Romance: The Art Of Love: A Billionaire Romance (7 page)

         
“So
what are you looking at there?” Clifford asked Annette. They were seated side
by side on the couch in the Clifford Park office; she had her laptop open and
was peering intently at the screen.

         
“Well,”
she said, “we’re pretty sure that Hans didn’t do the paintings himself.” They’d
spent hours researching Hans’ background; nothing they could find indicated he
had the slightest amount of artistic talent. “That means he had to have someone
else paint them.”

         
Clifford
nodded. “That part’s easy enough,” he said. “Finding who this someone else
actually is another story.”
 
He stood up
and walked over to the window. “It could be anyone, anywhere. Anybody out
there.”

         
“No,”
Annette said. “It couldn’t be anyone, anywhere. It has to be someone Hans
knows.” She frowned, read some text on the screen, and then scrolled down.
“Someone he’s connected with.”

         
“Forgers
have LinkedIn?” Clifford asked, laughing a little.

         
“Artists
do,” Annette countered. “And what do you think ‘available for commission’
really means?”

         
Clifford
stopped laughing and leaned closer to look at Annette’s screen. He studied the
profile picture and frowned. “Tell me she’s not that way,” he said. “I bought
Madison one of her paintings for her birthday last year.”

         
Annette
looked at Clifford, eyes wide. “Happy birthday, Madison!” Prices for work by
that particular artist started in the low hundred-thousands.

         
Clifford
shrugged. “She was having a hard time turning forty-one. Forty, she had no
trouble with. Forty-one, it was the end of the world.”

         
“Just
so you know,” Annette replied, “I expect to be extremely traumatized on my
twenty-fifth birthday.” She smiled broadly. “Which is April 12
^th
.”

         
Clifford
smiled. “Duly noted.”

         
“I’ve
never heard a rumor of her being involved in anything like that,” Annette said,
returning her attention to the screen. “She and Hans are connected, that’s all.
He knows a lot of artists. It’s to be expected.”

         
“How
will you know which one is the forger?”

         
“I
got us this far,” Annette said, “I thought I’d leave that part up to you.”

         
“Oh,
great,” Clifford said. He walked to his desk and pressed a button on his phone.

         
“Yes,
sir?”

         
“Hold
on a minute,” Clifford said. He looked up at Annette. “What are you going to
want for dinner?”

         
Annette
shrugged, flustered by the question. “I don’t know…anything, I guess.”

         
Clifford
spoke into his phone. “So you’ve got that. We need a dinner of anything, I
guess sent up. For two, please.” He chuckled. “And a couple of bottles of wine
to go with that.”

         
“Yes,
sir. We’ll have that to you shortly.”

         
Clifford
returned to Annette’s side, bemused by her expression. “What?” he said. “I’m hungry,
and it looks like we’re in for a long, long night.”

         
Annette
stared at him for a long second. It didn’t seem the slightest bit unusual to
Clifford that he could pick up the phone and simply command that a meal be
brought to him. Most of the time, Annette tried not to think about the fact
that her lover was so very rich, but there were moments when she just couldn’t
ignore it.

         
“Your
cook’s going to just love that order,” she said with a laugh. “Two orders of
anything? We’ll get cat food served up to us on a silver platter.”

         
Clifford
laughed. “Are you kidding? Max loves that, when he can make whatever he feels
like. I mostly leave it up to him.”

         
“Really?”

         
“He
says it’s more fun that way. And if I’ve learned anything in my life, it’s
people do their best work when they’re having fun.”

         
“Well,”
Annette said, letting her body lean against Clifford’s for a long moment, “I’m
not sure how much I enjoy playing Girl Detective, but it’s fun spending time
with you.”

         
Clifford
put his arms around Annette, drawing her close for a kiss. “It’s the best
possible way to spend time.” His second kiss was more passionate than the
first; his hand dropped to gently cup her breast. “In fact, our forger will
still be out there tomorrow. We could adjourn for the evening, go upstairs
and…”

         
Annette
felt her heart start racing. Excitement coursed through her body the way it did
every time Clifford really looked at her. The intensity in his blue eyes was
electrifying. Captured in his gaze was the purest desire, a want the likes of
which she’d never seen before.

         
But
she also had a job to do. As much as she wanted to make love to Clifford, she
also desperately wanted to find this forger. Recovering Clifford’s lost
millions would not only prove her worth as an art appraiser, it would put
Annette on a financial footing that, while nowhere near equal to Clifford’s
vast wealth, would certainly free her to pursue a relationship with him without
being accused of being a gold-digger or worse.

         
“If
you hadn’t of just ordered dinner, that’s exactly what we’d do,” she said with
a kiss and a smile. She let her hands wander just enough to gauge Clifford’s
desire; his eyes closed when she pressed against the protruding front of his
trousers. “But you did, and we do have to find this guy.”

         
“One
more kiss,” Clifford said. “I want to see if I can change your mind.”

         
Annette
leaned forward into the kiss. Clifford took her breath away with even the most
casual peck. This embrace, when he was explicitly trying to seduce her, left
her head spinning.

         
Their
lips had just parted, and Annette was more than willing to forget about the
forger and let Clifford lead her to his bedroom when a knock came on the office
door.

         
It
was Max.
 
“Here you are, sir,” he
announced, wheeling a cart into the room. “Two orders of anything, I guess,
cooked to perfection, and paired with some lovely California red.”
 
He lifted a silver dome to reveal what looked
like some very well done chicken, surrounded by a heaping pile of bright green
asparagus spears and earthy brown mushrooms.

         
“Pheasant,
Max?” Clifford smiled. “You are spoiling me.”

         
“That’s
my job. But you’re not officially spoiled until you have dessert.” Max leaned
over to tap the second shelf on his cart. “There’s a chocolate torte here
you’ll adore. Raspberries liqueur in the ganache; fresh cream in the silver
bowl. Mind you don’t forget.”

         
“How
could I forget?” Clifford said. “Thank you, Max.” His smile was very genuine.
“Anything I guess is my absolute favorite dinner.”

         
Max
left smiling.

         
“Now,
where were we?” Clifford asked.

         
“I
was trying to keep us on track,” Annette said, “But honestly, right now, I
really want to eat.”

         
Clifford
laughed. “I knew you’d be hungry.” He walked to the tray and brought a plate
back to Annette. “Do you like pheasant?”

         
“I
don’t know,” she replied. “I’ve never had it. They live in the woods all around
my parent’s place in New Hampshire, but we never got hungry enough to actually
eat them.”

         
“That’s
a pity,” Clifford said. He stabbed at his plate with a heavy silver fork.
“They’re delicious. You’ve been missing out.”

         
Annette
took a bite, surprised at how tender and juicy the meat was. “I see that,” she
said. “Although I’m sure Max is much better at cooking them than my Mother
would be.”

         
They
ate a few bites, and then Annette’s computer beeped, dominating their
attention. “What’s that?” Clifford asked.

         
“It’s
just a Facebook notification,” Annette said. She glanced at the screen. “One of
my friends just posted about her new show. She’s a printmaker.”

         
“She
did that on Facebook, not LinkedIn?” Clifford asked.

         
“LinkedIn’s
more of a professional space,” Annette explained. “Facebook is casual.
Everyone’s on Facebook.”

         
“Is
Hans on Facebook?”

         
“Let’s
check,” Annette replied. A few keystrokes brought the art dealer’s profile up.
“It looks like he hasn’t posted in about a week and a half.”

         
“Well,
if I was hiding from Wilbur Ross, I wouldn’t be posting on Facebook either,”
Clifford said. “It would lead his goons right to me.”

         
“That’s
true,” Annette said. “As it is, right now, we can’t tell where he is. We can
only tell where he’s been.” She scrolled through the pictures Hans had posted
over the previous six weeks. “Our boy spends a lot of time in Belgium.”

         
“That’s
Prague,” Clifford corrected. “I recognize that shopfront.”

         
“Okay,”
Annette said. She continued reading Wilbur’s feed until she came across a
picture of an inn. The small building was set in a wooded countryside, where
pine trees grew close together against a cerulean sky. “That’s not Prague.”

         
Clifford
shook his head. “No, I don’t know where that is.”

         
Annette
examined the picture closely. “It’s Maine,” she said. “See the sign there? The
Millinocket Motel.” She shook her head. “That’s way up there in Maine. Great
fishing. You can hunt moose. But there’s no reason for a man like Hans to go
there…unless…”

         
“Unless
that’s where his forger lives.” Clifford sprang to his feet and pulled his
phone out of his pocket.

         
“What
are you doing?” Annette asked.

         
“I’m
going to call Jerry and tell him I need the plane ready. We’re going to Maine.”

         
Annette
laughed. “I can’t believe I’m going to say this to you, but you can’t get there
from here.” She shook her head. “Not in a plane. The closest airport’s got to
be seven, eight hours out. If we’re going to that part of Maine, we’re going to
need to drive.”

         
“Well,
this is certainly a new look on you,” Clifford said. He took his time checking
Annette out. She was wearing a green checkered flannel shirt open over a white
t-shirt, blue jeans and a pair of hiking boots. “Very woodsy.”

         
“It’s
an old look, thank you very much.” Annette looked at Clifford and shook her head.
“You’re the one who has to get ready,” she said. “I can’t take you hiking
through the woods wearing that.”

         
Clifford
looked down at himself. He was wearing charcoal gray slacks and a pink hued
button down shirt. The entire ensemble probably cost more than what Annette
made in a month, she thought, but it was hardly practical.

         
“Do
you really think we’re going into the wilderness?” Clifford asked.

         
“It’s
Maine,” Annette laughed. “The wilderness comes to you. Besides,” she added,
“did you think we’re just going to walk up to every door in town, knocking and
saying, “Hallo! Do you happen to have any world class painters hereabouts doing
the odd spot of forgery on the side?”
 
She shook her head. “I think we’re going to need to be a little more
subtle than that.”

         
“We’ll
have time to make up our plan on the way,” Clifford said. “My GPS says it’s a
nine hour drive.” He cocked his head. “Are you sure we don’t want to have a
driver?”

         
“I
know the way,” Annette replied. “Taking the back roads, we’ll get there in like
seven hours. Maybe six and a half.”

         
“Oh,
well, in that case,” Clifford said with a laugh. “I leave you in charge of this
endeavor.”

         
“Good,”
Annette said. “First, we’ll get you changed.”

         
Once
Clifford was appropriately attired, they hit the road. The journey took close
to eight hours, but neither of them noticed; the entire trip was spent telling
each other about their childhoods.

         
“And
that was the end of my chemistry career,” Clifford laughed. “Mother told me
she’d spent enough money restoring the school’s laboratory. So I wound up in an
art appreciation class instead.”

         
“That’s
where you discovered Dali?” Annette asked.

         
“Our
teacher was terrible. I recognize that now, after the fact, but at the time, I
didn’t know,” Clifford said. “We were supposed to learn all about art. The
different ages, all the styles, a true overview. Instead, he focused on sharing
what he liked personally.”

         
“And
so your taste was formed by his,” Annette said with a shrug. “It happens to all
of us, in one way or another.”

         
“Mother
was furious. She wanted me to appreciate the finer things. Dali, Miro, Magritte
– she thought it was all garbage.”

         
“Some
people love Monet,” Annette said. “Different strokes for different folks.”

         
Clifford
laughed. “That’s the sort of bourgeois thinking that would drive Mother batty.”
His voice rose an octave as he mimicked his mother’s voice. “Some things are
just objectively better than others, darling. It doesn’t matter if you like
them or not.” A note of bitterness crept into his recitation. “And if you have
the money for artwork, why not choose the best artwork?”

         
“She
didn’t get it.”

         
“She
never tried,” Clifford said. “As far as I know, she never saw any piece of art
for its own sake. All of her purchases were based on other people’s opinions
and recommendations.” He took a deep breath. “When she passed,
Feigenbaum’s
helped me sell most of her collection. That’s
how I paid for my first major pieces.”

         
Annette
nodded. It wasn’t an unusual story. The taste for art seldom passed from
generation to generation unchanged; the works that delighted the parents would
bore the child, while the children’s choices tended to horrify their elders.

         
“You’ve
come quite a way since then.”

         
“What
about you?” Clifford asked. “How did you wind up giving your life to art?”

         
“That
decision was made for me,” Annette said. “My parents had a gallery. Nothing
grand, not like
Feigenbaum’s
.” She smiled. “I
remember we always had at least one painting of a white tailed deer on offer.
That and speckled trout. Duck decoys were big for a while.”

         
Clifford
nodded. “I’ve been in that kind of place. They have their own…charm.”

         
Annette
smiled. “You’re kind. I grew up knowing there had to be more. That there had to
be work that was better. That would speak to things beyond what I could see in
the woods.” She laughed. “It was New Hampshire, for god’s sake. I knew what was
in the woods.”

         
“Have
you found what you were looking for?” Clifford asked. “At college? At
Feigenbaum’s
?” His voice deepened and he looked at Annette
out of the corner of his eye. “At my place?”

         
“Those
are two very different questions,” Annette replied. “College was amazing. It
opened my eyes to things I never even imagined. Asian art. African art. And
then
Feigenbaum’s
– that’s been an exceptional
experience.” She took a deep breath. “There I have to say that I’ve found what
I’m looking for. I haven’t even begun to see all of it yet, but I know I’m on
the right track.”

         
Clifford
nodded.

         
“But
what have I found at your place?” Annette smiled. “This wasn’t something I was
looking for. You can’t plan to find yourself all of a sudden falling…” Words
failed her, and she kept her attention firmly fixed on the road in front of
them.

         
“There
are things you can’t plan for,” Clifford said. “And sometimes the plans you
make turn out to be totally worthless anyway. When I told Madison I’d pick the
advisor, I was planning on picking the most timid, inexperienced person on
Feigenbaum’s
staff.” He shrugged. “That way I could keep
doing what I wanted to do without anyone cramping my style.”

         
Annette
laughed. “Well, that plan worked out.” She thought of Dieter, Walther and the
other appraisers she worked with. “I’m by far the most inexperienced member of
the team. And you know I’m shy.”

         
Clifford
laughed. “Yes, you’re very shy.” He shook his head. “Even if you’re
inexperienced, you’re incredibly knowledgeable. And you’re confident in your
knowledge. I wasn’t expecting that.”

         
“The
best laid plans of mice and men can go astray,” Annette said. “It’s too bad I
wound up cramping your style.”

         
“At
ten million a throw, my style could use a little cramping,” Clifford said. “What’s
really a shame is that I genuinely liked both paintings. I’ve kept the
Magritte, even though it’s a fake.”

         
Annette
nodded. “The painter’s got an incredible talent. But it may be one of those
situations where it’s not enough talent to break through. Sometimes people
can’t afford to wait to be recognized on their own merits. They have to make a
living right now.”

         
“I
wish we could get a look at Hans’ bank account,” Clifford said. “He’s got to be
paying some serious money to have work of this caliber created for him.”
        

         
“If
he’s smart, he’s paying in cash,” Annette said. “He doesn’t want to leave a
paper trail.”

         
“That
would be too easy,” Clifford agreed.

         
Finding
The Millinocket Motel was easy, and getting the very bored girl who worked
behind the counter to confirm Hans
Grüber
stayed
there on a regular basis was even easier, especially once Clifford put a pair
of fifty dollar bills on the counter in front of her.

         
“Yes,
we see him all the time,” she said. Her eyes narrowed as she eyed the money.
“If you want, my boyfriend might be willing to show you where he likes to go
hiking. For a price, that is.”

         
Annette
narrowed her eyes. “We just gave you a hundred bucks.”

         
“And
we’ll gladly pay a hundred more,” Clifford cut in. “But I want to go right
now.”

         
The
girl pulled her cell phone out of her pocket. “Done. He’ll be here in a moment.
Look for a green pickup.”

         
Annette
and Clifford had barely left the tiny lobby of the Millinocket Motel when a
green pickup pulled up, sputtering and blowing blue smoke.

         
“Brandi
said you needed a guide?”
 
The driver was
barely old enough to shave, although he had a cigarette dangling from the
corner of his mouth. “I can take you
anywheres
you
need to go.”

         
Annette
pulled out her phone and showed the guy a picture of Hans. “We want to go
anywhere he likes to go.”

         
“You
guys cops?”

         
“Of
course we are,” Annette said. “That’s why we have a police cruiser and we’re
wearing uniforms and guns.”

         
“You
could be undercover.” The kid shook his head. “This guy always gets way out
there in the woods, where nobody lives but Hank the Hermit.” He dropped his
voice. “I’m pretty sure he goes out there for drugs. These guys out in the
middle of nowhere, they grow some serious shit, you know?”

         
Clifford
laughed. “Hank the Hermit?”

         
“His
name is Hank, and he’s a hermit,” the kid replied defensively. “He never comes
into town, not even for the Fourth of July parade.”

         
“Take
us to him,” Annette said. “Please.”

         
“You
got money?”

         
Clifford
handed over a hundred dollar bill.

         
“I’ve
only got room in the cab for one of you,” the kid announced. “The other one of
you will have to ride in the back.”

         
“We’ll
follow you in our car,” Annette said.

         
The
kid looked at the car dubiously. “Are you sure? The road’s not really a road up
that way.”

         
“It’s
all right,” Annette said. “It’s a rental.”

         
“Don’t
plan on getting your security deposit back, that’s all I’m saying.” He put his
truck in gear. “So let’s get going if we’re going to go.”

         
“This
kid’s pulling a fast one on us,” Clifford said, as the green truck pulled off
of the paved road and began ascending a gravel trail cut through the woods.
“There’s no way anybody actually lives back here.”

         
“Sure
they do,” Annette said. She deftly twisted the wheel to keep Clifford’s car
from getting caught up in a muddy rut. “It’s private, quiet and cheap. What
more could you want?”

         
“Utilities,”
Clifford quipped.
 
“Civilization. Little
things like that.”

         
Annette
laughed. “Places like this have their own sort of charm. You’ve just got to be
able to see them.”

         
“I
hope we live that long,” Clifford said, blanching as the car’s wheels slipped
on some loose shale.

         
“We’ll
be fine,” Annette replied. She looked over at her boss, nervous in the
passenger seat. “You’ve just got to trust me.”

         
“You
keep saying that,” Clifford countered.

         
“It
keeps being true.” Up ahead, the green pickup pulled off of the road and
stopped. “Anyway, I think we’re almost there.”
 
She parked behind the pickup.

         
“Hank
the Hermit lives up there,” the kid said. “For another hundred bucks, I’ll wait
around and show you the way back out when you’re done talking with him.”

         
Annette
laughed. “We’ve got it, thanks.”

         
“Did
you bring Hans up and down like this?”

         
The
kid raised an eyebrow. Clifford handed him a twenty. “Yeah, most times I did,”
he said. “He’d come up with a bunch of groceries from the Shop and Stop, and
leave with a big black bag. He never let me touch it, but they didn’t look too
heavy.” He shrugged again. “Probably drugs.”