Penelope padded closer, her knuckles white, fingers tightening at her side.
The first painting depicted the sea—a raging, angry, blue-gray wave about to swallow a narrow strip of beach. It looked as real as a photograph. Next to it was a close-up of the moon, depicting craters and fine shadows with such precision that she felt she could reach out and touch the cold dust.
“You like nature. I must admit, after our talks, I expected more portraits.”
“I love both,” Lucia said. “Though I tend to use different materials for each.”
Penelope closed her eyes. She’d held back so far. Not allowing herself to truly see the paintings because what she’d see would make it real, no longer a suspicion, but a cold, hard fact. And a part of her trembled at what it would mean, at how much it would hurt.
When she opened them a moment later, she let her gaze soften to fully take in one of Lucia’s paintings, barely suppressing a gasp, yet unable to ward off the sting in her eyes. The colors blurred: soft, acidic, unmistakable. The same flavor she couldn’t unsee. All those lines, drawn by the same hand.
Lucia was the forger.
She’d created both the Bellini and the Alessi pieces—along with the Santini painting and God knew how many more.
Penelope almost stumbled back, her breath hitching in her throat.
“Hey, are you all right?” Lucia’s fingers on her arm, soft yet firm, both steadied and shattered her.
She could only nod.
Penelope looked away and froze. Was that…
She took a few steps toward the hallway to an easel holding a canvas with a familiar face.
Her face.
“That’s…” She stepped closer, Lucia’s hand sliding off her arm in the process.
“Oh, wow. Yes. That’s… I told you I like to draw faces.” Lucia stuffed her hands into her pants pockets.
Penelope had no words.
She’d obviously seen quite a lot of herself, from mirrors to pictures, but she’d never seen herself likethis.
The woman in the picture looked powerful but also soft. It was hard to describe, and her mind was still in the spiral of Lucia, the forger, Lucia, the woman who made her heart speed up and her stomach clench. All of it together stole her words, leaving nothing but an empty ache in her chest.
“I couldn’t get you out of my head,” Lucia whispered after a moment of protracted silence. “You’re beautiful, obviously, but it was your eyes that stuck with me and wouldn’t let go.”
“Is this…” Penelope bit her lower lip. “Is this how you see me?”
“Yes.”
Lucia stood so close.
When had she moved? And how had Penelope ended up right in front of the canvas, away from the sea and the moon where they’d just stood?
“I’m sorry if this upsets you. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”
Penelope shifted her gaze from the image and found Lucia’s instead. Her heart and brain didnotcongratulate her on that decision because while Lucia’s art stunned Penelope, her face undid her.
“Lucia, I…” She faltered, her eyelids fluttering when Lucia drew closer. Penelope’s gaze dropped to Lucia’s full lips, and she wondered what they’d taste like. She leaned forward. If only she’d—
“Why do you do it?” Penelope blurted.
Lucia halted, blinking rapidly. “Do what? The painting? I just—”
“No. Why do you forge paintings and launder them through museums?”
