‘Sia Keating?’
‘Yes?’ she replied.
‘Can I see some ID?’
‘Really? Can I see yours?’ she asked, offended for a reason she couldn’t quite name.
‘Of course,’ the man—Mike Newton—said amiably, showing his work ID.
After they had exchanged identification, he left her with the briefcase, ‘With the Duke’s regards.’
She stood in the doorway wearing a pretty summer dress, holding her purse and a black leather briefcase that seemed more than a little incongruous—especially considering the fireworks it set off in her stomach. Her hands shook as she lifted the briefcase in both hands to inspect it.
It couldn’t be, could it? Her knees threatened to give way. Not because of the exorbitant value of what she thought the briefcase might contain. Not because of what she might do with it if it was what she thought it was. But because of what it meant for Sebastian to have given it to her. Her heart trembled as she caught sight of the car Bonnaire’s had sent for her pulling up in front of her.
Sia was shown into one of the glass-fronted meeting rooms on the fifth floor. Two men sat on one side of the table, one on the large side, balding and slightly sweaty, and the other stick-thin, tall and with a rather abundant head of dark auburn hair.
Her mind had been a whirlwind the entire journey here and it wasn’t until that moment that she realised that Bonnaire’s had summoned her to the equivalent of an interrogation. On a good day there might have been something farcical about the two ‘heavies’ who had been sent to interview her about the painting. But Sia suddenly saw what this could have been like only weeks ago.
A junior member of staff pulled into an interview, two weeks into a suspension from a job she needed to pay bills, to pay debts, her career and future on the line...she would have said whatever they wanted her to say. Already she felt the weight of the threat hanging in the air. But, instead of making her scared, it made her angry. Angry that they thought they could do this, not just to her but to anyone they employed.
The large one gestured for her to sit in the one chair between them. She eyed it, not liking the way it would make her feel to be imprisoned between the two men at the head of the table. Instead, she politely declined and sat a few seats further up, on the side nearing the door. She was done playing other people’s games. From now on, Sia promised herself, she would make her own choices and live with the consequences.
‘Ms Keating, you understand that this interview is being recorded for internal Bonnaire’s purposes only and that you do not need a lawyer present?’
‘I’m afraid that hasn’t convinced me that I don’t need one,’ she said lightly, relishing the new feeling of power coursing through her veins. Perhaps having a painting worth one hundred million pounds at her feet hidden in a briefcase did that to her. Or at least the possibility anyway. She still hadn’t looked inside it yet.
‘But you understand the statement that I have just made?’
‘Yes,’ she said, biting her tongue before she could accuse him of being a patronising Neanderthal.
‘Then, if you would, can you please explain how you came to believe that the painting in question was a fake?’
And even though she could make everything all disappear, just by saying that she had changed her mind, that the painting had always been a fake, that she had made a terrible mistake, a proud, defiant part of her made her say, ‘As I have already explained, the painting I assessed in Sharjarhere was most definitely not a fake.’
The two men proceeded to ply her with questions and Sia concentrated on answering them very specifically. The fact that Bonnaire’s clearly wanted her to lie was making her much more determined to tell the truth. Just not all the truth. And she began to see how Sebastian had answered her questions not necessarily with the intent to beguile or deceive, but to protect. Protect the people who’d helped him achieve his goal, protect her to a certain extent, from exactly this situation.
‘So, let me get this straight. The reason you didn’t answer our calls was b
ecause you got on a plane with the man you believe to have stolen a painting from Bonnaire’s and flew to the Caribbean?’
‘I believe he stole the painting from Sheikh Abrani, but yes,’ she clarified, strangely angry at the possessive view Bonnaire’s seemed to have towards the painting they claimed never to have been in contact with.
It was strange to be recounting the last few weeks of her life to two complete strangers. But, as she told them in as little detail as possible about her time with Sebastian, she couldn’t deny how it made her feel. She had to work hard to keep the smile from her face at the memory of him trying to get her to take control of the plane, of how much he loved his convertible sports car, of his delight in her joy at being able to see such incredible art in Florence, not even to mention the Gentileschi. At how he’d encouraged her to reach for whatever it was she wanted, how he’d allowed her complete and unfettered access to him, his body and the pleasure she could find there.
‘When did you get to Italy?’
While her mind almost numbly supplied an answer, she realised that while there were a hundred different ways this could end, there was only one that she wanted.
‘So you spent nearly two weeks with him and during that time...did you see the painting?’
‘No.’
‘And you don’t know where it is?’
‘No,’ she answered truthfully because she didn’t actually know for sure that it was in the briefcase.
‘Because if you did see it—’