Megan was livid, and rightly so, when she found out Hackett had invited another art historian to look at the portrait and render an opinion on it without first discussing the matter with her. Storming into his office with all the fury and rage of a rogue North Sea wave, she marched up to Henry who had come to his feet and moved out from behind his desk. “It was my understanding that I was setting the agenda,” she growled as she all but shoved her face into his.

Rather than recoiling, Henry was both pleased and more than a little amused by the young woman’s antics, for up to that point he had viewed her as being a wee bit too timid and callow. The sudden burst of anger he was being treated to gave him hope there was far more to her than he had thus far seen.

Never having worked with a man like him, Megan was taken aback by his response to the righteous indignation she felt over the way he had gone behind her back. Unable to think of something to say that would wipe the smirk off his face, she found herself having to settle for simply glaring into his eyes for a long moment before pivoting about sharply on her heels and marching to the small conference room where she had first seen the portrait that had since been set aside as an impromptu office for her use. Once there she all but threw herself in a chair, crossed her arms tightly across her chest, and took to muttering to herself under her breath. While Henry, who had followed her at a safe distance, could not make out what she was saying, he had no doubt they paled in comparison to what his squaddies tossed his way whenever he was passing out orders they were not thrilled to hear.

The silence that followed once Megan had managed to rein in her anger continued until Henry’s assistant entered the room, followed by a tall, raven haired woman in her early fifties. The woman, impeccably attired in a black designer dress tastefully trimmed with a white rolled collar open at the neck and white French cuffs affected a warm, heartfelt smile the second she saw Henry. “Enrico, you scoundrel. How wonderful to see you again,” she purred huskily as she opened her arms and drew him into a hug, during which she kissed his cheek.

“As always, the pleasure is all mine, dear Silvia,” he replied in a suggestive manner that caused the woman’s eyes to twinkle in a way that led Megan to believe the two of them had been intimate. This supposition was reinforced when she gave one of the arms she was still holding a light, playful tap before stepping back and turning her attention to the portrait he had set out on a desktop easel.

“Ah, now I see why you invited me to that dreadfully room you insist on calling an office,” she declared as she made her way to the table and took a moment to study the portrait from afar. “Guy has taken on another lover.”

“Yes, yes he has. A very mysterious one, I might add.”

Rather than respond, and paying no heed to the younger woman across the room who was wearing an expression that reminded her of a spoilt child, Silvia Mollini settled into the seat Tinsdal usually occupied that Henry had placed before the portrait. Reaching out, she ever so carefully lifted the portrait off the tabletop easel and took to reverently holding it at arms distance. Gone was the smile that came as easily to her as the natural beauty that caused men of all ages to stop and watch as she glided along as if walking on air. In its place was an expression that told Henry she was, for the moment, lost to the world. It was the same expression Megan had worn when she first laid eyes on the portrait, a cool, unflinching focus that told him Silva was carefully studying every detail of the portrait, clicking off items from a mental checklist one by one.

Shock, followed by the painfully familiar apprehension Megan always experienced when someone from her past suddenly reentered her life slowly morphed into curiosity as she began to wonder not only what woman was thinking, but how she was going about evaluating the piece, for unlike her mentor, the comely Italian woman was keeping her own council. It was during this silent interlude that the last of the ire she had met Henry’s announcement that he had asked another art historian to render an opinion on the portrait was replaced by an appreciation he not only had every right to do so, not to have had a second opinion from someone he and Tinsdal knew and trusted before going any further would have been foolish. That they were able to call upon Silvia Mollini, the curator of the art gallery that was part of the Sforza Castle Museum in Milan and a guest lecturer on Renaissance art at major universities throughout Europe impressed Megan, doing much to take the sting out of the slight she felt Henry was guilty of.

It was close to an hour before another word was spoken. After drawing in a deep breath, Silvia tenderly replaced the portrait on the easel, rose, and went over to where Henry had taken a seat, never once looking away from it.

Coming to his feet, Henry waited until the woman was before him and, with greater effort than such a simple act required, tore her eyes off of the portrait and gazed up into his. “I shall like to think on this,” she murmured in a voice that told him her mind was elsewhere. Then, after giving her head a quick shake, the same smile she had been wearing when she entered the room returned. “Perhaps over dinner?”

The grin with which he replied, and the way he took her hand to his lips and lightly kissed it told Megan the two had shared a history that had nothing to do with art. “Seven?” he asked cocking a brow.

“You forget, my dear Enrico, I am very Italian. Eight.”

Unable to help himself, Henry snickered, reminding Megan of the way the wolf behaved in childhood stories. “Eight it is.”

“You could have at least told me who this outside consultant was before she showed up,” Megan snipped as she and Henry sipped their wine while waiting for Silvia to arrive.

“Would it have made any difference if I had?” he countered without skipping a beat.

The temptation to reply that it would have was checked by an appreciation that not only would it be a lie, the man seated across from her was the kind of person who would know it was. If they were to establish an effective working relationship, Megan concluded, she would have to be honest and open, attributes she had learned after joining the staff at the National Gallery were all too often in short supply among the art historians on the staff, each of whom jealously guarded the tiny fiefdoms they had staked out for themselves. With that thought in mind, she took to staring at her wineglass as she spoke. “All I ask of you is that in the future you discuss any thoughts over how we should proceed before you up and spring something like you did this afternoon.”

“Fair enough,” Henry replied smoothly. Then, as he was taking up his glass, he continued in a most casual, nonchalant manner. “Provided, of course, it’s determined there’s a there there and we do go ahead with this snipe hunt.”

Caught off guard by his response, Megan glanced up at Henry in surprise. She was about to say something when Silvia Mollini appeared at the table as if by magic. “I am so sorry, Enrico, but I have forgotten just how awful traffic in this city of yours is at this time of night.”

Coming to his feet, the two greeted each other with a hug and a kiss on his cheek before Henry grasped the back of a chair between he and Megan, pulled it out, and waited for the woman to take her seat before bending over and whispering in her ear loud enough for Megan to hear. “You cannot fool me, my love. I’ve spent far too much time in Milan to know relying on traffic as an excuse to justify your tardiness is nothing more than a cover to explain away all the time you waste sitting at your vanity, trying to improve upon perfection.”

For a brief moment Megan caught a glimpse of a girlish twinkle in the woman’s eyes and a hint of color rising in her cheeks. Then, as quickly as they had appeared, they were replaced by an expression that showcased the woman’s timeless beauty an artist like Leonardo would have had difficulty capturing.

When she noticed how the young woman who was seated to her right was studying her, Silva smiled even as she was offering Megan her hand. “I do not think we have been introduced. I am…”

Suddenly aware of how she had been staring, the blush on her cheeks and the haste with which she took the woman’s hands betrayed her embarrassment. “Yes, I know, Signora Mollini. I had the privilege of attending your lectures when you were at Oxford several years ago.”

“Ah, bene!” Then, with a slight tilt of her head, the woman took to regarding Megan with a stare that caused her to become noticeably uncomfortable.

“I like to pride myself in never forgetting a student of mine,” Silvia murmured. “Unfortunately, I am sorry to say I cannot recall your name.”

The idea of telling the woman she was seated next to she had been quite different then quickly flashed through Megan’s mind, but was just as quickly dismissed as she took her hand, returned the light squeeze she felt, and swiftly withdrew it. “Megan, Megan Ellsworth.”

Having watched this exchange, Henry rushed in to fill in the awkward silence that followed by turning toward Silvia. “Well, shell we eat first and then discuss your thoughts on me lordship’s latest acquisition?”

“You have changed, my love,” Silvia purred seductively as she lightly toyed with her wineglass. “There once was a time when your priorities were, um, shell we say quite different.”

Megan was not at all surprised that the man she was condemned to be joined at the hip with was not in the least bit unsettled by the way the woman had answered. He was, she had already concluded, someone who was quite adept at keeping his thoughts and feelings to himself, a trait she was quite familiar with.

While they waited in the lounge of the hotel Silvia Mollini was staying at for her to return to her room to retrieve her notes, Henry felt the need to justify his decision to ask Silvia to render an opinion on the portrait before going any further now that he and the young art historian were speaking to each other again. “In addition to taking care of some of the little chores Guy does not have the time to tend to himself, part of my charter is to root about into the background of people, companies, and properties that come to his attention in order to keep him from investing in a venture that is not in his best interests, might prove to be a monetary black hole, or result in the sort of bad press a man like the boss does not cared for.”

Suspecting she already knew the answer, Megan didn’t bother asking the self assured man seated across him if he consider his current assignment as one of those afore mentioned little chores. Nor did she expect she needed to ask if he had been rooting around in her background. He didn’t strike her as the sort who would simply salute, come about, and madly charge off after being given an order. As she was taking a sip of her drink, she regarded him with the same penetrating gaze he was doing his best to keep her from seeing. No doubt, she imagined, behind the urbane facade he presented to the world there was a cold, calculating mind that saw all and betrayed little. Instead, she turned her attention to finding out how he had come to know a woman who was as renowned in the art world as Silvia Mollini was.

By way of response, he snickered to himself as he paused a moment to stare down into his drink as if recalling a scene from his past. Then, peeking up at Megan out of the corner of his eye, he grinned. “A gentleman does not go about making all his secrets public, particularly when they involve a woman like Silvia. You of all people should appreciate that.”

Megan was still trying to parse exactly what he meant by his last statement when Silvia came up to where they were seated. As before, Henry sprang to his feet. “Would you care for a drink before we get started?” he asked as she was settling in.

“Of course, dear boy,” she cooed breathlessly as she glanced at him out of the corner of her eyes while sporting a mischievous smile. “The usual will do nicely, I think.”

“Your wish is my command,” he replied as he bowed deeply, took up her hand, and lightly kissed it.

To Megan’s surprise, instead of beckoning for the waitress who had been tending them to come over to their table, he headed over to the bar. The reason for this became clear the moment he was gone, for Silvia turned her full attention on her. “I have been told you are one of Clive Barrow’s’ star protégées.”

“Was,” Megan corrected the woman. “He retired last autumn.”

“Ah! I hadn’t heard.” After tilting her head slight as she gave this bit of news some thought, Silvia eased back in her seat and fixed Megan with a steady, unflinching stare. “Now that he has so much free time on his hands, I expect the poor dear has set about finishing that book he has been working on for, oh, the past ten, fifteen years now.”

Whether the woman’s comment had been meant as a slight didn’t matter in the least bit. To Megan it was a put down, for everyone who knew Barrow was familiar with his efforts to write a book on the history of art in the Western world that would, as he himself often proclaimed, be his legacy. That he had never gotten much beyond sketching out a rough outline led those who were Megan’s peers at the National gallery to openly joke about the Prof’s Magnus Opus in waiting.

Eager to put any ill thoughts Silvia’s comment had evoked behind her, Megan turned to asking her how she and Hackett had met. This question was met with a shy smile as she averted her eyes. “It was actually quite funny,” she murmured.

“What was funny?” Henry asked as he came up behind her with her drink and a fresh round for Megan and himself.

“I was about to tell this young woman how you all but stumbled on me that night in Venice during carnival.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” Henry replied in a playfully menacing tone as he was handing her the drink. “I would be very cross with you if you were to share that story with another.”

“Oh, as if you haven’t already done so, countless times I imagine, with your chums in the regimental mess or some other ghastly place where boys such as yourself gather in order to tell tall tales of their latest conquests.”

“Hmm, yes, well, that’s a different kettle of fish altogether,” he muttered as he was taking his seat. “We do need something to talk about as we go about getting merrily sotted.”

Listening in on this playful, sexually charged banter left Megan feeling like a voyeur watching two lovers engage in foreplay. As embarrassing as it was to sit there in silence as the two carried on as if she were not there, the young self-conscious art historian found herself intrigued by the way a woman who was at the panicle of her profession was able to engage in such an exchange with what struck Megan as total abandon and joy.

When she noticed the way Megan was watching them, and deciding she and Henry had had as much fun as she cared for at the moment, Silvia took a sip of her drink before setting it down, and took to leafing through the notes she had laid out before her if for no other reason than to collect her thoughts. Only when she was ready did she turn toward the young woman whose cheeks were tinted with a charming shade of red brought on by embarrassment. After fixing Megan with a stare that alerted her she was ready to settle down to the business at hand, she began to speak with a tone of voice that was unmistakably authoritative without coming across as being patronizing. “I can say without any doubt that the portrait is not by Leonardo.”

Her statement caused Megan to flinch, for Henry had made it clear when he had informed her he had engaged an outside consultant to render an opinion on the piece he had not shared with that person the hope Tinsdal held that the piece had been painted by da Vinci.

Unable to keep from doing so, Silvia allowed herself a hint of a smirk before continuing. “While there is no disputing the artist’s technique is most masterful, and the subject bares a striking resemblance to Leonardo’s La Bella Principessa, it was not painted by him. I would stake my reputation on that conclusion.”

For a woman who was a renounced connoisseur of art to pass such a definitive judgment on the portrait was far more devastating to Megan than she had thought it would be, causing her to wonder if she, like Guy Tinsdal and Clive Barrow, had been so swept away by their hopes that she had lost the ability to see something that wasn’t there. While Tinsdal’s error on this matter could be easily excused, those of her former mentor could not. He was, after all, a man who had spent his entire life dedicated to unearthing and preserving the true history of the works of art given over to his care.

Appreciating the impact her statement had had on the young art historian seated across from her, Silvia hastened to soften the blow by pointing out the portrait was not without merit. “To find such a piece, one that rivals the skill of the Master himself is of great importance. Such an artist had to have done more than simply study da Vinci’s work. I would not be surprised if he stood at Leonardo’s shoulder as he was at work, listening to him describe each and every brush stoke he was making and why it was so important to the piece. Not only would it be worth the effort and expense it would take to find out who this unknown genius was, the chance of finding other works of his we have not yet identified, pieces that, if found, would hold a place of honor among the greatest of the great would be an occasion to celebrate. Were I not otherwise engaged, I would leap at the opportunity to join you in such a quest. Since I cannot, I will do what I can to share with you my thoughts on this piece, assist you when I can, and put you in contact with people who you need to show this work to.”
Buoyed by what she was hearing, Megan took advantage of this opportunity to listen to a woman who was more than ready to give her what amounted to a personalized, one-on-one master class in art history.

As he often did at times like this, Henry eased back in his seat and faded into the background, listening to a woman he knew so very well lovingly share her knowledge with another he had set his mind to knowing better.