She emerged from her car in front of an impressive Spanish-style hacienda and breathed in the warm air. She looked around the drive, which was alive with the color of cactus flowers. The weather in this suburb of Las Vegas was mild and lovely in March—a contrast to what she was used to in New York or back home in England. Just a slight breeze caressed her arms, which were bare in the sleeveless wheat-colored belted dress that she wore.
She’d been told that the mansion was more of an investment property than anything else and that its owner resided elsewhere. Still, it seemed to be very well maintained. Clearly the owner was someone willing to invest plenty of time and effort in his property.
She looked around. There were no other vehicles visible in the drive, but she had been told that a small staff made sure that the estate ran properly.
Within moments, however, the housekeeper with whom she had spoken through the intercom at the front gate opened the arched aged-wood front door. The middle-aged woman greeted her with a smile and ushered her inside.
After declining any refreshment, Belinda let the housekeeper give her a short tour of the lower level of the house. As an art appraiser, she often found it helpful to see how clients lived generally. The rooms here were large and tastefully decorated but devoid of personal memorabilia—like a staged photo shoot for a home-furnishings catalog. She supposed she shouldn’t be surprised, because the mansion was just an investment property.
After a quarter of an hour, she followed the older woman upstairs to what she was told functioned more or less as the art gallery.
When the housekeeper pulled open the double doors, Belinda stepped inside the vast room—and immediately sucked in a breath.
She identified a Monet, a Renoir and a Degas. They were lesser known works, of course, since the most famous ones hung in museums around the world. Still, from her point of view as an art expert, there was no such thing as an obscure Renoir.
More importantly, she recognized the paintings as works that had come to auction in the past few years—her auctions. The auctions she’d organized had gone so well as to earn her a promotion at Lansing’s.
She’d wondered then whom the mysterious buyer or buyers had been. In her line of work, it wasn’t unusual for a buyer to wish to remain unknown, sometimes using a business entity through which to make purchases. But whoever the owner was, Belinda had envied him or her even then.
The paintings were beautiful—dappled, romantic works of art. She wished she had had the money to purchase them. She admired the sensibility of the owner and the good sense shown in the way of the paintings’ display.
The room was a mini-museum. It was large, had white walls and sported temperature control. The few pieces of furniture were arranged so that no matter where one sat, one had an excellent view of the paintings on the walls.
The housekeeper gave her a smile and then a polite nod. “I’ll leave you to your work.”
Belinda glanced at the older woman, who looked indulgent at how overwhelmed she was. “Thank you.”
After the housekeeper departed, Belinda walked to the center of the room. She stood there for a moment, turning first to the Renoir and then to the Monet. She sat down on a nearby chair for further contemplation.
She was delighted that the paintings had found a place together. They were some of those she’d loved best among those that she’d been fortunate enough to have cross her desk. She’d performed her role well and sold them to the highest bidders for excellent prices. She had scattered them far and wide—or so she thought.
But now she could have her cake and eat it, too—sort of. They were all here.
The Monet was of a man and women in close conversation against a green landscape. The Renoir was a couple dancing in a close embrace. And the Degas was a ballerina figure in pirouette.
After m
inutes had ticked by, she stood up and moved to the Renoir to inspect it more closely.
The brushstrokes were, of course, exactly as she remembered them.
She heard the door of the room open, and before she could turn around, a voice reached her.
“I believe they’re worth more than I paid for them.”
The tone was dry, amused…and familiar.
She froze, and then a second later as she pivoted, her eyes collided with the Marquess of Easterbridge’s. “You.”
Colin’s lips tilted upward. “I believe the correct term is husband.”
“How did you get in here?” she demanded.
He looked amused. “I own this house.”
Belinda stared at him, her mind reeling as she tried to absorb his words.
Colin looked fit and healthy, and he dressed like an aristocrat at play. He wore a white shirt with rolled cuffs and dark trousers with a thin belt. She assumed they were all ordered from a Savile Row tailor that the Granvilles had patronized for generations.