I just talk to him on the phone?’ Mariana asked.
‘I think he would prefer a face to face meeting with you, Miss Thackeray.’
Did that mean Angelo Beresford actually had the painting in his office and wanted her to take a look at it? All the hairs on her neck stood up in a rush of adrenaline. ‘All right. When do you suggest?’
‘He’s free at half past two today,’ the secretary said.
It would mean moving her meeting with Nigel, her producer, but if her hunch checked out then she was sure Nigel wouldn’t mind. ‘All right. Can I confirm the address?’ She read out the address from the top of the letter.
‘That’s correct, Miss Thackeray. We’ll see you at half past two.’
‘Thank you for your help.’ She ended the call and rang Nigel.
‘Sweetie, I’m running late. Can we talk about it in our meeting this afternoon?’ he asked.
‘That’s why I’m calling. I need to move our meeting because I’m chasing up a lead.’
‘I’m about to go into another meeting,’ he warned. ‘I can give you thirty seconds.’
‘OK. I’ve been through this week’s mail. Three possibles, lots of sorry-not-for-us-es, and a letter about what I think is an unknown Carulli. A lawyer wants to see me about it this afternoon. So can I see you on Monday morning instead?’
Nigel groaned. ‘I hate Monday mornings.’
‘I’ll bring you a turmeric latte. And one of the pecan and apricot muffins from the bakery round the corner,’ she said, knowing his weaknesses well.
‘All right. As it’s you. I’ve really got to go, sweetie. Let me know how you get on.’
‘Yes, boss,’ she said, even though he’d already hung up.
* * *
At twenty-five minutes past two, Mariana walked into the reception area of the gleaming glass and chrome building where Angelo Beresford worked, and asked for his secretary.
Two minutes later, a smartly dressed middle-aged woman approached her. ‘Miss Thackeray?’
‘Yes.’
‘Mr Beresford will see you now.’
The paintings in the reception area were all modern abstracts, Mariana noticed, in keeping with the style of the ultra-modern glass and chrome building. It was a far cry from the kind of art she was studying. The painting must belong to a client, then, rather than to the firm of solicitors.
At half past two on the dot she was shown into Angelo Beresford’s office.
Even though she’d looked him up on the website and discovered that he was a real hotshot in the firm and their youngest partner ever, in the flesh he wasn’t quite what she’d expected. He had the kind of dark hair that would turn curly if he let it grow, dark eyes, a sensual mouth, and the longest eyelashes she’d ever seen.
He was absolutely gorgeous. And, when he smiled, her heart actually skipped a beat.
Not that she should let herself react like that. This was business. And, apart from anything else, she knew better than to trust to physical attraction. She’d made that mistake before, and it had ended really badly—to the point where she’d given up on relationships because she didn’t trust her own judgement any more.
‘Thank you for coming, Miss Thackeray.’ He shook her hand, and a tingle went through her, despite her intentions to damp down that flare of attraction. ‘May I offer you some coffee? Or something cold?’
‘Thank you, but I’m fine.’ She sat down on the chair he gestured to. ‘How can I help?’
* * *
For a moment, Angelo’s mouth went dry. He’d thought Mariana Thackeray was beautiful on the screen, but in real life he hadn’t expected her to be quite as stunning. Surely the television make-up artists had exaggerated her features? But, although her glorious hair had been caught back at the nape of her neck and she wore no make-up whatsoever, she was still easily the most beautiful woman he’d seen in a long time—the more so because she didn’t seem to realise it. And when she’d shaken his hand a second ago it had felt almost like an electric shock.
He needed to get a grip. This was business. He didn’t do personal any more.
‘I have a proposition for you, Miss Thackeray.’ Oh, help. That sounded bad. He didn’t mean it like that. Well, maybe his libido did, but he wasn’t giving in to that pull of attraction. It couldn’t go anywhere, even if it was reciprocated, so he’d smother it now. ‘A job.’
She frowned. ‘Your letter spoke about discussing a painting, not a job.’
‘It’s one and the same.’ He sat down. ‘My grandfather collected art. He’d like his collection to be in a gallery.’
‘I can certainly recommend somewhere suitable, if he’d like to donate his collection,’ she said.
‘No, he wants to set up his own gallery,’ Angelo said. ‘But he needs the paintings to be catalogued and authenticated. One of them in particular.’
‘Surely he was given the provenance when he bought the paintings?’
‘Let’s just say his paperwork’s a bit on the slapdash side,’ Angelo said. ‘And some of the artwork is unsigned.’
‘Which means you need someone to find a paper trail and do scientific investigations to prove that the works are what you think they are.’
He smiled, liking the way she’d picked up his train of thought so quickly. ‘Exactly. Which is why you’d be perfect for the job. Plus my grandfather’s seen your programme and he’s taken a shine to you.’
‘How much art are we talking about?’ she asked.
‘Framed, about forty or fifty pieces. Unframed—’ He shook his head. ‘I’m afraid I have absolutely no idea. He collected for forty years.’
She looked at him as if she was assessing the scale of the project. As if she was really tempted. And then her blue eyes were filled with regret. ‘Thank you for the opportunity, Mr Beresford,’ she said, ‘but I can’t take on a project that big. Not with my studies and my work on Hidden Treasure.’
‘Your studies are on the Macchiaioli—the Italian Impressionists,’ he said. ‘My grandfather has a lot of paintings by Lega, Fattori, Boldini and Carulli.’ The artists she was studying. Would this be enough to tip the balance in his favour?
‘So the painting in your letter...?’
‘It’s unsigned,’ he said. ‘But my grandfather believes that it’s by Carulli.’
To his relief, her expression changed very slightly. So she was interested. Good.
‘Do you have the painting here, Mr Beresford?’
Now for the tricky bit. ‘No. It’s at my grandfather’s house in Florence.’
‘Florence?’ Her eyes widened in obvious surprise. ‘I’m sorry, I can’t just drop everything and go to Florence.’
‘On what might turn out to be a wild goose chase? Quite. I wouldn’t expect you to.’ He took a cardboard wallet from the drawer and handed it to her. ‘I took photographs of a few of the paintings at the weekend on my phone. I’m afraid they’re not professional quality because I took them all just where they hung in the house. I didn’t want Nonno to ask what I was doing, in case you said no. But I did zoom in on the signatures as well, so I hope that will give you a better idea of exactly what he has.’ And please, please, let it be enough for her to help him. To let him fulfil his grandfather’s dreams before Leo Moretti died.
She opened the