MasterStroke (2 page)

“That’s what happens when you run a shop. These pesky customers keep getting in the way,” she said lightly. “Mariel Bould, meet Jack Lucas.”

Mariel launched herself across the vestibule and shook Jack’s hand excitedly.

“A pleasure. Hope my entrance wasn’t too dramatic for this haven of peace and quiet.”

“Not at all,” he replied breezily. “I’m just about to leave.” He turned back to Sandrine. “I’ll see you before five, then.”

Mariel was nodding furiously, just beyond Jack’s line of vision, and mouthing “yes” and “hot”. She barely had time to stop as he quickly turned towards the door, where he found her gazing intently at a display of vintage Enid Blyton books.

“Ladies, have a good afternoon,” he said as he left the store.

Mariel watched him as he walked down the street.

“Who the hell is that?”

“New customer. You know as much about him as I do.”

“What I know is he’s one hot honey. Think he’s single? Are you interested? Is he taking you out tonight?”

“Whoa, whoa. Settle down. He’s just coming back later to pick up his books. I have no idea if he’s single and I don’t really care that much. He’s not my type.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Mariel exclaimed in an overly extravagant manner. “Not your type indeed! He’s probably the best looking man you’ve talked to all year and he’s not your type? He’s certainly mine.”

“Well, that wouldn’t be difficult. He’s got a pulse.”

Mariel put a hand over her heart.

“I’m shocked you’d even suggest such a thing. You make me sound loose.”

Sandrine laughed. They had variations on this conversation whenever they were together and she knew exactly where it was heading.

“You love men, Mariel. All men. Although you usually favour the inappropriate ones.”

“Appropriate or inappropriate, it’s about time you started getting a little adventurous. Far too many lonely nights reading books and stroking your pussy.”

“Mariel,” Sandrine huffed.

“I mean, Heathcliff, your cat, silly. For someone who hardly ever goes out with men, you sure do have a dirty mind.”

In the battle of wits, Mariel was usually the victor. Mariel was Sandrine’s closest friend, although in many ways they were polar opposites. While Sandrine was introspective and softly spoken, Mariel had a quick boisterous laugh that tended to spread to those around her, a sense of humour that fell squarely at the extreme end of bawdy and a philosophy that every moment counted and life was to be enjoyed to the fullest. She said exactly what she thought, often at the moment it popped into her head, which led to some interesting situations.

They’d met at college where Sandrine was drawn to Mariel’s quirky outlook and, although there were many viewpoints they didn’t share, they firmly respected each other’s right to hold them.

Mariel was fiercely protective of Sandrine, as she was with all her friends. Advice on all aspects of Sandrine’s life, and especially her love life or lack of it, was forthcoming whether sought or not. Sandrine usually brushed it aside although she had to admit her friend was uncannily accurate in her analysis of others.

“How’s the latest boyfriend?” Sandrine asked.

Mariel grimaced and shrugged noncommittally.

“Claudio – please, please, please - don’t mention him.”

“Over so quickly?”

Mariel, despite a carefully cultivated gentility, had an interest in certain sports. One of those was cycling; her favourite time of the year was July when she’d spend hours watching the Tour de France. Her latest paramour was a young Italian whose main passion was training to become a professional cyclist.

“Looks like we’re irreversibly incompatible. He does have a wonderfully sculpted bum and he looks fabulous in bike shorts. But the cleats on his bike shoes make such a racket on the polished floorboards in my apartment. And I’m afraid he just doesn’t have the stamina to make it as an athlete. Anyway, I worry about a man who shaves his legs more often than I do.”

A laugh exploded out of Sandrine, almost bringing her to tears; Mariel had that effect on her.

“What do you know about Mr Hunky?” Mariel was eager for gossip.

“Aside from the fact he has a credit card and an eclectic taste in reading, I don’t know anything about him.”

“Then the perfect opportunity will present itself when he comes back.”

Sandrine waved a hand derisively.

“Not going to happen. Look at him. He’s way out of my league. Probably has a supermodel girlfriend. Or he’s gay. Anyway, I’m not like you. I don’t pick up complete strangers.”

“About time you did. When was the last time you got laid?”

Sandrine batted the question deftly to one side where it lay abandoned and unexplored. Their conversation wandered off into other areas and, after a time, Mariel gathered up her parcels and headed for the door.

“Take care. I’ll call you later,” she turned back, remembering something important. “Oh, yes, and please, please, please, if Mr Hunky asks you out, do go. Heathcliff can do without you for one evening.”

Sandrine simply arched an eyebrow which Mariel took as acquiescence.

The remainder of the afternoon slid by without incident. With the exception of Jack Lucas, nobody came in and, five minutes before closing, Sandrine was packed up, the stereo and heating turned off, and she was debating what to have for dinner. As she checked her watch and wondered whether Mr Lucas would be back in time, the door opened and, with another blast of frigid air, he came in.

“Sorry if I’ve kept you waiting,” he said. “My meeting took a little longer than anticipated.”

The books were already packed up in branded Buckingham’s carrier bags on the counter, where they’d been sitting most of the afternoon. Her bag, coat and scarf were on the counter next to them.

“It’s been a difficult afternoon and I was planning on a drink,” he continued. “If you have nothing else planned, perhaps you’d like to join me.”

Sandrine was just about to thank him but decline when she drew herself up short. It was true she didn’t have any plans. She was going back to her apartment where Heathcliff awaited his dinner and a well-received cuddle while she reheated the previous evening’s leftovers. There were a number of new books but she had difficulty making up her mind which to start next. There was nothing urgent she needed to do that couldn’t be put off for an hour or so. And Mariel’s probing insistence that she get to know Mr Lucas better, while it hadn’t been pressing on her all afternoon, was nonetheless echoing through her mind.

Why not? He doesn’t seem dangerous or weird or socially inept. He’s attractive, smart, well-dressed.
And, yes, she had to admit, he certainly was sexy in a way she’d never found attractive in a man before.
Don’t think about it, don’t over-intellectualise
, she heard Mariel saying.
The unknown awaits. What do you have to lose?

“Thanks,” she said, smiling shyly. “I’d love to.”

Chapter Two

The bar was downstairs about a block from the bookshop; she had passed it many times without knowing it was there. It was a little too masculine for her tastes, with its dark wood panelling and diamond-button leather sofas and buttery indirect lighting, much as she imagined an exclusive old world gentleman’s club would be, but its ambience was beyond doubt. It was warm and welcoming and she immediately felt at home.

It was busy with a professional after-work crowd, carefully-groomed men and women in conservative suits. The mood was chatty rather than raucous; the deep carpeting, heavy furniture, paintings and curtains absorbed the sound, reducing it to a low murmur.

Jack led her through the bar to an unoccupied banquette at the back. While she settled in, he said he’d go to the bar and get drinks rather than waiting for a server. She ordered a glass of red, something not too heavy.

With her first sip, she realised the
côtes du rhône
was just what she needed. The feeling of ease was almost immediate. Kicking off her shoes, she curled her legs under her. Jack was close but not too close, relaxing as well, looking for all the world like he belonged in such surroundings. He could well be a model in a 1970s whisky ad, of the sort that would have featured in
Playboy
magazine. Sandrine smiled slightly at the sudden mischievous thought. If he was wearing tasselled loafers, the image would be complete.

“What do you do for a living, Mr Lucas?”

He cast his eyes upwards and his brow furrowed somewhat. Sandrine didn’t find this evasive, merely it gave the impression it was the first time he’d ever been asked the question and was concentrating on an answer. It was almost endearingly boyish.

“Firstly, it’s Jack. Not Mr Lucas. Well, I’m a consultant. Import – export. With a bit of salvage and recovery on the side.”

“That sounds mysterious. What does that mean?”

“People come to me if there is something they’re looking for. Or if they’ve lost something and want to find it.”

“Such as?” Her curiosity was well and truly aroused.

“I mainly deal with collectors. It could be a special car they’re looking to add to their collection. Or a piece of artwork, coins, stamps. Anything, really.”

“Sounds fascinating. Does it require a lot of work?”

“Of course. Each new request requires a hell of a lot of research, finding the right people to talk to, experts to verify authenticity, tracking back to discover who has the item and whether they’ll part with it and for how much.”

“What if they don’t want to part with it?”

“That’s when it can get a little sticky. It’s a complication, of course, but, in general, everybody has their price. It’s just a matter of working out what it is.”

Sandrine was surprised to find that she was beginning to enjoy Jack’s company. There was a confidence about him, the way he moved and talked, that was compelling. She was a people watcher and it was apparent he was as well. And while he appeared totally at ease, he had a relaxed intensity she found fascinating, especially in the way he would occasionally cast a casual glance around the room for she was sure he would miss few details.

“What are you trying to find at the moment?”

Jack smiled a big lop-sided smile that crinkled his eyes.

“I’m good at keeping secrets, Sandrine. I have to be in my line of work. New business comes in because my regular clients are satisfied with the job I do and how I protect their interests. If I start blabbing, my business would be in serious trouble.”

It was a rebuff but a very mild one. Sandrine could appreciate his position. But his reticence was only fuelling her desire to find out more about him.

“Jack, come on. You’ve told me so much already. Surely you don’t do this every time you meet someone new.”

His steady gaze and the lingering silence that went with it were both infuriating and electric.

After a few moments, he relented.

“OK, for example. I have a client. A collector with much more money than self-control. He has a thing for silversmiths of the late nineteenth century Russian imperial court.”

“Faberge?”

“Peter Carl Faberge was the best known but there were others who produced work that was just as amazing. At this moment, this collector is mad for kovshs, Russian drinking cups of beautifully-crafted silver and enamel. Most of this stuff comes up at the better-known auction houses on a fairly regular basis but I’m looking for unusual pieces, the sort of items that are talked about amongst collectors but very rarely see the light of day.”

“Wow, that sounds fascinating,” Sandrine exclaimed enthusiastically.
He really has the most amazing life.

“Much of it disappeared following the 1917 Revolution. And that’s where the challenge begins because a regular trail just doesn’t exist anymore. Provenance gets very murky once you have to work through items that were dispersed around the world but largely throughout Europe. Factor in two world wars and it gets even more complicated. By comparison, separating the genuine items from the fakes is the easy part.

“Your turn,” he said brightly. “Tell me a little about yourself.”

Inwardly, Sandrine squirmed. Jack’s story had seemed so incredibly fascinating and reminded her how quiet her life was in comparison. However, there was also the matter that she really didn’t like to discuss her life. Part of it was because she closely guarded her privacy. She liked that, in an age where the Internet allowed everybody to share their most intimate thoughts and feelings, no matter how banal or pedestrian, she kept so low a profile it could be deemed invisible. She didn’t have a Facebook account or take to Twitter. She didn’t feel the need to blog or post opinions on other people’s websites.

She didn’t have a large circle of friends although those she had she’d known for years. If she needed to contact anybody, she phoned them or wrote notes on the exquisitely stylish stationery she collected. There was always something about receiving a letter that she found far more exciting than the robotic plink of an email notification in her in-box.

That’s not to say the Internet wasn’t a major presence in her life. She loved the ease with which information was so readily available. Just about anything and everything was accessible via search engines and she used such tools several hours a day to research and search for books for her customers. But while Sandrine was comfortable probing the hidden crevices of the world for her own uses, she hated to think her own life could be so easily uncovered.

She wasn’t sure from where this evolved but felt the answers lay in her childhood. Her mother and father had died in a car accident when she was very young, still a baby really, barely three years old.

All she knew about her parents came from her aunt, her father’s elder sister, and even then that lacked the essential details she demanded as she grew older and so desperately wanted to know more. Aunt Bridget had been estranged from her family for several years, had not spoken to her brother in that time, but following the accident she had immediately taken steps to care for Sandrine, bringing her back to her English home and lavishing love and attention on her, as though raising her brother’s infant daughter could go some way towards repairing the rift in her own life.