One Sizzling Night(23)

Not likely. Hell, when he was with Kensey, business was the last thing on his mind. Different problem. So, no, she’d had no reason to mention she knew Holstrom. Unless she was involved with him, and then, yeah, it would’ve been nice if she’d said something before they’d had sex.

Shit.

She leaned closer to Holstrom.

Logan’s blood pressure skyrocketed. What the hell was she doing?

“Hey, you interested in the buffet, or not?”

Logan looked at Barney and suddenly remembered something. Two nights ago. His phone conversation with Mike. Holstrom’s name had come up. Directly after that, Kensey had gone to ground. Coincidence? He didn’t believe in them.

“Goddamn it,” he said, turning his gaze back to her, all nice and cozy, pressed up against the man Logan hoped to do business with.

Barney laughed. “I know, she’s very pretty, but don’t even think about it. Nobody messes with Holstrom’s women. You might as well forget her.”

If only Logan could.





13

“I DON’T BELIEVE you for one second,” Kensey said, looking directly into Ian Holstrom’s light eyes.

“It’s all true. Every last word.”

She lowered her lashes, tried to fight a smile without looking as if she was having an attack of some kind. Truth was, Holstrom was interesting. No doubt about it. He was an imposing man with strong views. And he certainly understood that power was an extraordinary aphrodisiac.

It made her ill. The idea of using her sex appeal for any kind of gain was so far from who she was that it was painful.

At least talking with him was easy. Discussing art was safe, and he liked showing off how much he knew. But honestly, there was only one topic of conversation that mattered. Ian Holstrom reminded her of the sea creatures who needed to be wetted down whenever they left their habitat. For now, she was the water keeping him alive, the compliments giving him obvious pleasure, only to roll off so he required another.

“Wait, that had happened before,” she said. “Steve Wynn, I think, put his elbow through Picasso’s La Rêve just before he was to sell it to Steve Cohen for $120 million dollars.”

Holstrom nodded. “One hundred and thirty-seventy million.”

“He must have cursed that moment every day since.”

“It was restored. And sold. I myself have purchased some of his collection. Two Gauguins. And a van Gogh.”

“I’d give anything to see them,” she said, her excitement real.

“Your friend Neil Patterson has outbid me on a few masterworks.”

Kensey stiffened. She’d helped broker those deals, which Holstrom would know, so he was clearly testing her. “I’m aware,” she said, trying to remain composed.

“I was thinking of giving him a call. To see if he wanted to change his mind.”

Under his watchful gaze, she tightened her lips, briefly avoided his eyes, hoping she was sending the right signals. “He won’t give me a good reference, if that’s what you’re after.”

“I can’t imagine why not. You certainly seem to know your art. You did graduate from the Istituto Superiore per la Conservazione ed il Restauro, if I’m not mistaken.”

Naturally, he’d done his homework, just as she and Neil had suspected. Thank God, Sam had worked her magic. “I did. I’m an excellent curator, and my restoration work has been noted by the Met among others. Neil and I had different expectations about certain things. Personal things.” She waved her hand, dismissing what she’d just said. “He’s a fossil.”

“That’s the best description of Neil Patterson I’ve ever heard. He doesn’t deserve the finer things in life. He certainly doesn’t understand how to keep them.”

She blushed. It helped the cause, of course, but she actually was embarrassed by the inference. It was all she could do not to leap to Neil’s defense.

Holstrom laughed. “He’s always been shortsighted, willing to spend big bucks on art, but not on someone as beautiful and talented as you.” He lifted her hand and kissed the back of it. “I have to be here for at least another hour, as tedious as that sounds, but why don’t we have dinner, after? We could go to O Ya.”

Even she knew that was widely considered the best restaurant in Boston. She smiled. “As if we could get a table... Oh,” she said. “Of course.”

Amusement gleamed in his eyes. “You really have been spending too much time with Patterson.”

“I suppose that’s true. But, if I may be honest?”

“Of course you may.”

She’d been noticing that there was an actual bubble around them. A two-foot circle where no one dared tread. Interesting. “I was hoping for something more private.”

“For example...?”

“Where I could see that van Gogh and Gauguin.”

The way he looked at her, she feared she’d taken things one step too far. But then he smiled. It was difficult to read what it meant, as he never seemed to lose the superior smirk.

“I’m sorry to interrupt, sir.”

Kensey jumped, so used to having their sacred space. It was a young man in a suit, very deferential. Almost obsequious.

Holstrom sighed. “What is it?”

“It’s regarding your trip on Saturday, sir. Mr. Siu wishes to know if you would care to stay as his guest on the afternoon of your arrival. He says you will not be disturbed by street noises.”

“Tell him, no. I’ll call him when I’m ready to see him. And tell Elaine to change my booking to extend the trip an additional week.”

“Yes, sir. I apologize for the interruption.” The young man scurried away.

Kensey’s pulse had quickened. He was leaving the country? She couldn’t afford to lose ground. “Asia?”

“China. Have you been?”

“No. I haven’t had the pleasure.” She leaned a little closer. “My main focus of study was European art and artists. However, I’m quite familiar with Chinese art from my undergraduate years at Yale. Of course, I haven’t had a reason to brush up, but I follow the auctions. It’s hard to miss the names that come up regularly.”

He smiled. “You mean my name.”

“Among others.” She was still trying to wrap her head around his departure on Saturday and what it would mean to her. It sounded as though he could be gone for two weeks, and her father could be apprehended any minute. But desperation was one of the hardest emotions to mask, so she forced every bit of it away, and thought quickly. “So, this trip, is it for Holstrom Industries business or will you be going to look at art?”

“Both. I rarely forgo the chance to see what’s out there.”

“No, I suppose a man such as yourself has his priorities in order,” she said with a soft laugh, carefully keeping her gaze on his face. “Oh, I’m sure you’ve heard about the Degas that was stolen in New York last week.”

There it was.

Her breath caught at the self-aggrandizing gleam in his eye. Any doubt she might’ve had vanished. Had she blinked she might’ve missed it, but he was clearly delighted by his dirty secret.

“Yes, I had heard,” he said with a nod.

She hadn’t planned to bring up the Degas and she hoped it wasn’t a mistake. But it was all she could think of to step things up before his trip. And now she knew for certain Holstrom had the original. The trick was not to let it mess with her head. “Have you ever met Douglas Foster? Do you think he could actually be the Houdini Burglar?”

Holstrom took her arm and slowly started to move. Not clear on what he intended, her heart lurched. She’d posed a stupid question. So very, very stupid. Bringing up her father served no purpose other than to unnerve her.

“What do you think?” he asked, and her heart rate slowed as she realized he only meant to mingle. “Have you met him?”

“Once. A long time ago, but of course I know his reputation from what I’ve read about him.”

“No,” Holstrom said. “I don’t believe Douglas had any part in the theft.”

“I don’t either, but...” Kensey lifted her shoulders in a dainty shrug. “To be honest, I’m more interested in whether Mr. Seymour is in the market for a new curator. Clearly whoever approved the security for his collection room was sloppy.”

“I had the impression you wanted to freelance.”

“Well, I’m not foolish,” Kensey said with a small laugh. “For the right money I’d sign on with another private collector.”

He smiled again, clearly pleased with her answer, just as she’d hoped. Money motivated people to do a lot of things they might not have otherwise considered moral, which was something Holstrom probably loved to exploit.

“Between you and me,” he said. “I wouldn’t pin any hope on Seymour. I heard he’s in financial trouble.”

“Really?” She drew back to stare at him. “So you think the theft is about collecting the insurance money?” She shook her head. “He could’ve just sold the Degas. I know of at least fifty people who would kill to own that particular work.”

If she wasn’t already convinced he had the original, the unmistakable gloat of victory that flashed in his eyes would have left no doubt.