Page 21 of The Scarab's Game
I could do a half-hour of work. Dr. Ferraro—Antonio, he’d insisted—suggested I start with an examination under ultraviolet light to check for evidence of past retouching. Maybe someone had worked on the painting between when their conservator made his notes and now. Maybe they’d used paints that melted under the solvent I used.
Thatshouldhave been my first test today. Taking the notes at face value and assuming they were accurate was a mistake I’d never make again.
The De Rosa Gallery’s back room had an area I could close off for the test. I hadn’t seen any UV lights, but I hadn’t been looking. Surely, they’d have a flashlight, if nothing else. Or a camera with special filters?
That would be step one. It was a logical step and wouldn’t raise any concerns.
Antonio also offered to review any photos I took, so he and his wife could act as sounding boards. They’d been cagey when I asked for details about how they knew Scarlett, but they clearly held her in high regard. As though the offers to help were repaying a favor.
I stood and collected my laptop, popping it open on the small desk in my room. Some light research, and hopefully, my stomach would calm enough for dinner.
A gentle knock at my door sent my heart into my throat. I should have closed the door.
“You can work in the sitting room, if you’d prefer. The table’s bigger out there.”
I swiveled in the chair to see Emmett standing in the doorway again.
He’d switched out of his pale gray suit and now wore a heather blue T-shirt with dark jeans, bare feet instead of dress shoes, and hair just wet enough to drip onto his shirt collar.
My stomach did a few flips, and I imagined running my fingers through his hair.
Mmm, in the shower. Lathering it up for him.
Washing the suds down his…
Okay.Thatwas not helping anything.
Emmett held up a clear bottle. “But if you choose to hole up in here, I brought you some water.”
“Thanks.” I walked to him and accepted the bottle of sparkling water. It had a French label I didn’t recognize.
“I can have some wine sent up?” His scent floated around me—not the dark cologne he usually wore, but something lighter. Citrusy. Hotel shampoo from his shower—a blend by a French luxury house I’d enjoyed this morning. “Or a meal?”
“Do you really think I’m in so much danger I have to stay here?”
His eyes softened, and he raised his arm as though to rub mine, but he dropped it again. “Rav says I’m paranoid. Hotel security claims they didn’t find anything amiss in your room, either.”
That wasn’t an answer.
“Besides, your room had no view.” He waved his hand vaguely toward the wall of windows. “You can’t come to Monte Carlo for the first time and suffer a view of someone else’s window.”
That wasn’t an answer, either.
One corner of his lips lifted, and he winked at me, causing a flush of heat to run through my body. If he wasn’t Emmett Reynolds, I’d think he was flirting. But hewasEmmett, so I knew it was just him being him. Unfortunately.
“Where’s Rav staying?” Surely not in my old room?
“He was aiming for the Princess Grace Suite, but it was already booked.” He laughed, a warm sound that melted the edge of my worries. “We arranged another two-bedroom suite. He insisted he needed the space.”
“For what?”
“In case you tire of me and need another overprotective big-brother type?”
Big-brother type? What a punch in the gut.That’s what he is, Jenn. Nothing more. And remember you decided men aren’t worth the hassle?“Admitting you’re overprotective is the first step, I guess?”
“That it is.” He extended his arms to hold either side of the doorframe, stretching his shoulders and grimacing. Was he injured? “Last offer for food, though. I’m putting in a room service order and promise to stop harassing you after I do.”
“Some fruit and cheese, I think?”