Very casually, he mention
ed his plan to call in the art-partnership members to see if they knew anything about the Fong Triad and their purchasing any valuable paintings. Also, if they’d ever dealt with Daniel Zhang—or even heard his name.
Sloane accepted Rich’s announcement without surprise or concern. What he was describing was standard operating procedure.
Once again, Derek felt like a bastard. But he just couldn’t let this one go—even if it meant betraying his promise to Sloane. He didn’t want to keep his suspicions from her. But as of now, they had no concrete basis, and he knew that the very idea he believed otherwise—and was acting on that belief—would tear her apart. There was plenty of time to do that later—if necessary. And if it wasn’t, he’d tell her anyway, fully aware that it could put a permanent chink in their relationship.
Love was a wonderful thing. Except when it wasn’t.
Cindy took great pains getting dressed and ready for tonight’s dinner with Wallace. As Peggy had suggested, she wore her turquoise silk blouse, which clung ever so subtly to her delicate curves. She also donned a pair of Ralph Lauren black silk slacks and classic high-heeled pumps. Wallace was tall. It was important that the two of them fit together—physically as well as intellectually.
She brushed her dark hair until it glistened, put on a minimal amount of makeup, and then dabbed some Magie Noire perfume behind her ears and on her wrists. She hesitated, then traced a tiny line of the captivating scent between her breasts. Magie Noire—French for “black magic.”
What a fitting name for the evening she had in mind.
Derek left the office early that night. Sloane and Jeff were putting the final touches on their plans for tomorrow’s visit to the battered women’s shelter. After that, Sloane had an occupational therapy appointment at HSS. It was just as well. Derek needed time to think, to assimilate his thoughts, and to deal with his guilt.
Traffic was lighter than usual, and he got home in record time. As he pulled down the winding cottage driveway, he noticed there was a car parked at the foot of the driveway, near the garage. It took him a minute to recognize the red Lexus convertible and to remember that Sloane had told him she’d given Leo a key, since he’d be dropping by in the late afternoon to take some measurements and compare some color swatches.
Great. Talk about rubbing Derek’s nose in guilt. It was the first night in weeks that he didn’t feel like probing one of Matthew’s partners for information. He just wanted to pour himself a glass of wine, go over the material he’d collected on the case—and, yes, on Matthew’s partners—and figure out if it was the Fong Triad that Xiao Long had his connections to, and if so, if it was Henry Fong himself who was subsidizing Xiao’s big-time art-theft crimes.
Determined to urge Leo out the door ASAP, Derek let himself into the cottage through the garage door.
Three things happened at once.
The hounds came flying out of the den, racing around the corner, and barking joyously at Derek’s homecoming. A loud thud and a muttered curse emanated from the living room just as Derek appeared in its entranceway. And Leo Fox stumbled to his feet, red-faced and stuttering apologies as he collected papers off the carpet and shoved them back into the open file.
Derek recognized the contents. They were Sloane’s copies of the police reports detailing the artwork stolen during the Upper East Side burglaries.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Wallace’s taste in restaurants was impeccable.
Savoy had always been one of Cindy’s personal favorites. Nestled in downtown Soho, it had a lovely main dining room on the second level. The crackling fireplace and wood-accented windows, together with the privately arranged tables and accommodating staff, created an elegant ambiance that was both homey and intimate.
It was precisely the scenario Cindy had anticipated for this all-important evening.
Wallace himself looked impeccable, dressed in a classy but understated custom-made suit and silk tie. He was carrying a small shopping bag, and judging from the glossy white color and silver roped handles, whatever was inside it was for her. And his curious glance at the slim box under her arm told her this was going to be a race to see who got the honor of presenting their gift first.
No contest. She was taking the lead here. It was a necessity to ensure that she accomplished the full impact of her presentation.
Wallace had arranged to have them seated at a quiet corner table close to the fire. As soon as the maitre d’ brought them over to the table, settled them in, and discreetly left them alone, Cindy took the reins.
“I have something for you,” she told Wallace. “It’s a special thank-you from my A Sook and me. I would have saved it for after dessert, but given its size—it’s not as if I could keep it hidden in my pocket.” She reached down and lifted the thin, square box from where she’d propped it against her chair. “I hope it touches your heart the way we thought it would.”
With a pleased but quizzical look in his eyes, Wallace took the box and opened it, peeling back the layers of tissue paper and revealing the two-foot-by-two-foot bamboo picture frame and the canvas it held. His breath caught for a moment as he lifted it out and gazed at the master oil painting in his hands.
The room in it was a muted shade of green, and dim lighting haloed the closed door. Standing there, with one hand on the doorknob, was the room’s sole occupant.
The little Asian girl was about four years old. She was laughing, her other hand clapped over her mouth as if to keep the subject of her mirth private. Her hair was in two braids, a bright pink flower tucked behind each one. Her robe was a traditional Chinese silk with ornate trim at the wrists and neck. The way the pale aura captured and illuminated her, it was as if she was right there with you, her dark eyes dancing, the very essence of life emanating from her youth and beauty.
The signature, in the painting’s lower right-hand corner, belonged to a well-known Chinese artist.
Wallace swallowed twice before he spoke.
“This is exquisite,” he finally managed. “I can’t tell you how moved I am.”
“You don’t have to,” Cindy replied softly. “Your expression just did.”