“I’m telling this story.”
“Simon?” Kat asked as she looked around the bustling halls. “How much longer?”
“Fifteen minutes,” was Simon’s answer.
“But Romani didn’t really die, see?” Hamish went on, undaunted. “Well, strictly speaking, he did die, but—”
“Hamish, are you watching the door or aren’t you?” Gabrielle snapped, joining the conversation as she followed Hale and the Henley’s esteemed director from a respectable distance.
“I am, love. It’s clear as a bell. So anyway, as I was saying, he died, but he got reincarnated, see? Every generation there’s a new Romani.”
“That’s not how it goes, Hamish,” Kat tried to clarify.
“Yeah,” Angus said, ever the older brother. “The original Romani drowned. And it’s every other generation.”
“Guys,” Kat warned. Then something stopped her. She couldn’t scold the Bagshaws—could barely speak at all—when she realized how close Nick was standing, looking at her like she had never been looked at before.
“So, Nick, have you lived in Paris long?” She stepped away from the statue they’d been pretending to admire, glad of somewhere to go.
The boy shrugged as he fell into step beside her. “Off and on.” Kat felt a pang of something—annoyance, maybe? But maybe something else.
“Your accent isn’t one hundred percent British, though. Is it?” Kat asked.
“My father was American. But my mom is English.”
“And is she going to be missing you now?”
Nick glanced around the Henley’s pristine statue collection and shook his head. “I’ve got a few days.”
“That’s all we need,” Kat told him.
Nick stopped midstride and smiled at her. “Well then, that’s what you’ll get, Ms. Bishop.”
His words startled her. Or maybe it wasn’t the words themselves, but the way he’d said them. She studied him, trying to see every angle.
“Oh,” he said, that same cryptic smile on his face. He started walking again, just a tourist. Just a boy. “You really didn’t expect me to look you up? To figure out that you were the Katarina Bishop?”
“Exactly how does one ‘look me up’?” Kat felt herself blush, but she wasn’t really sure why.
“Just because I work alone doesn’t mean I don’t have resources. Only, rumor has it you’d walked away from the life.”
“I’m not . . .” Kat shook her head, then tried again, stronger now. “I’m still walking.”
And she was, down the grand promenade, through the crowds that had begun to thin, more equally distributed among the museum’s many exhibits. As they passed the Renaissance room, Kat noticed that it wasn’t neglected anymore. Tourists had gathered in front of da Vinci’s final masterpiece as if the world were righting itself, settling back into place.
“And here we have Leonardo da Vinci’s Angel Returning to Heaven,” a docent was saying ten feet away. “Purchased in 1946 by Veronica Henley herself, it is widely considered one of the most valuable works of art in the world—the most valuable, according to Mrs. Henley. When reporters asked her shortly before her death which piece she would rather have for her collection, this painting or the Mona Lisa, Mrs. Henley said, ‘Let the Louvre keep Leonardo’s lady; I have his angel.’”
The tour group moved on, and Kat eased toward the da Vinci. “You tempted?” Nick asked.
Was it beautiful? Yes. Was it valuable? Incredibly. But as she stood looking at one of the most important paintings in the world, Kat couldn’t help but marvel at how little temptation she felt.
And not because it was an almost impossible target, or because it would be practically impossible to resell, even on the black market.
It wasn’t for any of the reasons that a good thief might list. Her reasons, Kat decided—or maybe just hoped—were those of a good person.
“You’ve had big scores before, though, right?” Nick asked.
Kat shrugged. “Big is a relative term.”
“But you and your dad did the Tokyo Exchange Center last year, right?” Kat smiled but didn’t answer. “The Embassy job in Paris . . . The—”
“What’s your real question, Nick?”
It took a minute for him to shake his head and say, “Why the Colgan job?”
“It wasn’t a job. It was more like a . . . life?” Nick stared at Kat blankly, so she added, “A way of expanding my educational horizons.”
Nick laughed. “What could someone like you possibly learn at a place like that? Those kids are just . . . kids.”
“Yeah.” Kat walked on. “That was kind of the point.”
“You see, Mr. Hale, this is the wing your Monet would call home.” Hale watched the way Gregory Wainwright held his arms out wide, as if the entire wall could be his for the taking. Hale had seen that gesture before, of course. That gesture alone was possibly why he found taking so very appealing.
“We have hosted some of the finest works from some of the world’s finest families,” the director went on while Hale turned and surveyed the gorgeous space as if he were bored. He oozed indifference. It felt almost too easy—the role he’d been born to play, after all. But then the director glanced at his watch and said, “Oh, will you look at the time,” and Hale felt the director’s interest slipping.
“Tell me, Mr. . . . Worthington,” Hale said, pointing at a very nice Manet, “what kind of assurances do I have that my painting wouldn’t be damaged in any way?”