He stared at her. ‘I thought you had what you came for?’
Sarah Grant pushed the sunglasses into her hair and the challenge in the hazel eyes raised the stakes. ‘I thought so, too. Have I?’
For a moment he felt as if his soul had been stripped bare. He’d become closer to this woman in a few short weeks than to anyone he’d ever had a relationship with. The thought of losing her chilled him to the depths of his being. Yes, he had doubts, but about what she was, not who. Finally, he nodded. ‘If you want it.’
‘I thought I’d made that pretty clear, Jamie.’
‘You—’
‘Hi, Miss Sarah Grant, right, and Mr James Saintclair?’
Jamie glared at the intruder, but the tall man who stood a few feet from their table was unruffled by the coolness of his reception. He had dark, almost Polynesian good looks and a helmet of sun-bleached hair that would stay in place even in the highest winds. The smile that showed off his perfect white teeth didn’t budge or the amused – a less trusting person might say mocking – blue eyes lose their sparkle. The tan suit he wore over a cream shirt would have cost Saintclair Fine Arts the best part of a year’s profit and fitted tightly across a swimmer’s muscled shoulders. He spoke English with an American accent. Jamie took one look at him and couldn’t keep the words snake-oil salesman out of his head.
The visitor waited for an acknowledgement and when it wasn’t forthcoming, he nodded approval.
‘Yep, you’re right to be wary, a couple of folks with a valuable commodity on their hands. Guess I’d be much the same if I’d just found that painting.’
‘What makes you think we found a painting?’ Sarah asked innocently.
The smile was replaced by a self-effacing grin. ‘Well, that might be on account of the local police commander pointing you out. Now don’t tell me she would be mistaken? Not after I’ve gone to the trouble of confirming it at the hotel over yonder. That’s the hotel where you sent your pitch on the internet from, right?’ He pulled a card from his pocket. ‘Bob Sumner, I represent the Vanderbilt Corporation.’ Sumner saw she was impressed and the grin broadened. Now Jamie understood the level of cooperation from the police. Vanderbilt was one of the world’s most powerful business corporations: a ruthless global giant that dominated a dozen industries. The kind his heart told him shouldn’t be allowed to exist, but that his head said always would. He read the card. It confirmed that Bob Sumner was the Vanderbilt Media Division’s deputy director of European operations.
‘Might I sit with you?’ the big man requested. ‘I have what I hope you’ll find an interesting proposition.’
Jamie moved to make room at the small table and Sumner slid comfortably into one of the vacant metal seats. Sarah found herself the focus of disconcerting blue eyes.
‘I’ll get right down to business, if you folks don’t mind. Because in an hour the entire European press pack is going to come driving down that road like ol’ Guderian’s panzers and they’ll be just as hard to stop. You’ll notice I’m not hiding the fact that I face opposition for your signature. I’ll also talk to you as a partnership, because as you’ll see, although Miss Grant has offered us a feature story, we envisage substantially more potential. Like I say, you have a commodity which we at Vanderbilt recognize is of substantial value. We respect your right to get the best possible price for it. I flatter myself that the fact the company has sent me is some kind of indication of that and I hope to convince you that Vanderbilt Corporation can deliver the best commercial environment to exploit your story and bring it to a worldwide audience.’
‘I take it that means you’ll put it in your newspaper and pay me for it?’
Sumner motioned to the waiter hovering by the doorway. ‘Can I get you folks anything?’ They shook their heads. ‘Kaffee, bitte.’
The American studied Sarah and shook his head. ‘No, ma’am, not exactly. Vanderbilt Media has one hundred and fifty media outlets worldwide. We would franchise your story, in series form, across all those titles. In addition, we would commission you to write, or cooperate with a ghost writer, on a book bringing together all aspects of the story and the history of the painting.’ He smiled indulgently. ‘Like The Da Vinci Code, but true, profits to be split fifty-fifty.’ Sarah’s eyes widened imperceptibly and Jamie could tell that Bob Sumner’s hard sell was cutting through her armour like a welding torch. ‘Vanderbilt Media also owns or part owns twenty-five satellite and terrestrial television stations. It would be our intention to commission a film documentary tracing your search for the painting from day one. The film would have a substantial budget and be backed by all the resources of Vanderbilt Corporation. We would leave no stone unturned in the search to track the painting’s journey across Europe. We’re also intrigued by this mysterious Nazi bunker you found. I personally would be interested to know how you knew where to look?’ The grin didn’t falter, but just for a millisecond Jamie saw ice chips where there had been none earlier.