“Yes,” Franck said, stroking his chin as he looked at Daisy. “You have talent. More than I realized. I wonder if...”
Oh, heavens, was he about to proposition her? “If what?”
“I’ve moved my business to California.” His thin face darkened. “Your husband ran me out of New York.”
That was news to her. “Leonidas? Why?”
He shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. He’ll soon be your ex.” Franck smacked his lips—she could swear he did. “Your divorce will make you very wealthy.”
The last thing Daisy wanted to do was discuss the financial details of her divorce with Franck Bain. She looked at his sedan parked on the other side of the picket fence, wishing he would leave already. “Um...”
“So obviously you won’t need an income. But I wonder,” his gaze swept over her, “if you might be interested in doing something with me. For pleasure.”
Ugh. The way he said pleasure made her cringe. She responded coldly, “What are you talking about?”
He lifted a sparse eyebrow. “You could be part of something big.”
“I’m sure you are involved in many big things. Don’t let me keep you from them.”
“There’s a good market in lost masterpieces.” He tilted his head slyly. “Especially old portraits.”
Daisy stared at him. Unease trickled down her spine. Could he possibly mean...? “What market?”
“Don’t pretend you don’t understand.” He grinned. “How do you think I got so rich? I help clients find the paintings they most desire.”
Time seemed to stop beneath the warm California sunshine. “You mean...by creating them?”
Franck shrugged.
“It was you,” she whispered. “All this time you said my father was innocent. But you knew he was guilty. You were his accomplice.”
Franck shook his head scornfully. “How else do you think Patrick was able to stay home and take care of you after your mother died? She brought in the income. His gallery barely made a penny.”
She said hoarsely, “I can’t believe it...”
“Patrick refused my offer for years. Then he suddenly had to take care of a little kid by himself. He came to me, desperate. We agreed that I would paint, and he’d use his connections to sell the art. We did very well. For years.” Franck’s reptilian eyes narrowed. “Until he wanted to go for the big score, selling a Picasso. We never should have tried it.”
“Why did you, then?” she said in a small voice.
He shrugged. “Your father was worried about you. You’d just flamed out as an artist. And he was sick of selling forgeries to the nouveaux riches. He wanted to leave New York. Move somewhere and start over.”
Memory flashed through her, of the night she’d been crying over her failure to sell a single painting.
We could start over, her father had told her suddenly. Move to Santa Barbara.
What about your gallery, Dad?
Maybe I’d like a change, too. Just one more deal to close, and then...
Could he have possibly taken such a risk—done something so criminal—just because he couldn’t bear to see his daughter cry? Guilt flashed through her.
She glared at Franck. “You sat through his trial every day and never admitted you were his accomplice. You let him go to prison alone!”
He rolled his eyes. “The Picasso was your father’s idea. I was happy selling cheap masterpieces to suckers. Selling a Picasso to a billionaire? I never liked the risk.” He scowled. “And then your husband ruined everything. I’d done a perfect copy of the Picasso. But I heard last week that Niarxos had chopped it up with a pair of scissors as a kid?” He glowered. “How was I supposed to know? Who does that?”
“Someone who’s hurting,” Daisy whispered over the lump in her throat. Her heart was pounding. The foundation of what she’d thought was true in her life was dissolving beneath her feet.
I didn’t do it, baby, her father had pleaded. I swear it on my life. On my love for you.