“Do it or take a walk. Now.”

A single look told Jill that Zach wasn’t kidding.

She forced her mouth into a smile and turned toward the elegant brunette who was approaching them.

32

SNOWBIRD

SEPTEMBER 15

11:07 A.M.

Zach watched the woman as she walked up to him. She wore a cashmere sweater that showed discreet cleavage, painfully stylish high heels, and the kind of black wool slacks that cost more than most people made in a week. Her black pearl earrings and elegantly simple gold-and-pearl pin looked real, and really expensive.

“Hello, I’m Jo. I see you’re admiring our Russian Impressionists. Their technique is-”

“Well known to dealers and consultants,” Zach cut in, smiling to soften the words. “I’m here with Ms. Jillian Breck in regard to the unsigned Thomas Dunstan painting that you may have seen last month, and the JPEGs of unsigned paintings that were e-mailed to you recently.”

At Dunstan’s name, the woman’s eyes widened and her hand went to her throat.

Zach saw the reaction for what it was-an involuntary effort to hide a strong emotional reaction. Fear, most likely.

Adrenaline slid sweetly into his veins.

It’s about time someone noticed us.

“Is something wrong?” he asked, his expression and body language concerned.

“Wrong?” Waverly-Benet’s voice was too high. She cleared her throat and lowered both her voice and her hand. “No. I just wish I’d never seen that particular canvas. I suspect it cost me a considerable commission, and tested the goodwill of people who are very important in the Western art market.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Zach said gently. “Professional jealousies are an unfortunate fact of life in the art business.”

“So is fraud,” she said in a flat voice.

Jill moved sharply.

Zach’s casual stroke down her arm kept her quiet.

“I sent that painting to the definitive Dunstan expert,” Waverly-Benet said, her body tight. “He sent me back the nastiest letter I have ever received. He called me ‘obviously incompetent’ for even considering that the painting might be a genuine Dunstan.”

Zach whistled. “That’s harsh, even in a business noted for its prima donnas. I saw that painting. It was a superior canvas, one that no one should be insulted for appreciating.”

Ms. Waverly-Benet relaxed, warmed by Zach’s understanding. “I thought so. Later I found out that the expert advised a prominent Western art collector not to place one of his canvases in my gallery for resale because I was an idiot.”

Zach shook his head. “That sounds much more like a personal opinion than a professional one. In fact, it sounds legally actionable. I’m sorry you had to suffer it.”

Jill tried not to stare at the gentle, reasonable, supportive, sympathetic alien who had taken over Zach’s body.

“Unfortunately, this expert’s opinion is the only one that really counts,” Waverly-Benet said bitterly. “It came from Olympus, so to speak.”

“Are we talking about Lee Dunstan, the artist’s son?” Zach asked.

“Yes, unfortunately.”

“It’s a shame the son isn’t an artist,” Zach said, “either by training or inclination.”

Waverly-Benet sighed. “I agree. But Lee Dunstan controls the Dunstan droit moral, and that’s that.”

Jill frowned. “I know that it’s common, especially in Europe, for a dead artist’s family to retain the moral right to designate that artist’s works as authentic. Without the family’s stamp of approval, a work can be deemed a fake or, worse, a fraud.”

Waverly-Benet flinched.

“Picasso’s heirs have made a great living from droit moral,” Zach said. “But it’s much more rare in American art.”

“Not lately,” Waverly-Benet said, her body tight again. “The more famous the artist, the more likely you are to encounter some moral authority with the power of life and death over questioned pieces. If not a family member, then an academic or a curator or a critic who has made a lifetime study of an artist and produced that artist’s catalogue raisonné.”

“Ah, yes,” Jill said. “Gathering piles and setting fire to them.”

Zach fought a smile.

Waverly-Benet didn’t have a smile to fight. Underneath the sleek exterior, she was angry and afraid. She pinned Jill with a dark glance and said, “If you’re still trying to sell the painting I sent back to Hillhouse, you should be aware that you’ll be courting serious legal problems.”

“Modesty Breck sent the canvas out for appraisal, nothing more,” Jill said. “The word ‘sale’ was never suggested.”

“That so-called Dunstan was appraised and found wanting,” Waverly-Benet said. “If that’s what you came to me about, you’re wasting my time and possibly harming my reputation.”

“But you thought enough of the painting to-” Jill began.

“Obviously I was wrong,” Waverly-Benet cut in. “I’ve had enough trouble over that canvas. I don’t want anything more to do with it. Unless you have something else to talk about, please leave.”

Jill started to say something.

Zach’s hand settled over her forearm. And squeezed.

“Sorry to bother you,” he said to Waverly-Benet. “We won’t take any more of your time.”

Jill allowed herself to be herded outside and into the SUV.

As soon as Zach started the engine, she said, “That was one scared woman.”

“She’s sitting on millions of dollars in inventory, her ski-resort rent would support a small third world country, and her reputation within art circles just took a hell of a hit. Damn straight she’s scared.”

“Still, she has no right to-”

“You should be scared, too,” Zach continued relentlessly. “It’s not your livelihood being threatened, it’s your life.”

33

SNOWBIRD

SEPTEMBER 15

11:18 A.M.

This time I’m the hard case and you’re the sympathetic one,” Zach said as they walked up to the next gallery.

“Does that mean the sweet thing actually gets to speak?”

He gave her a sideways look. “Was I stepping on your lines back there?”

“What lines?”

“That’s why I did most of the talking,” he said blandly. “You don’t know your lines.”

“Really? I thought you’d been taken over by an astonishingly polite alien.”

“Get ready for the rude alien.”

“Nothing alien about that,” she muttered under her breath.

“Aliens have excellent hearing.”

She shut up and stared at the door buzzer, the locked door, and the very visible guard. “Looks like a bank.”

“Fine art is portable and pricey, a combination that crooks can’t resist. Worthington is getting ready for the Las Vegas auction. Some really high-end canvas wealth is stashed in this gallery, waiting to be escorted to Vegas.”

“But the auction is only four days away. Why is it here?”

“The hotel probably didn’t want the insurance risk of storing the paintings until the auction. Or the individual insurers balked. I keep telling you, art is a business.”

As Zach hit the buzzer by the door, he noticed that there was a bright new sign painted on the glass.


RAMSEY WORTHINGTON, FINE ARTS


Specialist in Western Works


“He’s really making his move up,” Zach said.

“What?”

“Worthington.” Zach pointed to the sign. “He’s not emphasizing Western art in his new sign.”

“Hard to be the next Sotheby’s wearing shit-kickers and a bolo tie,” Jill said dryly.

Smiling, Zach hit the buzzer again.

“No one’s hurrying out to greet us because you don’t look like you fit in this place,” Jill said quietly.

“That’s the whole point.”

“I don’t look like I fit, either.”

“Sure you do,” he said. “West of the Rockies, a lot of very wealthy people prefer casual chic.”

She gave him a sidelong look. “I’ve never had my go-to-town jeans referred to as chic.”

“It’s the whole package, not just the clothes.” Zach looked at her and hoped his tongue wasn’t hanging out. The blouse she wore wasn’t cut low or tight, but the material clung to her breasts like a shadow. She wasn’t wearing a bra.

It had been driving him nuts.

“You have a lot of confidence, physical and mental,” he said, forcing himself to look at the gallery rather than what was beneath the silky blouse. “Subconsciously, people-especially smart salespeople-associate your kind of assurance with wealth. You set styles, you don’t follow them. You have enough money to be a maverick, remember?”

“Then what am I doing hanging out with a rough-looking dude like you?”

“The usual.”

“Which is?” she asked.

“Down-and-dirty sex.”

Jill was still choking on Zach’s answer when a young woman unlocked the door and smiled at them. The employee was a bright, cheerful blonde just past college age. She looked more like a marketing major than an art student. Her name tag said Christa Moore.

The front door guard didn’t smile. He watched Zach.

Zach approved the guard’s instincts.

“Welcome,” Ms. Moore said warmly. “How may I assist you?”

“You can’t, unless you’re Ramsey Worthington in drag,” Zach said.

Even though Jill was expecting it, she was surprised at the edge in his voice.

Ms. Moore looked over her shoulder reflexively. A door marked private stood between a striking portrait of an Apache woman and a buffalo sculpture sniffing the breeze. The buffalo was motionless, yet explosively alive.

“Did you have an appointment with anyone in particular or-” she began.

“Ramsey Worthington,” Zach cut in impatiently.

The woman blinked and automatically backed up a step or two. Jill moved into the opening, with Zach right on her heels.

The young woman made a humming sound of distress. “Oh, dear. Mr. Worthington didn’t tell anyone that he had an appointment.”

Zach shrugged and began glancing around at the gallery in the manner of someone who wasn’t impressed by her problems or her workplace.

“Please tell Mr. Worthington that I want to look at what he has in the way of fine Western art,” Jill said smoothly.

“Well, that’s just it, I’m afraid,” the woman said, turning to Jill, obviously relieved to be dealing with someone less rough-looking than Zach. “Mr. Worthington is in the midst of preparing for the auction in Las Vegas and he was very firm about not being disturbed. Why don’t I get Mr. Cahill, the manager?”

“Why don’t you get Worthington,” Zach said without looking at the woman. “We’ve got a plane standing by to take us to Telluride. If the big man is too busy to sell us his goods, we’ll find another gallery.”

“Um, well, yes, of course,” the woman said. “Excuse me while I conference with Mr. Worthington. It may take some time, especially if he is talking to one of his collectors about the upcoming auction.”

“We’ll either be here when he comes out or we won’t,” Zach said. His voice said that he didn’t care much either way.

The young woman hurried off.

Jill glanced around, taking in the guard at a console. He was dividing his attention between Zach and the five closed-circuit TVs that displayed whatever was in view of the cameras scanning every inch of the gallery.

Just as saleswoman opened the door marked private, Zach said in a carrying voice, “Tell him it’s the owner of the newly discovered Dunstan that was sent to him for an opinion.”

Moore froze, then shot through the door like a housecat with a coyote on its heels.

“At least she knew what painting you were talking about,” Jill said in a low voice.

“Yeah.”

Finally.

Now all he had to do was pray that Ramsey Worthington took the bait.

34

SNOWBIRD

SEPTEMBER 15

11:22 A.M.

At least this won’t be a total waste of time,” Zach said, glancing at his watch.

“Why?”

“Take a look behind you.” He gestured toward a long wall hung with the kind of Western art that gave meaning to the word fine.