The Warhol Incident (3 page)

“It’s
not my problem. I’m just here to make sure the painting I’m bringing home stays where it’s supposed to be.”

“Sounds like a
decent plan.” He opened the mini-fridge. “Can I get you anything?” I looked at the clock.

“I don’t want to keep you, if you have an early mo
rning.” I moved to get off the couch.

“Stay p
ut. It’s only six at home. Trust me, you aren’t the only one having trouble sleeping.” I laughed, and he pulled out a bottle of French wine and two glasses. He handed me a glass as he took a seat next to me.

“T
ell me, are you offering Guillot the job?”

“I already did.
He has to find a permanent replacement, arrange for VISAs, and finalize all the other paperwork involved. I spoke with a couple of board members, and they are working on travel arrangements, finding him and his family a residence, and all that other fun stuff.”

“H
e accepted the offer?” It was more a statement than a question.

“Yes.
He realized it was the point of this trip and expected it. He’s signing the official paperwork tomorrow, and I’m flying back Thursday morning to get the ball rolling on our end.” I studied Martin’s reaction, but I couldn’t figure out why he wasn’t pleased by this decision.

“And you’re okay with this?”
I had issues keeping my mouth shut and minding my own business.

“It’s great.
” He glanced at me, and I looked at him skeptically. “Well, it’s good. It will be less traveling I have to do. Far fewer business trips and service calls. I’m just having issues adjusting to,” he paused, trying to determine how to verbalize his misgivings.

“Trusting people,” I supplied the words for him.
“It’ll come back with time.” Reaching for the bottle of wine, I refilled both of our glasses.

“Thanks,” Martin said, lost
slightly in his own world. Once again, I managed to bring the conversation to a crashing halt. Great talent you have there, Parker.

“D
inner, tomorrow night? It is your last night in Paris, after all. Plus, you did help me with my homework.” I shot him a brief smile. “It’s the least I can do.”

“Sure, but
don’t stand me up this time.”

“Ali Parker?
” the undeniable voice on the other end of the line asked, sounding completely confused. There was only one person who ever called me Ali.

“Jean-Pierre?”
I didn’t connect the dots until now. “You aren’t working for Interpol anymore?” I was astounded. Not to mention, Gustav wasn’t Jean-Pierre’s surname when I worked with him years ago. Of course, that might have been because he was undercover at the time.

“No, I went private sector, same as you.
Things change, chére,” Jean-Pierre said into the phone. The prospect of working this job significantly improved since I’d be working with an old acquaintance.

“My, my
.” I gave him the hotel name and my room number. We planned to meet in an hour, so he could fill me in on the investigation and take me to La Galerie d’Art et d'Antiquités.

My first international smuggling case had landed me in
Paris, and the OIO had been partnered with Interpol to track down a ring of art forgers. Jean-Pierre had been working undercover, having made strong black market ties to illegal art sales. It was his expertise and contacts that helped bust the case open for us and led to the arrest of several key forgers and illegal art dealers. He had been an incredibly impressive UC operative. I couldn’t imagine why he would have willingly left Interpol. Arguably, people said the same thing when I left the OIO. Things really did change.

Jean-Pierre knocked on my door,
and I let him in. The last four years hadn’t altered his look much. His blond hair was gelled into some slight spikes, and he still had the musculature of a military man. He was wearing a black leather jacket and jeans with wraparound sunglasses hooked behind his neck.

“Ali,” he greeted
, kissing me on both cheeks. Upon closer inspection, he had a few new scars on his face and neck. It appeared someone got a bit too close with a knife, but I didn’t say anything.

“You’re working permanently for Evans-Ster
ling now?”

“Things got
too rough, and the pay wasn’t cutting it anymore,” he responded. “It was time for a change. I can’t be running around, playing a badass every minute of the day.” I laughed. “It is good to see you.”

“
It’s been too long.”

Jean-Pierre explained the layout and situation at
the gallery concerning the missing pieces of art. Obviously, all of them were insured by Evans-Sterling, but the painting I was escorting was the most valuable. After arriving at the gallery, I wandered the hallways and studios, pretending to be a patron in order to get a feel for the security measures in place. The gallery, while small and fairly unknown, did possess quite a few expensive pieces that dated as far back as the Renaissance. Security cameras covered all of the rooms, and tripwires were attached to the frames. I agreed with his assessment that the paintings were relatively secure, at least during business hours.

“A
ny leads on who misplaced the other three paintings?” I asked once we were outside and a couple blocks away.

“I’ve been conducting
surveillance at night, along with a few other Sterling employees. If I had to make a guess, it’s either the curator or the art restorer. They are always the last two people to leave, never together, and given their positions at the gallery, they’d each have the access to pull it off.” Jean-Pierre’s gut instincts were good. He had been doing this for a long time, and I had no reason to question his assessment.

“How’s the security?
Do they have night guards on duty?”

“They have a couple of guys who
work the desk and watch the security feed. Each of the individual studios inside has its own laser grid and metal gate. Probably why nothing goes missing until after being moved into the back room for prep and transport.” He seemed bored giving the details since he previously had this same discussion with various other people, such as the Police Nationale.

“Sorry, just trying to catch-
up.” He nodded, unperturbed.

“It’s fine.”
We got into his car. “Why don’t you come out with me tonight? The gallery is under surveillance, and you can witness firsthand how things are running.”

“Okay.
” I thought briefly about my dinner plans with Martin, but this was more important. “What time?”

“
Shift change is midnight, meet me then?”

“You just want to take advantage of my internal clock’s time differen
ce and catch-up on some sleep while I keep an eye out,” I teasingly accused.

“Don’t you know it, chére.”
He grinned. “I’ll give you a call if something happens between now and then. Sal probably wants you paying close attention Friday and Saturday morning, so tonight can be a dry run.”

“Sal?”

“Salazar Sterling, the guy who signs our paychecks.”

“Well, maybe yours.
I’m only working this one job. I’m my own one-woman investigating and consulting firm.” It shouldn’t hurt to brag a little; we were on the same team, after all.

“How’d you manage to g
et that gig?” Jean-Pierre sounded jealous.

“Long story.
Maybe I’ll fill you in tonight,” I teased, getting out of the car. At least I’d be able to make dinner with Martin and still work the stakeout with Jean-Pierre. Tonight was going to turn out well.

*               *               *

It was seven thirty, and I was sitting across the table from Martin. He decided on a more native Parisian dinner, so we were in a brasserie close to the hotel. He was wearing jeans and a black dress shirt. I was dressed in a similarly casual manner in some tightly-fitting denim, a sweater, and a killer pair of heels. We were on our second bottle of wine, and I realized I needed to stop now in order to sober up before meeting Jean-Pierre. Hopefully, I wouldn’t fall asleep between now and then. Martin reached to refill my glass, but I put my hand over the top.

“I have
to work tonight,” I told him. He looked at me like I was insane.

“You’re joking, right?”

“Actually, I’m not. I’m conducting some surveillance on the painting thing.” I probably wasn’t supposed to tell him any of this. But somehow, he had become my trusted confidant, and as it was, he had translated for me last night. He might as well be clued in. “What time is your flight tomorrow?” I inquired, changing the subject.

“It’s my jet, so
it leaves when I want to leave.” I gave him my best ‘give me a break’ look. “The flight plan is for 8:15 tomorrow morning.”

We ate in silence for a
while, enjoying the food and the company. I provided a very vague run-through of my itinerary for the rest of the week and filled him in on my travel plans for Saturday morning. Unfortunately, those of us who don’t have private jets have connecting flights to Heathrow, then JFK, and from there, home.

“I can pick you up at the airport,” Martin offered.

“No, I’m okay
,” I said firmly. “The Evans-Sterling guys are taking possession of the painting at the airport, so I don’t need even more people in suits waiting for me. I might get confused with a celebrity or an heiress.”

“I don’t have to wear a suit.”
He indicated his casual dress. “I’m not wearing one now.”

“No, you are no
t.” My ability for clever banter was somewhat impaired at the moment as Martin stared at me with his classic lecherous look. “What?”

“Y’
know, we’re in a bar in Paris. I’m not wearing a suit. You aren’t under my direct employ at the moment.” I could see where his argument was going.

“I’m always employed by you.
I’m on retainer.” This was just another in our long list of arguments regarding my insistence to not become romantically involved with my boss. 

“I could fire you
,” he looked wistful, “and rehire you in the morning.”

“I have to work t
onight.” Although that wasn’t the sound argument I should be making, my internal voice commented.

“
And you say I’m a workaholic,” he scoffed. “We don’t have to be James Martin and Alexis Parker tonight.” He was trying a new tactic. “We could just be two lonely American tourists who met by chance in a foreign city.” The two bottles of wine turned Martin into an incorrigible romantic and me into someone who might be stupid enough to fall for the bullshit.

“Martin,” I sighed, “you’re still you.
I’m still me. We’re the same people here or at home.” I gave him a sad smile. He reached over and brushed his thumb across my cheek, his signature move.

“I guess you’re right.”
I was drowning in the green pools of his eyes. “I might have to work tonight, too. I’m waiting for a call from the Board about Guillot.” He glanced at his watch. “C’est la vie.”

“Ha,
” I exclaimed. “And you gave me a hard time about working tonight.”

He paid the bill, and we walked
the few blocks back to the hotel. I stumbled, and he offered his arm for balance. It was the heels, not the wine; although, if I were being honest, it might have been a little bit of both. Acting more subdued than usual, we entered the hotel and rode the elevator to my floor. Martin exited when I did and walked me to my room.

“Have a safe trip
home,” I murmured.

His words from the restaurant wer
e playing through my head on a loop. The prospect was becoming more appealing by the second. The warning bells blared in my mind, but I ignored them. Fumbling to pull my room key out of my pocket, I got distracted by how close he was standing. I looked up into his eyes. Maybe he was right, and we didn’t have to be us tonight.

My brain shut down, and on pure instinct
, I grabbed the front of his shirt and pulled him to me. His hands tangled in my hair as we kissed. It was electric, like we were lightning, and the energy surged between us. One of his hands traveled slowly down my back. We continued kissing as if the world were about to end. His hand traveled lower, and he hiked my leg up. Wrapping both of my legs around his waist, he supported my weight in his arms and leaned my back against the wall. This was not appropriate hallway behavior, and it was about to turn even more graphic. But, at the moment, I didn’t care. My phone buzzed in my pocket, breaking the spell temporarily.

“Don’t answer
it,” he hissed in my ear as his lips traveled to my neck and began to do some absolutely fantastic things. I sighed in pleasure, giving up on retrieving the phone. Voicemail existed for a reason.

My hands were in Martin’s hair now, and I was trying t
o remember where my room key was when his phone rang. This time, he stopped, cursing quietly. Rational thought was reigning supreme in my brain once again, and I untangled my legs and stood, slightly shaky, back on the ground.

“
I’m sorry. I have to take this.” His apology was so sincere. I knew he would regret having ever answered the phone. The universe just sent a cosmic signal, preventing us from crossing that line and making a huge mistake. I found my room key and pulled out my cell phone. It had been Jean-Pierre, and I needed to call him back. Martin spoke a few words on his call and hung up. “I hate to say this, but I’ve gotta go. There is one more thing I need to get signed before I head home tomorrow. I’ll be back as soon as I can.” He smiled seductively. “Remember where we were, and we’ll continue this as soon as I get back.” He clasped my face in his hands and kissed me again before retreating toward the elevator. “Don’t start without me,” he called, getting into the elevator. I watched the doors close and shut my eyes.

“S
tupid. Stupid. Stupid,” I berated myself as I unlocked the door. Thankfully, we didn’t have an audience in the hallway, and things stopped before they really started. Why did I have to be attracted to the one person I shouldn’t be involved with? At least nothing serious transpired. I picked up my phone and dialed Jean-Pierre.

“What’s going on?” I asked
.

“I got a call from a fence I know
. Tonight, there might be a scheduled buy for one of the missing pieces. Want to head over early?”

“I’ll meet you there in an hour.
” Hopefully by then, I’d manage to sober up completely.

“
À tout à l'heure
.
” Jean-Pierre hung up.

I pulled a
bottle of Gatorade out of the mini-fridge and drank greedily, hoping replenishing my fluids and electrolytes would flush the remaining alcohol out of my system faster. It was only wine, but the sheer volume was the issue. Checking my reflection in the mirror, my pupils weren’t dilated and responded to the light. Maybe I wasn’t intoxicated but just stupid. Damn Paris. The fact it was the city of love was a mental manipulation by itself without Martin putting other idiotic and fanciful ideas into my head. I was angry for the mess I was making of things. I worked for Martin’s company, and he was my friend. That was it.

Locating
the hotel stationary, I decided it was best to leave a note:
Glad we were saved by the bell. Went to work. Have a safe flight.
Leaving it at the main desk for him, I went outside and hailed a cab. My head was clearer now. My earlier intoxication might have had more to do with Martin than the wine.