Covert Danger: Mata Hari Series - Book 1 Page 5

  She gritted her teeth. The company didn’t want a sappy spook. They wanted a cold calculating master-mind, pulling strings in the shadows.

  Pulling her hand over her face she grunted. Time to focus on the mission.

  9

  Chapter Nine

  Amsterdam

  The doors of Eros would open in an hour for the spring gallery show, leaving Sebastian little time to make last minute changes. Not that he should need to. Paul, his new assistant, had spent the last week organizing the event. Still, Seb wanted to check every last detail. The quality of the presentation would reflect on him. Word of mouth was everything in the art world, which could be as emotional as a young girl in puberty. The show needed to be fresh, provocative and, hopefully, a little unsettling. The kind of collection he’d built his reputation on. Looking at each piece in turn he hemmed and hawed.

  He’d grown Eros from an idea to a multi-million dollar gallery on the street level of a seventeenth-century canal house in the medieval center of Amsterdam. It featured works that he personally chose, because they reflected the beauty of the human form. Hence the name, Eros. The gallery filled fifty square yards. Seb kept an office in the back for paperwork. He lived in a flat on the second floor and used the third floor space for inventory, supplies and the occasional visitor. The twelve-foot ceilings and enormous windows gave the space an airy, light feel, and the art he treasured a worthy home.

  With ten minutes left, he stopped in front of a Taylor Gregory nude done in oil. It looked off. He winced and took a step back, then one to the left, followed by several to the right. The way the light hit the painting irked him. It should shimmer over it, not slice into it, and make the color of the woman’s skin alluring. It should pull the audience into her beauty, draw their eyes to her curves and not let them go until they experienced her sensuality with every fiber of their body.

  The image of the woman from Venice flashed into his mind and he silently laughed. There was a body to explore. He adjusted the lights. Two minutes left.

  Xander had sent him a text ten minutes ago. His research on the red head left him with a lot more questions than answers. Her name was Sadie Stewart. Twenty-nine, American from Seattle. Well-known international fashion model. Jonathon, her shit-head-ex made his living off of rich women. The details were interesting, but none of them explained the way those green eyes tugged at him.

  “Boss man.” Paul’s jarring New York accent dragged Seb’s mind away from her.

  “Good job,” Seb said, turning to shake the hand of his assistant.

  “A virgin?”

  Seb laughed. “Yeah, it’s the first time I let someone else set up a show in my place. It’s hard to let go.” His mind drifted back to the woman. That’s how she made him feel, not like a virgin, but completely alone in new territory. If he were a virgin he wouldn’t be thinking about her the ways he had been.

  Paul’s eyes narrowed. Sebastian recognized the expression as the one he used when Seb’s mind had wandered far from the room. “People are lined up,” Paul said.

  Seb took a deep breath. “You pop the champagne corks. I’ll meet and greet. Remember, tonight we talk, tomorrow we sell. Keep the artists sober and circulating.” Feeling his pulse elevate, Sebastian headed for the door. The familiar rush that came before a new show surged through his body.

  He stopped and turned towards Paul. “And if my Tante Zenneke turns up…”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah. Don’t worry. I’ll handle her. I’m good with old ladies. I’ll put champagne in her hands and make sure she doesn’t get lost…”

  “Like last time.” Sebastian finished his sentence. They’d found her on the street talking to a well-heeled customer about the importance of fiber in his diet. Sebastian had spent most of his life wishing his aunt, his only living relative, would act more normal, but there was no medicine strong enough for that.

  He opened the door expecting to see a few familiar faces at the front of the line, like the reporter from Nude Arts, a trade magazine. His eyes snapped to the third person in line, Sadie Stewart. Her long, auburn hair flowed over her shoulders, which were encased in a floor-length emerald-green cloak. Her vixen eyes blinked in recognition and then softened. Her model’s smile spread across her face, warming every part of his body.

  He cleared his throat. Damn she looked hot. Feeling his professional aura slip as his dick hardened, he smiled at her. Talk about lame. He reached out his hand.

  “Sadie Stewart, how nice of you to come.” He grabbed her right wrist and firmly pulled her into the room.

  Her brows rose at the sound of her name. He wanted to talk to her, but not now. Not here. Damn it. Over her shoulder he could see the crowd pressing in.

  “I’d love to have a good long chat with you,” –and run my hands all over your body—“but I must greet all my guests.”

  “Don’t worry about me. I’ll enjoy the art.” Her eyes relaxed when she said the word “art.”

  “You like art?”

  “Yes, very much. If I were rich, I’d collect it.”

  “Who’s your favorite artist?”

  “All time? Van Gogh, no question.”

  Her words hit him like a spear to the heart. A beautiful woman who loved a Dutch master! She might be slightly crooked, might be a lot crooked…but she liked art. She couldn’t be all bad.

  “Interesting name you’ve chosen for your gallery—Eros—after the Greek god of love.” She touched his arm. “Tell me, will I be embarrassed by your show?”

  “Nothing’s embarrassing about love.” Did that make sense? It was one of the standard lines he used when people asked him about the Eros name, but it sounded off when he said it to her—more like a stupid pick-up line than an explanation of how he felt about love and art. Her touch constricted his throat. No doubt about it, this woman had a talent for turning him into a tongue-tied fool.

  He firmed his jaw. “I need to see to the event. Please, excuse me.” He squeezed her hand and let it go. A connection zinged between them hotter than an open flame.

  Sadie’s face flushed, but she simply nodded and strolled away in the opposite direction. He groaned. Her scent, a mixture of expensive perfume and fertile woman followed, but not before it stroked his senses into a fevered pitch. Now that he’d touched her, their attraction had become undeniable.

  The room filled quickly and the sound of people admiring and discussing art blanketed it. Filled champagne glasses tinkled with the odd private toast, followed by periods of a special quiet, like a collective, appreciative hush as the audience viewed the paintings and sculptures of nudes. Just the effect Sebastian had hoped for.

  Seb mingled, welcoming his guests and introducing them to one another and to the featured artists. All the while he kept his eye on Sadie.

  Catching his occasional glance, she playfully winked back. The night became a silent prowling dance of I-see-you-but- you-can’t-have-me. Not yet at any rate. Time passed slowly.

  About ten o’clock he greeted a new arrival and lost sight of Sadie. When he spotted her again, she stood beside his Tante Zenneke. Shit! He looked for Paul and found him tied up in a discussion with one of his best buyers. The young man’s face flushed when Seb gave him the eye.

  His sixty-year-old aunt wore a long tie-dye turquoise and pink skirt, with a flowing bohemian blouse and layers of necklaces made of multi-colored plastic beads. He’d give her a vintage diamond necklace for her birthday, only to find it later stashed in the toilet paper drawer in her bathroom. Her long, blond and gray hair fell over her narrow shoulders in soft waves. Beside Sadie’s simply-stated elegance she looked garish. But the way they leaned towards each other you’d think them the best of friends. They smiled at one another as they talked.

  Sebastian marched towards them his cheeks burning. Sweat trickled down his neck.

  When he stopped in front of them, they continued to chatter, seemingly oblivious to him, the steaming six foot six Frisian. Normally everyone stopped when he approached them. But
not these women.

  Zenneke was in full pontification mode. “I like the color pink. You know you can gauge the cost of a painting by the amount of pink in it. I keep telling Sebcha to invest in pink.” His aunt’s melodic voice spilled into the room, sending sharp prickles up his spine. Hopefully she wouldn’t start singing or talking about his wee willie. Both were possible outcomes. He never knew what to expect from her. Did he smell weed?

  “Really,” said Sadie in a normal voice.

  He arched a brow. No hint of sarcasm in her voice.

  “Yes, you know creative genius is strongly affected by what the artist eats,” said Zenneke.

  Sadie smiled. “What they eat? Do tell.”

  “Yes, a healthy artist will paint with lots of pink tones. Another reason to buy pink.”

  “I see,” said Sadie. “And what about an unhealthy one?”

  “Black,” Zenneke said, and they both laughed. Not pretty laughter, but the real thing, the rolling kind that infects the atmosphere. Zenneke’s body vibrated with the good humor. She put her hand on Sadie’s shoulder to keep her balance.

  He couldn’t be sure if either of them meant what they said, but they were enjoying talking to each other. That was clear. Sebastian stared at them.

  “What do you make of my handsome nephew?” asked Zenneke.

  “Judging by his show?” Sadie asked, with a twinkle in her eye.

  His aunt nodded.

  A nasty ripple of anticipation squeezed his gut. Did his aunt have to embarrass him like this? What could the woman say? What would the woman say?

  “He’s a breast man.”

  Zenneke burst into laughter again, gales of it, and this time people turned to look her way. He hadn’t heard her laugh like that for years. His heart skipped a beat. Someone always shushed her. A tear ran down the side of her face and she swatted Seb on the arm.

  “What do you have to say for yourself?” asked Sadie, her megawatt smile warming every cell of his body.

  “I like legs too.”

  They all laughed.

  Zenneke pushed him away. “You go do your thing, Sebcha. Me and my new friend will be fine without you.”

  Sadie nodded. “We are fine,” she assured him. Shaking his head, he wandered off to talk with more people. Clearly, the women didn’t want him.

  An hour later, Zenneke came up to him and kissed him on the cheek. “I’m going home to Leroy,”—her mongrel, flee bitten dog—“but I want to tell you: Don’t let that one go.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me. I saw how you looked at her and her at you.” She cackled. “Like ravenous dogs catching the scent of … You know what I mean. If you let her go, you’re more of a moron than I thought. Maybe worse than your father.” She crossed herself and then swatted him on his arm.

  Great! Advice from his wacko aunt. The one who liked the color pink and … He stopped. She may be as loony as a cat howling at the moon, but she’d always looked out for him, always… loved him. To see her laugh like this made his night. He wondered what she’d shared with the green-eyed vixen. His shoulders tightened as he watched his aunt leave the gallery. His world tilted, but then nothing had been normal since he laid eyes on Sadie.

  Through the crowds of people he weaved his way back to her side. She stood in front of the Gregory nude. He smiled at the irony. “Thanks for…”

  “Zenneke is a breath of fresh air,” she said, not taking her eyes off the nude.

  He nodded, feeling a soulful tug inside him. Can souls tug? Anyway, something deep inside felt touched. Quite the woman.

  The lights he’d adjusted earlier now shimmered on her as well as the woman in the painting; illuminating flawless skin and full lips, which looked particularly ripe for kissing. Their silence scorched, as they stood close together.

  “So you’re Dutch?” she said.

  “Frisian actually. It’s a…”

  “Yeah I know. Frisia is an area to the north of Holland and Germany, known for producing tall stubborn men.” She gave him a killer, coy smile.

  Ouch. She wasn’t just hot. She was smart… and funny.

  ***

  Sadie watched how Sebastian’s expression changed when he laughed. It was as if he’d removed a mask and let her see inside. The way his eyes shone… the way his cheeks dimpled… the way he looked at her all added up. Part sexy Viking and part modern, sensitive male. A toxic mixture of intrigue and vulnerability.

  “Yes, the men from Friesland are the tallest in Europe,” he said, “but I won’t agree with the stubborn part. I’d say Frisians are strong individuals who believe in holding opinions.”

  She laughed and his eyes smiled back at her. “Tell me, are you a typical, pushy American woman?”

  A wide grin spread crossed her face. She couldn’t help it. “I’d prefer to say I’m a free woman who believes in herself enough to be assertive in the world.”

  He bowed his head to her. “So now can we can move beyond stereotypes?”

  She loved the way he opened up and talked so honestly about himself. And his playfulness was fun. But… When did the room get so warm? Desire pooled in her lower belly. She needed to talk about something other than him. She fidgeted. “Your artists are all new,” she said. That should be a safe topic.

  “Yeah.”

  “Why?”

  ***

  All Sebastian could think about was kissing her mouth. It was so perfectly shaped… so inviting. He bet she’d taste sweeter than candy. He scratched his chin. Maybe later…

  Still, it felt odd to talk art when they had so many other things to discuss. Like, why had she been running from the Italian military police? But being in a public place made such conversation awkward, so he followed her lead.

  Art. “Two reasons,” he began. “I like modern art and…” he hesitated, “it’s less complicated.”

  Her pencil-thin brows rippled. “What do you mean, less complicated?”

  Soft, green eyes implored him to explain, but he didn’t feel like lecturing. “It just is.”

  Sadie grimaced and crossed her arms.

  He looked at the light fixture and then back at her. “In the forties, the Nazis looted twenty percent of the best art in Europe. Whenever a piece of art created before the Second World War is sold it has to go through an authentication process and it’s a bitch.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. I don’t know how much you know about art history.”

  She tilted her head.

  “When Hitler was young he wanted to be an artist, but he was rejected by the Vienna Academy of Fine Arts. When he became powerful, he promoted his own aesthetic ideal, which favored classical portraits and landscapes by the old masters. He set up a commission called the ERR, to seize Jewish art. He collected it in Paris. By the end of the war he’d amassed hundreds of thousands of pieces. They haven’t all been found, and some are still circulating underground today.”

  “That’s what they call looted art, right?” Her voice carried emotion. She’d dropped the dumb-dame act. Nice. He liked her better that way.

  He nodded. “Technically the term refers to any art, pieces of archeology or cultural property taken during a war, natural disaster or riot.” God, he sounded like a lecturer. He’d much rather be talking about her or better yet, being with her and not talking.

  “Please, go on. I’m interested,” she said.

  “Mankind’s been looting since the dawn of time. Our ancestors considered it the justified spoils of war and all that crap. But today we take a different view.”

  Her face paled. Was there something wrong with the lighting?

  “It’s a rape of culture and heritage, totally unethical,” he said.

  She nodded and cast her eyes about, as if avoiding his gaze. Were they watery? Must be a trick of the light. Her smile, which had illuminated the room moments ago, faded to a shadow. Had he offended her? Maybe she had German blood.

  “It’s not exactly a polite cocktail conversation,” he s
aid and laughed. But his laughter sounded hollow even to him. “I didn’t mean to upset you. I wanted to explain why I’m not keen on dealing older art pieces. The provenance checks have to be detailed. I don’t want to spend my time filling out forms. Besides, we have great modern artists.”

  “Your eyes are on fire,” she said.

  “Excuse me?”

  “When you talk about looted art, your eyes get all fiery. There’s more to this story, isn’t there?”

  Shit, she was too smart. A guy couldn’t get away with anything around her. He swallowed. “Yeah, my great aunt and her family were Jewish. They were taken by the Nazis…” He hesitated. “And so was their art. It’s personal.”

  “I’m sorry,” Sadie said, with a tone that dignified his pain and shot another blasted bullet right through his armor.

  He cleared his throat. “So, why the interest in looted art?”

  Sadie’s eyes widened. Her full lips spread into a picture-perfect smile. “Could be the sound of your voice.”

  Uh huh. Perspiration beaded on his forehead. Her voice flowed over his manhood with a seductive tone sweeter than syrup, kicking it to attention. Was she playing him? “So why are you here, Sadie? What are you up to?”

  She flicked her hair behind her shoulder and scanned the faces around her, as if looking for someone in the crowd. “My friend Mitchell said he’d meet me here. He works with me, but he’s late. Must have got tied up.” She stepped towards Seb. Her breath tickled his face. “My agent thought it would be good to get a few pictures of us in an art gallery to update our portfolios.” She licked her lips. “Tell me again why you chose the name Eros.”

  Wet lips, seductive voice, a full mane of long red hair and firm breasts moving in. His pulse, which had been running high, quickened. Two could play. Smiling, he gently took her arm and ushered her to a corner of the room where their conversation could be more private. Her body tensed when he touched her, but then relaxed in his hand. Had her husband hurt her? Or some other man? Maybe, that was her problem. Anger simmered in his veins. How could anyone harm such a beautiful woman?