman strode toward the podium with sure steps, smiling as the soft clack of her heels echoed on the wooden floor, and placed her hands on the lectern.
“Welcome, my fellow art enthusiasts. I’m Doctor Penelope Blackwell, and I hope you’ll enjoy tonight’s session: ‘The Fine Line: Identifying Forgeries in the Art World.’”
Lucia let out a slow breath and shifted in her seat. While she’d researched biographical information on her target, she’d never bothered with a picture. Maybe if she had, Blackwell’s face—with its near-perfect symmetry that made Lucia’s fingers itch for her paints and canvas—wouldn’t be so distracting.
“Why should we care about forgeries?” Blackwell’s gaze swept the room. “I once had a student who asked, ‘Why bother? Shouldn’t we be happy people can create art rivaling the greats? Isn’tthattalent, too? More art for the masses,’ he’d said.”
Blackwell was beautiful, with striking dark eyes, long black hair swept into an elegant twist, and pale skin that seemed almost luminous under the harsh auditorium lights. She had the kind of face that didn’t just photograph well but demanded to be painted. But it wasn’t just her appearance—it was the way she spoke, with a calm, certain, effortless command of the room.
She held Lucia’s interest from the introduction with her rare take on forgeries, even if she clearly disagreed with her erstwhile student.
“Forgeries destabilize more than collections. They undermine trust, finances, and even nations’ claims to their heritage. Some of you may recall the recent scandals that pushed many museums to reauthenticate their holdings,” Blackwell continued.
Lucia repositioned herself.
“Now, let us take a closer look…”
After the thirty-minute talk, followed by a fifteen-minute Q&A, the crowd loosened and thinned. Some dawdled, hovering nearby to talk to Blackwell one-on-one, much like Lucia had planned. She wanted to be last.
To pass the time, she lingered near the artwork on display, feigning casual interest.
Even the Meridian’s lecture rooms featured art: an intricate Italian marble sculpture Francesca would have appreciated, and an oil painting of a raging sea, so vivid in its execution, it made Lucia shiver. She imagined the cold spray, the roar of unseen waves just beyond the canvas edge. Lucia studied them between shooting glances toward Blackwell, waiting for her moment to approach.
When it came, she found herself oddly tongue-tied, gripping her bag as she halted in front of the lectern.
“May I help you?” Blackwell asked when Lucia simply stood there, staring.
Heat bloomed in Lucia’s cheeks. She cleared her throat.
“Yes, uh. I really enjoyed your lecture. It was…different.”
Blackwell tilted her head.
“In a good way,” Lucia added quickly. “You spoke about forgery as if it’s an art in itself.”
Blackwell frowned slightly. “I wouldn’t go that far, but yes. Thereisskill involved. Misapplied, but skill nonetheless.”
“Right. Yes. Anyway…” Lucia forced herself to focus. “My name is Lucia Rossi. I’m an art restorer and consultant for private collectors. A client of mine recently acquired a painting rumored to be from Benedetto Alessi’s lost collection, but there’s no provenance. It could be an incredible discovery, or a brilliant fake.”
Blackwell’s gaze sharpened with what looked like interest. “I see.”
“Before they commit to a full report, I suggested it wouldn’t hurt to consult an expert. Off the record, of course.”
Blackwell studied her for a moment, as if assessing something beyond Lucia’s words, then finally nodded. “As long as you understand this is a preliminary assessment, not an official statement.”
“Of course.” Lucia unzipped her bag and pulled out a leather-bound portfolio nested between protective foam sheets, carefully removing a small, aged canvas before handing it over. “There’s no title,” she added. “It was found without additional documentation.”
