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The Write Stuff
amazon.com
Category:
Romance
Publisher: Smashwords
Type: Fiction
Pages: 304
Copyright: August 2, 2014
ISBN-13: 9781311474414
Price: $2.99 (eBook)
Former lovers and current thieves, Valentina and Luca have a rich history together. But can they outrun the secrets of their past to embrace a promising future before it unravels?
Valentina Philips is a respected Decorative Arts curator for the Metropolitan Museum of Art. She is also a thief. Growing up in Italy as the British ambassador's daughter, Valentina never felt she fit in. Her classmate, Luca, stepped in as a mentor introducing her to Florence's exquisite artwork and encouraging her to refine her artistic skills.
He also taught her how to steal.
As an expert forger, she replaces the masterpieces she steals with her spot-on reproductions. Her warring conscience ultimately wins over, and she sets about trying to legitimize her talent.
If only it were that easy.
Luca appears at the Met as she's preparing their Fabergé egg collection for loan to the Bargello museum in Florence. Valentina knows his visit to New York can’t be a coincidence. Temptation plays many forms as Valentina relives the thrill of thieving, and Luca tries to charm her back into his bed.
She has to decide which world suits her better, and how much she’s willing to sacrifice to make the right choice.
Excerpt
The group of thirteen-year olds trailed me through the halls of the Metropolitan Museum of Art. They were a well-behaved group except for the occasional snicker from a couple of boys as they passed the naked statues in the Greek Hall. Although giving tours to recalcitrant teenagers did not fall under my curatorial responsibilities, I welcomed the opportunity to expose fresh minds to the art the museum offered. We stopped when we reached the European Sculpture and Decorative Arts wing. Some jostled for prime viewing positions while a few others hung farther back, their boredom and restlessness apparent on their young faces.
I loved my position at the museum, but I’d been feeling the same way lately. Maybe five years here was long enough. I envied them their candidness.
“This one, the Blue Serpent Clock Egg is a favorite of mine. Note the detail of the diamond-set serpent as it coils around the base of the egg and see how its head and tongue point toward the hour.”
I paused, monitoring their expressions for any change in interest.
“The eggs were exquisitely crafted, but what makes them even more interesting is that the majority of them held a surprise. Most of them were lost, unfortunately, over the years.”
“Yeah, like a box of Fruity Pebbles,” snorted one of the boys, in a feeble attempt at getting the attention of the cute girl standing in front of him.
“Shh!” she said, snapping her long hair in a dismissive sweep off her shoulder. “Ms. Philips is actually teaching us something.”
I hid my smile as I continued. “Fabergé created fifty Imperial eggs. Czar Alexander III commissioned the Hen Egg and presented it as a gift to his wife, the Empress Maria Fedorovna. The egg opened to a gold yolk, which then opened to a gold chicken, which then opened to reveal a diamond miniature of the Imperial crown that had a ruby pendant dangling off it.”
The girls gasped in wonderment, temporarily bringing me out of my funk.
“These Imperial eggs were often referred to as Easter eggs. I bet you'd love to find something as beautiful as these hiding in the grass at your next Easter egg hunt.”
This would be my last tour for a while; I was set to prepare the eggs for exhibit at the Bargello Museum in Florence. The expressions on their faces were priceless as they absorbed the intricacies of the eggs in the showcases. I remembered the first time I'd seen a Fabergé egg—that sense of joy has never left me.
Their teacher clapped her hands to get the group's attention, bringing me back to the present. “Please thank Ms. Philips for taking the time out of her busy schedule to give us this very special tour.”
I waved my good-bye as the group left.
Luca approached his feral stride silent as the group dispersed. “A woman of your stature, reduced to giving penny tours to school children. I'd say the museum curators are at a loss of how to,” he paused, “...utilize your unique talents.”
I always knew it was only a matter of time before he showed up at the museum, but still I felt unprepared and exposed under the gaze of the tourists passing us by. I turned without reply and walked back into the Great Hall. His hand whipped out and jerked me back.
“I have a silent alarm in my pocket and in thirty seconds you'll be surrounded by ten guards,” I whispered.
“Ten lazy guards who are half-asleep, wondering if the shish kebab vendor outside will have any left when they get off duty at six.”
I eyed him carefully. “Get your hands off me, Luca.”
“That's not what you said in St. Petersburg.”
“That was a momentary lapse in judgment,” I sighed. “It was fun, but things are different now.”
“How so, cara mia?” he asked, stepping in closer.
“Well, you disappeared in the middle of the night and then not one word from you for five years. It is possible I’ve outgrown you, Luca.” I frowned. “What are you doing in New York, anyway?”
“I need to get down to the storage rooms.”
My head began to throb. “Why? So you can palm some priceless artifacts?”
“Tsk, tsk, Valentina, you make me sound like an amateur.”
“Just answer my question.”
“I don’t need to because three of the eggs in this room are only here because I...retrieved them—for you.”
“Lower your voice,” I said, glancing around. “Do your hunting in someone else’s museum—leave mine alone.”
“Righteous indignation? Is that what living here has done to you?”
“Don't make this about me; you do what you do because—”
“I'm so good at it?”
“—you can't live without the danger. I'm not part of that world...” I caught myself before I added anymore. It wasn't any of his damn business what I was up to now. “Go back to Italy, Luca, you aren’t welcome here.”
My heels rang out on the limestone floor as I walked toward the elevator. I jabbed at the button, glancing casually at the overhead camera in the corner. It wouldn’t do my career well to be caught on film consorting with a phantom jewel thief who, if not for his family connections, would have Interpol on his heels. The elevator pinged its arrival. I was still fuming when it deposited me in my office in the sub-basement of the museum. Luca was back. That was not a good thing.
****
I was done for the day, had been ever since Luca had turned up. I put some papers in my leather tote and flung it over my shoulder. The side service entrance led me directly onto Fifth Avenue and I looked longingly at the entrance to Central Park. Although I shared the park with millions of New Yorkers and countless tourists, I always viewed it as my personal sanctuary. The winding paths, fountains, and countless places to hide in plain sight were a balm to my occasionally frayed nerves.
It was after eight and my feet had put in a long day, so I reluctantly cabbed it back to my building on the Upper West Side.
I waved at Steven, the night doorman, as I headed toward the elevator. It dropped me off on the sixteenth floor, and I unlocked my apartment door. As I reached to disarm the alarm, I saw it was off. I'd left it on. I always made a point of it—even on my most hectic mornings. My heart pounded as I tiptoed to the front closet to get my gun.
My sister, Elizabeth, had insisted I get one for my safety, and I agreed because I often kept valuable paintings here. I reached for the top shelf, pausing as my eyes and ears adjusted to the dark room. The rug muffled my steps as I walked toward the sofa.
Merda! I should have known he'd try something. My adrenaline turned to fury as I drew my arms forward and pointed the gun directly between his eyes as he lay there. He watched me silently through dark, heavily lashed eyes, daring me to pull the trigger. I had always envied those lashes. He didn't move a muscle until I drew back. I walked toward the kitchen with the gun hanging loosely from my hand as my urge to do him bodily harm was replaced by the quandary of how to finally rid myself of Luca.
The gun suddenly felt heavy and pointless. I put it down on the countertop—cold black steel met cold black granite, neither yielding its strength nor dominance to the other, much like Luca and myself. It was exhausting. I blinked as I opened the fridge, and the light hit me. The milk glugged as I poured it into a small saucepan that I always kept on the stove. Three heaping tablespoons of Dutch-processed cocoa and a generous amount of sugar added up to my favorite
drink. I reached into the pantry for a handful of mini-marshmallows. There'd never been any marshmallows in Italy when I was growing up. Luca came into the kitchen and sat down on a stool at the counter.
“A nine millimeter is a pretty serious piece.”
I didn't hear him at first—I was so absorbed in trying to figure out how he'd bypassed my alarm. I wanted to ignore him, but knew he wouldn't leave until he’d gotten his answers.
“New York can be a dangerous place for a woman living alone,” I responded.
“You live in a doorman building on a busy street—”
“—and yet you broke in so easily.”
“Are you comparing my abilities with that of the common thief?”
I laughed. He could do that to me, get me from annoyed to amused in two seconds.
“You sound insulted. Don't worry, you're still the best thief I've ever met,” I said as I sat down on the stool beside him, armed with only a steaming mug of chocolate.
“And here I was thinking I was the only thief you knew,' he said dryly.
“Everyone's a thief of some sort, Luca. You're nothing special.” I turned to look him full in the face. That was a mistake. He looked great in the muted lighting slipping in through the open blinds, his face rivaling any Greek Gods that I walked past daily at the museum. I realized I missed him as much as I loathed him. My anger returned and I forced myself to remain calm. He loved baiting me almost as much as he loved stealing. I took a sip from the hot chocolate and burned my tongue.
“I'm not getting you into the storage rooms,” I said. “It would be career suicide.”
“It's not for me; it's for you.”
“What does that mean?”
“Last month I was called in to appraise some artwork for an old family friend in Provence. Mr. Jordano showed me a lovely Degas, Two Dancers in the Studio. I appraised it at six million, which I would say is a bit steep for a fake. I'd recognize your brushstrokes anywhere.”
I blew on my drink this time before I took a sip. “How'd you get in here? The lock wasn't picked, and I change the code on the alarm every week.”
“You know a gentleman never tells.”
“You're only a gentleman when it suits you.”
“I knew you wouldn't let me in otherwise,” he said. “I've come to convince you to return the Degas.”
“And maybe you stole it and are looking to share the blame?”
“Valentina, you know I prefer jewels.”
“Well, you could have gotten bored of jewels. Isn't getting bored the other thing you're so good at?” I paused in my attack and decided to offer up a plausible explanation. “Yes, you're right. They hired me to paint the Degas reproduction, but I didn't take the original—I returned it to them along with the copy. There must be some kind of mix-up—it's probably languishing in a forgotten safe somewhere.”
I unbuttoned the cuffs of my silk blouse as I spoke. The rich loved to show off their acquisitions, but few were comfortable putting those treasures at risk while opening their estates to host charity benefits and parties. It was a little- known secret that most of the artwork displayed were copies of the originals they owned and kept securely in a vault. My little side job had proved quite lucrative. My fee for a reproduction was upwards of $25,000.
“While I appreciate your attempts to legitimize your talents, the Jordanos believe that your reproduction is their original. There is a remote possibility they might find out the truth.”
“I didn't steal it, and I don't need your advice. And that's not the reason you're here.”
My hot chocolate had turned cold, as had my interest in the conversation. I stood up to put the mug in the sink. I left the kitchen, turning my back on him as I opened my bedroom door, heading toward a much-needed shower. Walking into the bathroom, I freed my hair from its topknot, peeled off my clothes and stepped into the blazing stream.
Luca and I had met when we were children in Italy. At that time, the petite, dark-haired girls in my class bullied me daily for sport. They made fun of my height, my blonde hair, my accent—just about anything that was different. At least those were the reasons I made up in mind. More likely, they were just mean and had picked a weak target. I had begged my parents to put me in The International School, hoping I’d have a better chance of fitting in there. My British father, who had us transferred from England just as I was hitting puberty refused, saying we owed it to my mother’s Italian heritage to absorb as much of her culture as possible.
The first time Luca had spoken to me, I'd been on my way home from school when five girls pedaled past me on their bicycles, knocking me into the mud on purpose.
“Maybe if you took some of that mud you're sitting in and covered your hair with it, you'd fit in more?” he had suggested.
Luca Rodolfo Greppi, scion of the aristocratic Greppi family and most whispered about boy at school had appeared out of nowhere and was looking down at me. I remember the amused glint in his eyes, as if I were there solely for his entertainment. He was only a year older than I, but already carried with him an air of gravitas, as if he'd come out of the womb covered in silken flax rather than the detritus of gooey membrane the rest of us spend our lives trying to shed.
“Why would I want to fit in?” I'd asked.
He'd made no move to help me up. I remember hoisting myself up ungracefully and walking back home without bothering to clean my school uniform—doing so would only have smeared the mud and lent a concrete reality to my daily nightmare. Luca's presence as he walked beside me would have been thrilling any other time. But at that moment, I'd found it annoying, as if my predicament had given purpose to his day. We'd never spoken before, but I recall that I'd had enough of being pushed around.
“I don't need your protection; go back to your manor. You've done enough slumming for one day.”
He fixed me with a long look that had me wondering if I would’ve been better off with the bullies. “Assisting the British envoy’s daughter is hardly an unworthy task,” he'd said, adding the role of protector to his list of familial duties.
He had that ridiculously formal way of speaking even at that young age. It felt as vivid and real to me as if it had happened yesterday. I stood under the spray of hot water until I felt it could wash away the memories.
When life throws you a curve, you can run with it or from it. It’s a quick calculation, this decision, a mostly instinctual one, depending on your need for survival versus your fears. It can come in any form, this curve—it can be something or someone that veers you off that set path you’ve imagined for yourself. It might be the sudden death of a loved one, or even a mentor that opens your world to possibilities never imagined. But not every mentoring relationship is a positive one. They can become all-consuming, even devastating.
Luca was my curve, my Svengali. He had the power to undo me, and even as I knew it—knew I should run from him, I couldn’t.
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