Page 34 of The Scarab's Game
And so, I cleaned the painting. Fake or not, a thin layer of dirt coated it, as though someone had hung it over an open fireplace.
“Che cazzo,” muttered Dante from the next room. He’d left the door open once I no longer needed the dark.
“What now?” I called while wrapping cotton batting around another stick. “More of your father’s handwriting?”
True to his word, Dante made a ruckus while he worked. He talked to the payroll ledger, complained to himself about sloppy work, and recounted more than a few stories for me about clients from their gallery here and another in London. “It’s a good thing he didn’t teach me.”
“Don’t you have employees who can do that for you?”
“We do.” The wheels of his chair squeaked, and he approached, stopping in the door frame. “As someone once said, sometimes you have to do your own experiments, rather than rely on someone else’s work.”
“Wise words.” I dipped the swab into the thin, clear solvent and applied it to the next two-by-two section of the painting. The old varnish and dirt on top of it swelled as I agitated it with small circular movements. “Sounds like my experiments were more fruitful.”
“Sì, it does.” He squeezed his eyes shut and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Do you want lunch yet?”
My back screamedYes!, but I said, “Thanks, but no. I’m in the zone and only have forty-eight hours.”
He came closer, leaning on the table to see what I was doing. “You think it will take that long?”
“Not the cleaning itself.” I slid the cotton off the end of the stick and into the waste jar, then grabbed another small wad to clean off the residue. “The varnish I’ll use dries in twenty-four hours, so if you want it ready for the auction, I need to finish by tomorrow midday.”
“We’d hoped to have it ready by end of day tomorrow.”
Then they should have worked harder to find another restorer or conservator before Dante hired me.
“Just be happy it didn’t need retouching.” I disposed of the dirt-laden cotton ball and shook my head. “That would have meant letting the paint dry before I could varnish it.”
“I appreciate your honesty.” He stood up and leaned a hip against the table. “I imagine many others would have claimed the additional work was required.”
“Perhaps you should choose your contractors more carefully.” I began winding another swab.
“Contractors…” He hummed, a low sound like frustration. “And so many others.”
I rolled the Merrisol against the painting, glancing up at him as subtly as possible. His eyes were closed as he massaged his temples. Was I supposed to ask for more details? Ask if he was all right?
“Time to blow this—” Emmett came to an abrupt halt, one step into the room. A small white bag with the De Rosa Gallery logo hung from his hand. “Dante. I didn’t realize you were still here.”
“Mr. Stone.” Dante gestured to Emmett’s bag. “Did you find what you were looking for?”
“Not exactly, although I did find something interesting.”
Dante angled his head, prompting for more.
Emmett lifted the bag and smiled. “Jean-Philippe was quite convincing. That man deserves a raise.”
Dante returned the smile. He looked friendly enough—they both did—but I could feel the testosterone flooding the air. “I’ll advise my father.”
“Good.” Emmett turned his focus to me. “I’m ready to go. How much longer do you need?”
“I’ve only finished part of the cleaning.” I circled my hand vaguely over the area I’d completed, before wiping the last of the mineral spirits I’d applied away. “There’s a lot of work still left to do. You go ahead.”
Emmett came closer, dipping his forehead and raising his eyebrows. The look may as well have been a pat on the head. “Do you remember what happened yesterday? I’m not comfortable leaving you here alone.”
Of course, I remembered what happened yesterday. I’d barely stopped thinking about the way he’d held me in my hotel room. How he’d made me feel better. Kept popping into my room while I was preparing for today. How I’d glimpsed him heading to the shower this morning, wearing only his pajama pants, the strong muscles of his back inspiring one too many fantasies about running my hands up and down his body.
Down, girl.
“I’m not alone.” I gestured at Dante, the proof I’d have company.