Page 8 of The Scarab's Game
Scarlett had called me last night, apologized for putting me in a tight spot with Emmett’s alias, and explained her team was in town searching for leads on a stolen Egyptian scarab. I’d told her a little about the surprise trip to Monaco but skipped the why. If I told her about Simon cheating on me…
I squeezed my eyes shut and stretched out my neck. He’d brought me flowers afterward. Apologized. Swore it was one time only. Part of me wanted the asshole back.
And that’s your problem, isn’t it?I opened my eyes and shook my head at myself.Yeah, that’s exactly your problem, Jenn.
I was almost thirty years old, and my biological clock was ticking. Kelley had just given birth. Heather got close but wound up divorced. And Scarlett? She’d been engaged, but lost her fiancé in a tragic accident two years ago. Her new boyfriend would propose by Christmas—we were all sure of it.
And me?
Instead of settling down with a man who wanted to help me with my clock, I continued dating the most self-centered, egotistical, inconsiderate jerks I could find.
Screw all of them.
“Or focus on work,” I muttered to myself.Quiet. The last thing I needed was for Massimo or one of his employees to walk in on my self-doubts or hear them as they passed by.
There was no need to fear or worry. I was a strong, capable, intelligent woman.
I flattened the edge and rolled the solvent onto a tiny square, less than an inch. Left it to settle for ten seconds, then wiped it clean with another piece of?—
Oh, shit!
The paint smeared as I wiped.
My heart leaped into my throat.
What did I do wrong?
I triple and quadruple-checked the conservator’s notes. Re-read the bottles. Examined the cotton in case it had been contaminated.
But everything was right. I was sure of it.
Were the instructions wrong? Were they for a different painting? No. It was a stack of papers, which Dante had delivered in a plain folder. The folder and each sheet were labeled ‘Constable, John, “Wheatfield from the Lock,” Oil on canvas, 1810.’
“Come va?”
I let out a squeak and spun to face the doorway, where the Italian voice had come from.
A man with a scar across his cheek stood there, dressed in black slacks and a tailored blue shirt. He took a step into the room and smiled. The way his scar puckered, the friendly gesture was unnerving.
“Sorry.” I shook my head and tossed the swab and cotton into the disposal jar, doing my best to regain my calm. “You startled me.”
“Your work goes well?”
“It does. Thank you.” I nodded too rapidly, stopping myself before I apologized again.He doesn’t know your test failed. Stop sounding nervous.“Although I’m just starting.”
“You can finish before the auction?”
Dante had introduced me to the guard on duty that morning, to the man at the front desk, and reintroduced me to Massimo’s assistant. He’d advised me the guard would stop in from time to time—which he had—but that everyone else would likely leave me to work in peace for the day.
No warnings about a scary-looking man with a scar.
I picked up the conservator’s notes and positioned them over the smudge. “It’ll only take a few days.”
He came closer, cocking his head. “You’re not as experienced as his regular conservator?”
What did that mean? Was a few days too long? Dante had said the regular conservator wasn’t full-time, but he had training.Ihad training. “Massimo negotiated a contract with my boss. They discussed my qualifications.”
“But Dante hired you, yes?”