Owned: A Mafia Menage Romance(149)

Peter led us through the tunnel and down stairs, then around a corner and back. Suddenly we were in a huge atrium filled with silence and a powdery silver light. As Peter led Jackson across the courtyard I lagged behind, gazing up at the enormous cages suspended from the skylights.

Peter glanced back to be sure I was following as he and Jackson chatted in low voices, and I suppressed an intense urge to do cartwheels across the white marble floors.

Concentrating on not lagging behind, I followed the men around a corner and then stopped gracelessly in my tracks like a cartoon character. It was right there, in front of me, as though it had come out of nowhere. Rembrandt’s The Night Watch.

My hand fluttered to my lips and I walked across the expanse of wood floor, right up to the short fence in front of the painting, as close as I could go without risking some kind of James-Bond-worthy alarm going off. I walked slowly from one end of the giant painting to the other, staring into every face, noting the life and specificity of each one. Not a generic collection of people: each figure had a personality, a history woven into their posture and expression.

Tilting my head, I stared at the paint’s texture in the raking light: every dollop was a single brush stroke and represented a gesture of a man’s sure and thoughtful hand, placed hundreds of years ago. It felt like a secret code, like seeing the individual notes in a symphony, strung on a wire and connected to every other note in a great chandelier. The whole picture meant something for everyone, but here was the master’s hand, practically showing me in person all the magic behind the scenes.

“Oh, man,” I whispered into my palm.

“You always know the artists,” Peter said, suddenly at my side. I sheepishly realized I’d been staring for quite a while. “They come right up and cock their heads to the ceiling, to see the glare. To see the paint, right?”

I nodded.

“Yes,” he continued. “Artists want to see the bones, to see the maker himself. Tourists want to see just a picture, maybe the whole museum. Maybe post photographs to say they were here. But artists always want to know. Just to understand, not to possess. How was it made? Where was the hand that held this brush?”

I inhaled deeply and then let my shoulders fall. What else could I say? He had explained it perfectly.

“Thank you so much, Peter… For showing this to me. I’m just… Oh I don’t know what to say.”

He shrugged charmingly, his huge shoulders going up and down like some kind of seismic shift.

“Maybe you will give me a tour personally? That would be nice indeed. On Friday?”

I shook my head, my mouth open in a dumb smile.

“At your party? Friday?”

My mind whirled. The party was… Friday? In six days? What was I giving him a tour of?

“Of course,” I stammered, trying to cover my confusion. “I would be happy to repay your kindness in any way.”

Jackson sidled next to me and I leaned against him, trying to keep my thoughts on an even keel.

“So!” Peter exclaimed, clapping his big hands together. “I really must be going, I do so apologize… I am sure you can be discreet about wandering the galleries unattended before we open. Jackson knows the collection well. Regrettably, I must return to business. Will I see you for supper?”

“Of course, Peter,” Jackson answered. I jammed a smile on my face and tried to remain polite. With a snappy salute, Peter turned and strode regally from the enormous Prussian blue vault, his footsteps echoing wildly against the gilded ceiling.

“Jackson, what was he talking about?” I breathed when I was sure Peter was out of earshot.

He glanced around, not meeting my eye.

“What, the party?” he said breezily. “Oh, Declan has some people he wants you to meet. Didn’t he mention--”

“Yeah, he did, but,” I said quickly. Why did this feel like an ambush? “OK, what ‘tour?’ What did Peter mean?”

He shrugged. “You’ll talk to him about your work, I suppose.”

I shook my head, rattling my thoughts and fears like dice, hoping they would settle. “That’s not what I do… I don’t talk. Bridget talks. Is Declan going to get me into a room full of people who expect me to talk?”

“Well…”

“Seriously?” I said, listening to the pitch of my voice rising. “Jackson, no… I can’t do that. I can’t.”

“You can do anything,” he said reassuringly, taking the back of my arm and pulling me toward the adjoining wall with a different, suddenly overwhelming masterpiece that I didn’t think I could stand to see. The museum felt like an impending avalanche.