The first thing that struck Megan as she was led through Guy Tinsdal’s palatial home was the eccentric, almost haphazard, way he had arranged the works of art he had decorated his walls with. His failure to organize them into anything resembling a theme or by era vexed a person whose entire life revolved around the history, preservation, and presentation of such art.

The arrangement of portraits, landscapes, and still life paintings that greeted her when she entered the room where Tinsdal was waiting for her was no better. The only thing that kept her from gawking wide-eyed at the inept manner with which he chose to arrange his art was an intriguing portrait set upon tripod in the middle of the room a scant two meters from an overstuffed leather chesterfield sofa Tinsdal had been sitting in before coming to his feet and offering her his hand.

“Right on time,” Tinsdal declared crisply by way of a greeting as he gave Megan’s hand a gentle squeeze and shake.

Megan paid no heed to the way the notorious entrepreneur continued to hold onto her hand as he took advantage of this opportunity to study her. Unable to help herself, she all but ignored Tinsdal as she tilted her head to one side in order to look past him at the portrait that had captured her attention.

Far from being offended, Tinsdal smiled as he studied the tall, plainly attired art historian. “Intriguing, isn’t it,” he remarked softly.

As if awoken from a sound sleep, Megan blinked, gave her head a quick shake that caused a few strands of her hair to pull free of the small, delicate ears that had served as their moorings, and turned her full attention back toward Tinsdal. Only then did she realize he had been holding her in something akin to a predatory gaze that reminded her of a hawk. “Um, yes, quite,” was all she managed to stutter as she quickly pulled her hand away from his. Bringing it up, she swept the loose strands of hair back behind her ear even as she was dropping her chin a smidge in a vain effort to hide the crimson hue of acute embracement that colored her cheeks.

That he had managed to set the young woman onto her back foot did not upset Tinsdal in the least. Gaining an advantage over someone he was meeting for the first time was a habit he found difficult to set aside, even when he had no wish to do so. That he was able to do so as easily as he had with the young woman concerned him, causing him to wonder if she was up to the task he was about to set before he.

Megan quickly disabused him of that notion as she took advantage of the gap she’d managed to open between them by focusing her full attention back on the portrait, ignoring the way Tinsdal eyes continued to follow her every move.

In the span of a few seconds, all hints of shyness fell away, replaced by an expression that told Tinsdal her mind was already dissecting the same unique aspects of the portrait that had caused him to snatch it up at the estate sale in Scotland. The ease with which she was able to recover from his efforts to intimidate her by having her meet him in a setting that was unfamiliar caused Tinsdal to smile to himself. He had no use for people who wasted time his time and theirs by engaging in the sort of banal social chitchat they felt was necessary during introductions. Nor did he have any interest in dealing with professionals who didn’t have their priorities in order, people who relied on their social skills or personality to compensate for a lack of expertise. While some would consider the way the young woman was behaving as being rude, the way she had been able to set aside her shyness and taken to assessing whether or not the portrait he had acquired was what he thought it was pleased Tinsdal.

Satisfied that she had passed his first test, Tinsdal eased up next Megan and turned his attention to the portrait. “Are you familiar with the story behind da Vinci’s La Bella Principessa?”

In a manner common to people who are so passionate about their chosen profession to the near exclusion of all else Megan merely grunted without taking her eyes off the picture. “Who hasn’t?” She remarked off handedly. Whilst many would have been insulted by her ill manners, Tinsdal saw her response for what it was. Megan was not being snobbish or condescending. She was simply being herself.

Tinsdal’s question did, however, have an impact on her as the reason behind his asking about an unsigned portrait that had once been thought to be a Nineteenth Century German work and not an unsigned work of Renaissance Italy’s greatest master suddenly occurred to her. Understanding what he was hinting at, Megan forced herself to take a step back, both physically and mentally, as her mind went where Tinsdal’s had when he had first laid eyes of the portrait of a young, red haired woman.

Despite her wish to keep from getting ahead of herself, Megan could not help but wonder what the odds were of making a similar find. In an effort to downplay her own excitement, she wasted no time in rattling off reasons to discount the importance of the painting she could not take her eyes off of. “You do appreciate that da Vinci’s style has been copied by countless art students attempting to impress their instructors, not to mention legions of forgers hoping to dupe an unschooled speculator.” Only after the words had left her mouth did Megan realize what she had just said, causing her to snap her head about and take to apologizing even as a blush once more began to enflame her cheeks.

Having already decided that the tall, plainly dressed art historian with dirty blond hair, a boyish figure and a forgettable face was the right person for the challenge he was about to charge her with, Tinsdal abandoned any further attempts to sound her out. Instead, he turned to putting her at ease before presenting her with his proposal. “Would you care to join me for tea?” he asked as he set aside his predatory nature and slipped into the role of host.

Before she replied, Megan once more turned her attention to the portrait. She knew what the man next to her was hoping for. The mere mention of the portrait of Milanese noblewoman da Vinci had painted in the 1490s told her that. She also knew the odds of this being another undiscovered work by the great master were astronomical. And yet, as she stood there, the opportunity to delve into the history of such an exquisite piece that no one had ever examined before, discovering its true origins and the stories behind both the artist and the subject was simply too enticing. To say no to a chance to take a break from the almost mind numbing routine her life had become by setting out on a quest that would challenge her to use every bit of her knowledge and skills as an art historian was simply too tempting.

Drawing herself up, she took one long, last look at the painting before turning to face Tinsdal and answering both the question he had just put to her and the one she expected he would over tea. “I would love to.”

It came as no surprise to Henry Hackett that, after throwing open the door of his flat and stepping inside, he was greeted by the sight of his phone’s message light flashing. He could guess who the message was from. Only Guy Tinsdal and a handful of trusted people knew when he would be back from Afghanistan, and of them, only Tinsdal would have a reason for calling him.

The only questions the exhausted reserve officer had was what that reason was, and, just as importantly, when the notorious real estate developer wanted him to see him. After taking a moment to draw in a deep breath before releasing it with a loud sigh, Hackett threw his military bergan off to one side and took to undoing the zip of his MTP camouflage field shirt as he headed off to the bathroom of his small flat. Returning his boss’s call could wait. Taking a long, hot soak in a real bath, to wash away the dust of a month in Afghanistan playing high stakes tag with Terry Taliban couldn’t.

There were precious few people in the world Guy Tinsdal could be at his ease with. Henry Hackett was one of them. In part this was due to the ability of the former Irish Guards officer to know when he could freely speak his mind, and when it was best to simply salute and get on with whatever task Tinsdal had just handed him. Hackett was also a man he could rely on to handle the sort of odd jobs for which there was no formal education, assignments that not only fell outside of the job description one usually associated with that of a personal assistant, but very often required a high degree of finesse, creative thinking, discretion, and sheer bloody doggedness. When told he could find Tinsdal in his study rather than the office of his Belgravia estate, Hackett knew whatever it was his boss had in mind for him was one of these.

“Well, home is the hunter,” Tinsdal murmured by way of greeting when he saw Hackett enter the room.

“Um, yes,” Hackett replied as he made straight for the sideboard where a selection of whiskies stood and poured himself a drink. “The only question I have is for how long.”

“Why must you Irish always suspect the worst from we English?”

“Because that’s usually all we get from your lot,” Hackett shot back before taking a sip of his whisky. He was in the process of savoring the taste of a thirty year old Black Bull scotch when his gaze fell upon the portrait. Using the index finger of the hand holding his glass, he pointed at it. “I see you’ve found a new piece to add to your collection. Who painted this one?”

“I’m not at all sure,” Tinsdal mused distractedly as he turned his gaze back toward the portrait.

The answer to his question almost caused Hackett to gag as he was taking another sip of whiskey, for Guy Tinsdal was not the sort of man who spent money on something unless he knew everything there was to know about the item he was about to purchase, whether it be an office building in the heart of the City, or a work of art.

Amused that he had been able to get a raise out of his otherwise unflappable aide Tinsdal rose from his seat, made his way over to where Hackett was standing, and poured himself a drink to match Hackett’s. He waited until Henry had refilled his own glass and took a slow sip in a thinly veiled effort to organize his thoughts before explaining. “I came across this piece during my recent trip to Edinburg,” he intoned as he quietly stepped closer to the portrait.

Never having had the time or the inclination to study the arts, Hackett joined Tinsdal as he too took to studying the picture. “While I can see it is intriguing, after a fashion, may I ask what compelled you to buy it?”

“A hunch.”

“About?”

“That, dear boy, is for you to find out,” Tinsdal replied as he gave Hackett a quick, sideways glance.

“Tell me you’re joking.”

“Oh, this is no joke,” Tinsdal murmured as he took a seat in on the sofa still facing the portrait.

After taking one last look at the portrait up close, Hackett came about and settled into a seat kitty-corner to Tinsdal. “I do hope you appreciate I know more about the far side of the moon than I do about art.”

“You’ve no need to know a thing about Renaissance art or artists in order to play your part in this adventure. I’ve hired an art historian who’ll be tending to that.”

There was no need to ask if this expert was any good. Hackett knew Tinsdal only hired the best and brightest. Instead, he turned his attention to the more practical aspects of his charter. “So, what part do I play in unraveling the mystery of the portrait?”

“Besides availing yourself to some well deserved time off after doing your bit for Queen and country, I need you to look after my interests.”

“And those would be?”

“If I’m right, that one picture could be worth upwards of fifty million quid.” Tinsdal whispered in a wishful tone of voice that was so out of character while nodding his head in the direction of the portrait.

Fortunately Hackett hadn’t been sipping his drink this time, otherwise he would have spat out whatever he had had in his mouth. “Oookay,” he slowly muttered after regaining the use of his vocal chords. “Who do you have looking into this for you.”

“A young woman who comes highly recommended from someone I know, a noted curator and art historian who worked at the National Gallery before he retired. I expect you’ll find the young woman I’ve engaged just your type,” Tinsdal added.

“I didn’t know I had a type,” Hackett muttered half under his breath as he stared down at his drink and gave it a gentle swirl before taking a sip.

“Every man has a type. You just haven’t taken the opportunity to find her yet.”

“That’s probably due to the fact you keep me from spending too much time trolling the pubs and clubs looking for that lucky lady,” Hackett grunted derisively.

After the two men enjoyed a good laugh over this exchange, Tinsdal once more took to gazing at the portrait. “Perhaps you’ll have better luck with this charming young woman,” he murmured softly.

Whether Tinsdal was talking about the art historian or the subject of the portrait didn’t matter to Hackett, for his mind was already occupied with fleshing out a plan of action using the same well honed methodology he had learned while serving with the Colours.