“No, Daisy, no—” He tried to move toward her, wanting to take her in his arms, to offer comfort. But she moved violently back before he could touch her. He froze, dropping his hands. “I saw a drawing of the trial, when your father’s verdict was read. It made me feel sorry for you.”
The emotion in her face changed to anger. “Sorry for me?”
That hadn’t come out right. “I heard your father died in prison, and I came looking for you because...because I wanted to make sure you were all right. And perhaps give you some money.”
“Money?” Her expression hardened. “Do you really think that could compensate me for my father’s death? Some... some payoff?”
“That was never my intention, it—” Leonidas cut himself off, gritting his teeth. He forced his voice to remain calm. “You never deserved to s
uffer. You were innocent.”
“So was my father!”
Against his best intentions, his own anger rose. “You cannot be so blind as to think that your father was innocent. Of course he wasn’t. He tried to sell a forgery.”
“Then he foolishly trusted the wrong person. Someone must have tricked him and convinced him the painting was real. He never would have tried to sell it otherwise! He was a good man! Perfect!”
“Are you kidding? Your father was selling forgeries for years.”
“No one else ever accused him—”
“Because either they were too embarrassed, or they didn’t realize the paintings were fakes. Your father knew he wasn’t selling a real Picasso.”
“How would he know that? No one has seen the painting for decades. How did that lawyer lackey of yours even know it wasn’t real?”
Leonidas had a flash of memory from twenty years before. His misery as a boy at his parents’ strange neglect and hatred. The shock of his mother’s final abandonment. His heartbroken fury, as a boy of fourteen. He could still feel the cold steel in his hand. The canvas ripping beneath his blade in the violent joy of destruction, of finally giving in to his rage—
Looking away, Leonidas said tightly, “I was the one who knew it was a fake. From the moment I saw it in Ross’s office.”
“You.” Daisy glared at him in the cold silence of his bedroom, across the enormous bed, which he’d so recently dreamed of sharing with her. “Why couldn’t you just let it go? What’s one Picasso to you, more or less?”
Leonidas’s shoulders tightened. He didn’t want to think about what it meant to him. Or why he’d been looking for it so desperately for two decades.
“So I should have just let your father get away with his deceit?” he said coldly. “Allowed him to continue passing off fake paintings?”
“My father was innocent!” Her expression was fierce. “He looked into my eyes and swore it!”
“Because he couldn’t bear for you to know the truth. He loved you too much.”
Anguish shone in her beautiful face. Then her expression crumpled.
“And I loved him,” she said brokenly. She wiped her eyes. “But you’re wrong. He never would have lied to me. He had no reason—”
“You would have forgiven him?”
“Yes.”
“Because you loved him.” Leonidas took a deep breath and looked into her eyes. “So forgive me,” he whispered.
She sucked in her breath. “What?”
“You’re in love with me, Daisy. We both know that.”
Her lush pink lips parted. She seemed to tremble. “What...how—”
“I’ve seen it on your face. Heard it in your voice. You’re in love—” He took a step toward her, but she put her hand up, warding him off.
“I loved a man who doesn’t exist.” She looked up, her green eyes glittering. “Not you. I could never love you.”