his head. “There’s nothing but Isabel’s suspicions. But, damn, the painting I saw, stylistically, looked like it might be one of his depictions of African American rural life.”
“A lost Winslow Homer?” Homer was one of the country’s most revered artists and a lost painting by him would set the art world on fire. Carrick would get excited but he also knew fraudsters loved to fake Homer. And they were good at it. “It sounds too good to be true.”
Ronan looked at Finn, who was their resident art historian. “Are you going to chase this down?”
“I’d love to but I’m slammed. And I think we need an expert in nineteenth-century American painters.” Finn gestured to Carrick’s phone. “If the paintings are by Homer, it would have to be authenticated by you-know-who.”
You-know-who, she-who-should-not-be-named, Satan’s Bride.
Also known as his ex-wife.
Tamlyn had written the catalogue raisonné, the definitive work detailing all of Winslow Homer’s work. If Tamlyn didn’t believe the paintings were by Homer, the canvas wouldn’t be worth diddly-squat.
“We need a specialist art detective, preferably someone Tamlyn trusts, to run the tests, to track down any provenance,” Finn stated. “Tamlyn takes every opportunity to smear your name, Carrick. She’s vindictive enough to dismiss these paintings just because you brought them to her attention. But if we hire someone she respects, someone she works with regularly, we might have a shot of getting a decent result.”
Carrick and Tamlyn’s marriage had been brief. It was a relationship he now deeply regretted. They’d both been ridiculously unhappy and when, after a year, he’d asked for a divorce, Tamlyn punished him by dragging his reputation through the court of public opinion. Since he’d never, not once, publicly defended himself, Carrick, in certain social circles, was still considered to be a bad husband at best, an adulterer at worst.
Good thing he didn’t give a crap what people thought.
At least his reputation as an honest art dealer and auctioneer was still intact, and that was all that mattered.
“Okay, point taken.” He looked at Finn. “Find me an art detective whose opinion Tamlyn Smith respects.”
“I’ll find someone,” Finn told him and then his mouth curved into a smile. “And that’s Tamlyn Smith-Murphy to you, son.”
Carrick resisted the urge to punch his youngest brother. Finn was yanking his chain and he’d learned not to respond. But he wished Tamlyn would stop using his surname, dammit. Yeah, she was an art appraiser and in the art world using the name Murphy added gravitas. But surely, when you’d screwed a guy six ways to Sunday—physically, emotionally, financially and mentally—you forfeited the right to use his name?
Carrick looked at Finn and ignored his building headache. “Find someone with impeccable references and unimpeachable references. The sooner we establish provenance, the more publicity we can generate for the sale.”
Ronan nodded. “This sale is going to be huge.”
Carrick agreed. “And profitable.”
Tanna put the plate holding two thick sandwiches on the small table next to Levi’s chair and picked up a state-of-the-art tablet to make way for his large mug of coffee. Levi immediately lifted the cup to his mouth, his low groan reminding her of the sound he’d made the few times they kissed.
For two people who’d been about to legally and morally bind themselves to each other for the rest of their lives, they hadn’t indulged in a lot of public displays of affection. Or even private displays of affection.
For the first few months of their relationship, she’d been in too much pain, and when she started to feel better, Levi had treated her like spun sugar. On leaving the hospital, she’d still needed time to recover and when she regained most of her mobility, she was so confused about what she was feeling she’d asked Levi if they could wait until their wedding night to make love.
He’d gently teased her for being old-fashioned and she’d felt guilty because her morals had nothing to do with her decision. She was having enough doubts about her future without sex complicating her thought processes.
Not making love to Levi, not having him be her first, was one of her most profound regrets.
Pulling her attention off the past—she’d have to address that soon enough—she looked around the room.
She’d visited this house a few times between leaving the hospital and running out on Levi. His parents—lovely Callie and charismatic Ray—had lived in it back then and Tanna had fallen in love with the open plan, light-filled, spacious mansion.
Callie had filled the rooms with a mishmash of contemporary and family pieces, effortlessly combining old and new into rooms that felt both lived in and cozy, comfortable and sophisticated. While this was now Levi’s home, it still held traces of his mom’s creative flair.
Tanna couldn’t help thinking that if she’d stuck around, this might’ve been her home too, stamped by her style. There would be photos of her siblings on the walls along with his, artwork she’d loved and bought, pieces of furniture she’d inherited from her parents. But everything she owned was in her flat in London, Levi’s stuff was here and they hadn’t had the chance to combine their lives and possessions.
Because she’d run...
“I like this room,” she said, ignoring his deep scowl.
“It’s not filled with priceless pieces of artwork like your childhood home but it’s okay.”
As auctioneers and fine art dealers, her family, going back generations, had amassed an incredible collection of art, most of which adorned the walls of the house in Beacon Hill. Her bedroom held a sketch by Degas and a watercolor by Georgia O’Keeffe.
She’d grown up surrounded by incredible art, textiles and ceramics, and had planned to follow her brothers into the family business at Murphy’s, joining the auction house’s PR and publicity department. But she hadn’t been back to Boston in years and hadn’t, not since her accident, been back to Murphy’s. She’d avoided it because it had once been her second home, a place she adored...
Murphy’s was the one place in Boston where she’d felt completely at ease and happy. She adored art, in all its forms, loved talking about it and promoting it, and being around people who loved it as much as she did. On every visit home, Tanna knew that if she stepped into Murphy International she’d start questioning her decision to become an EMT. So she avoided the family business. And, as much as she could, Boston.
Tanna sighed. “I should’ve just stayed in London,” she said, mostly to herself.
“I absolutely agree. Feel free to go back.”
She would if she could but that wasn’t possible until she had her PTSD symptoms under control. And who knew how hard she’d have to work or how long it would take her to achieve that goal? Tanna’s stomach clenched and the muscles in her neck contracted.
Relax, Tanna.
Concentrating on her breathing, she pushed away her negative thoughts.
She’d just hit a bad patch and she needed a little time to get her head sorted. Her accident had been a long time ago and she was fit and healthy. She was done being hostage to her fears. She liked emergency medicine, and the notion of helping others as she was once helped was important to her.
She owed those paramedics for saving her life—her heart had stopped twice en route to the hospital—and the only way she could show her gratitude for walking away from the crash with nothing more than a few scars was to pay it forward.
Unfortunately, paying that debt came with panic attacks, flashbacks and cold sweats. She just needed to control her reactions