The Red(2)

There was a man standing in the gallery.

Mona gasped, her hand over her mouth. It didn't seem he had heard her gasp. He didn't even turn to look at her. She swallowed hard, her heart running like the White Rabbit. He was tall and broad-shouldered and wore a three-piece black suit. He had one hand on his hip, one hand on his chin. Although his clothes were modern and he looked about forty years old, there was something about him that looked … old. No, not old. Old World, perhaps. Yes, that. Old World. She could think of no other way to describe him. It was the hair. That was it. He wore his hair in a style that would have best belonged on a Regency-era lord. Black and tousled, rakish even, he reminded her of Eugene Delacroix's dashing self-portraits. Dark eyes, black heart. To Mona he looked like the devil gone courting.

But who was the devil's lucky lady?

"Sir?" Mona finally worked up her courage to speak. "The gallery is closed."

He didn't speak at first. But he did move at last. He dropped his hand from his chin and stepped toward the small painting in front of him. It was a George Morland, a contemporary of Joshua Reynolds. Nothing terribly impressive about it. Merely an uninspired painting of men in red coats on horseback. A pretty painting, pretty and unobtrusive. Mona imagined an older couple looking to decorate a country house would take a shine to it. All it had done in the four months it hung on the gallery wall was gather dust.




 

 

"Things aren't what they seem."

His accent was English. She'd recognized those lovely vowels at once.

"No," she said. "I imagine they aren't."

"I hear your gallery is closing," he said. Again the right hand came to his chin, the left hand to his hip. The left hand drew her gaze. He was lean and the well-tailored vest emphasized his trim waist and hips. She was finding it very difficult not to enjoy looking at his body. The man was a work of art.

"Closed, I said. I told you the gallery is closed. It's almost midnight."

"You're in the red."

"So are you. That's the name of the gallery."

At that he turned and looked at her, met her eyes, smiled. She felt a current of fear run through her body, electric and exciting. Why hadn't she dressed better today? She wore her plain tweed skirt, her plain black blouse, and plain black flats. She looked more like a secretary than a gallery owner. If only-secretaries made far more money than she did these days.

"You're in the red," he said again. "In debt, I mean."

"What have you heard?" she asked. She knew local real estate developers could be aggressive when it came to prime property in prime locations. Had someone sent this man to force her to sell?

"I heard the gallery was in distress. Such a shame," he said. "It's a treasure trove."

"It's a money pit," she said.

He arched an eyebrow at her. He looked even more like the devil than ever. A dashing devil. Despite her fear, she liked looking at him. He didn't seem dangerous. No, he seemed terribly dangerous. But he didn't seem violent. There was a difference.

"How so?" he asked.

"My mother bought paintings she couldn't re-sell," Mona said. "She spent huge sums of money on gallery parties that brought in no revenue. And she died of cancer last autumn. The bills were enormous."

"No father to help?"

"I don't know who my father is. My mother was a bohemian type."

"And you have no money?"

"Having no money right now would be a blessing because currently I have negative five hundred thousand dollars," she said. "So unless you're going to buy that Morland for five hundred thousand dollars, I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to leave. The gallery is closed, but it isn't closing-not yet. If you want to come back, you can. We'll open at ten tomorrow morning."

"It's not a Morland," he said.

"What?"

"I told you-things aren't always as they seem. There are machines for seeing through paint? Or am I mistaken?" 

"X-ray machines?"

"Yes, those." He nodded sagely. "You should take this painting and have it run through one of those machines. Tell me what you see."

"I don't have one here," she said. "I'd have to find one."

"Do that. I'll return in one week," he said. "I want you to trust me."

"Why?"

"Because I would like to help you. I would like to help you very much indeed. But I can't help you if you don't trust me. And I certainly can't help you if you sell the gallery. So do as I say."

"Do as you say?" She was flabbergasted. The gall of this man.

"You won't regret it," he said. "I assure you, you won't regret any of it, Mona."