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Chapter One

"Are you married?" She narrowed her eyes. Smoke floated above her shiny hair.

He wouldn't be in this situation if he were married. He did believe in fidelity. At least he had this shred of decency left. "No, no...there's no one I cared enough to ask." He flinched at the lie.

"So, she dumped you?" She inhaled deeply on her cigarette, her red lipstick flaking off on the snow-white tip reminding Richard of bits of blood.

"Look, Sylvia..." Was that her name? She had mentioned it.

"Susan."

"Sorry, Susan. I didn't bring you to my bed to discuss my personal life."

Richard Hart untangled himself from the girl's arms and wiped the perspiration from his face with the sheet. He looked over at the long-legged beauty he'd picked up at the ship's lounge. He'd chosen her from the numerous girls draped on their bar stools. She had sidled up to him with her molasses hair swept over one eye. A hair color far removed from deep auburn curls. Calculating blue eyes had stared at him, not the soulful depths of Claire's golden irises. A small upturned mouth, not as generous as Claire's, met him straight on, and when he had asked her to his cabin she didn't flinch.

Now he spied his folded trousers and shirt placed on the chair, and her dress and undergarments beside them, as neatly folded. Claire always tore off her clothes and tossed them in a chair or on the floor. She loved being free of restraint, naked in his arms, begging for him to relieve her of the ache he caused.

Hell. Memories of Claire again, and he shoved off the blankets and stood up. After he donned his robe, he went over to the dresser. He poured two glasses of scotch. Susan shook her head at the offer and sat up, putting a pillow behind her back. Fine, he'd drink alone.

The blankets folded around Susan's waist, revealing plump, rounded breasts. A voluptuous body which to relieve his need, but now it left him empty. He was getting to be like the men he detested, the ones that went out for sex without the messiness of emotional involvement. How close he'd come to being with Claire forever. After all they'd shared. She'd severed their relationship without explanation. Damn love, anyway.

Throwing back the blankets, Susan cocked her head and beckoned. Richard squashed the stub of his cigarette in the ashtray. He settled between her outstretched legs to ease his heartache.

* * *

A knock at the door startled Richard awake. Susan had left in the early hours leaving him blessedly alone. The door swung open and an aristocratic man walked in. He smiled at Richard, his perceptive eyes twinkling, his haughty cheekbones shadowed by a gray felt trilby. No one looked more like the British gentleman than Leslie Havens did.

Leslie turned up his nose. "You look ghastly, ole man. I've been in brothels that smell sweeter."

"Good morning to you, too."

Leslie lifted the blanket and blatantly scanned Richard's body. "Lovely, but get dressed. The ship's docking in an hour."

Richard yanked the blanket from Leslie's grip. "I need my rest. Isn't it enough that I risked my ass in France?" Richard buried his head in the pillow and groaned. His skull felt cracked. He twisted his head to look up at Leslie, and rolled his eyes to make his point. "You promised rest and relaxation, at least for a couple of months. I thought this meant slumming in the pubs with your insolent tribe. Not sailing to New York."

"Indeed, you shag a trollop on board. Isn't that slumming?" Leslie pulled back the curtain and opened the round port side window. He tossed a manila folder on the writing desk. "Sorry, but your drunken binge is over. You need to clean yourself up."

Richard reluctantly swung his feet over the edge of the bed, and wrapped the sheet around his waist. He picked up his shirt, smelled it, and frowned. Over Leslie's shoulder, the New York skyline emerged from the blast of mist.

"This is the last place I want to be." Richard rubbed the back of his neck to ease the onslaught of a headache. Claire was in New York. And his mother, Nanette Rose Hart, now Mrs. Stephen Bishop. He sniffed. "Question number one. What's Nanette doing in New York? Question number two. Why are we here?"

"Nanette married an American. Stephen Bishop, a wealthy industrialist. It was her way out of France. The Nazis were getting too close to the truth."

"The truth to what? That she's a money hungry opportunist."

Richard gathered his clothes from the chair. The tinker toy bathroom had little space to dress. He preferred to enter New York harbor after a hot shower and a shave, but he hadn't the time. He struggled to yank up his trousers, and hit his elbow on the wall while buttoning the cuffs of his starched shirt. He had no choice but to deal with his mother. He was on a goddamn ship with no escape route in sight.

Richard poured two stiff shots of scotch. The liquor splashed out of the glasses, and he wiped up the spill with the side of his hand. After handing Leslie a drink, he went over to the window for fresh air. "This isn't our jurisdiction," he complained.

Leslie shrugged. "We're here as a favor to the Firm and the OSS. And, we know one of the suspects, actually, rather well."

The Firm was an endearment for the British Special Operative Executive branch, and the Office of Strategic Services was the U.S. equivalent. Richard felt no loyalty to either agency, although he had been told the OSS needed him for a special operation, a hush-hush affair. All he knew was the two agencies agreed to collaborate. Once he crossed over to the OSS, he'd switched to an army uniform, his direct commission the rank of captain.

He shook his head. "I blow up bridges, warehouses, and shoot the damn bastards in broad daylight. They can't possibly want us to blow up a building?"

Leslie took a delicate sip. "It's about art."

"You're kidding. We're here to stop a bunch of art thieves?"

"Yes, that's exactly why we're here. And, the list of suspects involves someone we know quite well. There's Claire, for instance."

Richard sputtered, his drink spraying in a mist. His head shot up and he glared at his friend. It had been a year since he had last seen or talked with Claire. He'd remembered their last night together in October, 1942, a dreary foggy evening, made drearier by their fierce argument. Now he had no idea who her friends were, or what she did with her time.

"Surely, you can't possibly think she's involved in art theft?" His voice came out hollow.

"Of course not, dear, but the art world's small. Claire happened to be identified in surveillance photographs. She knows the people involved. One may possibly be a friend, or..." Leslie's eyebrows twitched. "...a lover."

A man with his hands all over Claire, and Richard clenched his teeth, a pain shooting up his jaw. He focused on the horizon, the skyline growing in scope. The ocean voyage had been choppy, but uneventful since the threat of hurricanes faded. A few times they ran into trouble with German U-boats but they outmaneuvered them. Sailing across the Atlantic was an unpleasant experience at best. Richard glanced at the crumpled blankets. Even the sex had been unsatisfactory.

"Leave me out of this. Claire and I...we're over."

"You must put your differences aside. She could be in danger and needs our help."

"She has a way of driving me crazy, even when we're not together."

"Don't be bloody daft. She probably has no idea what's going on."

"Claire and Nanette, how on earth are both involved?" Richard's headache stepped up a notch. "What an impossible situation." He wanted to groan, or better yet, throw a tantrum and refuse to disembark from the ship. Of course, he wouldn't do either, but the temptation was seductive.

Leslie shut the porthole and went over to the desk. He rested his hand on the manila folder. "Nanette's friends with Frank Simon, a New York dealer specializing in modern masters. He received an interesting phone call from one of his sources on the street. It seems a Picasso's available. He called Nanette to see if she was interested. She became suspicious when the description matched a painting she'd seen at her friend's home in France. The Weinstein's are known for their collection of modern art."

"Maybe they sold it for cash to get out," Richard said, bored with the conversation.

"Too late for that. The Nazis don't compensate for what they steal. According to your dear mother, the Weinstein's would never sell, not unless under duress. She thinks the Nazis confiscated the rest of their paintings. The ones she couldn't smuggle out of France."

"She's hiding smuggled paintings?"

Leslie's sly grin reached up to his eyes. "She calls herself the custodian, and plans to return them once the war's over. That's why she went to Intrepid, to tell him her suspicions. That New York's being used as a dumping ground for looted works. She asked for us."

"My God, she knows Intrepid!" Head of the British secret intelligence in America, Intrepid had his headquarters in New York. Richard knew of him only through shadowy gossip and rumors.

"There's a lot you don't know about Nanette."

Richard sat on the bed, stunned. "Why should we care about a stolen painting? The Nazis already have their money. They probably sold it to a dealer in a neutral country. Switzerland, most likely."

"If confiscated works are finding their way here, it's a problem," Leslie stated. "They're considered enemy assets, and should be reported and licensed. Neither of our governments would be please to see the United States as a depository of stolen works of art."

"Then get the FBI or U.S. Treasury involved."

"Ah, well, let's say these authorities aren't aware of the situation."

Leslie handed Richard the file. "Look at these photographs. They were taken at a Greenwich Village pub. From intelligence reports, we know the man with the tattoo is a customs inspector willing to take bribes." Leslie pointed to a brawny man with a stylized eagle tattooed on his bicep. "His name is Sly Jones. Next to him is Paul Brody, Claire's friend, perhaps lover."

Richard's heart sped up at the mention of lover. He refused to believe Claire's betrayal, but then, he had no claim on her. He scratched his scarred cheek. "Paul Brody, now where did I hear that name before?"

"He's represented by Frank Simon, occasionally helps him install an exhibit."

Richard focused on the photograph, the image of Claire laughing, her head thrown back, the overhead lights dappling glints of light on her hair. He saw a beautiful face, mature, a woman who felt comfortable in her skin. A terrible realization hit. He'd missed out on her life, and she would never be his. Beside Claire sat Paul Brody, a rakish looking man, hair in his eyes, good looking in a cavalier way. His hand rested on Claire's thigh, a casual gesture between two people at ease with each other.

Richard flung the photo and it landed on the desk. He strode over to the porthole, yanking it open. He could hardly breathe.

"We'll meet all the players tonight at Frank Simon's penthouse. We're Nanette's guests," Leslie said.

The ship dragged closer to the shoreline, the tugboats puffing great clouds of steam from their smokestacks. Richard took one last look through the port window. Claire was out there, living her life without him. "I'm not looking forward to seeing her. She has a way of distorting everything I say."

"I'll be there to hold your hand. Don't worry your pretty head."

Chapter Two

From the living room windows, Frank Simon's penthouse had a wide-angle view of the Manhattan skyline. The room buzzed with nonsensical chatter, reminding Richard of a tree full of obnoxious crows. The room bulged with men and women in military uniforms, a few guests dressed in evening apparel. Nanette Bishop stood by the fireplace wearing a thin-strapped pink gown cut low enough to reveal her ample cleavage. Richard frowned at his mother's attire. To think he came from the loins of that woman.

Making his way towards the bar, Richard sensed Claire somewhere in the room. Then he caught a glimpse of russet hair, and his heart took a nosedive, swifter than a P 51 Mustang fighter plane. She stood near the balcony doors. Paul Brody held her hand, and Richard's insides caved in. He glanced down at his feet, surprised he was in one piece. He shoved his hands in his pockets, hoping to stave off the tremors. The first signs of stress hinted in his fingers, the electric current trailing up his arms. Heavy pressure took up space in his chest.

"Scotch on the rocks," he barked. "Better make it a double."

"Make mine the same." Leslie leaned his elbows on the bar. He turned to Richard. "Claire's a vision. I'm going over to say hello. Are you coming, or do you plan on hiding in the corner all evening?"

"Hiding in the corner." Richard drank back his scotch and the ice cooled his lips. The scotch was smooth, good stuff, expensive. "Look, go over and do what you have to do. Leave me out of it."

"You'll have to talk with her sometime."

Richard watched Claire leave for the balcony without her coat, her dress too flimsy for the approaching storm. So like her. He always had to chase after her with a coat or wrap. He crushed down on an ice cube and looked away. Jealous of Leslie and Claire's friendship, Richard wondered if he could be friends with Claire. Decidedly not, the sight of her made his erection a painful reminder of what they'd once shared. It was best to concentrate on why he was here.

Richard scanned the room. Paul Brody talked with Frank Simon by the balcony doors. Frank, the owner of this opulent penthouse, was a prime suspect. So was Paul. From the looks of his unkempt hair and disregard for proper dress, Paul appeared rebellious. Faded trousers with paint stains, and a white shirt, the sleeves rolled up at the elbows, as in his photograph. Most likely, Claire adored Paul's defiant nature, his snubbing his nose at society's traditions. A communist, Richard decided, yes, definitely a communist...or a socialist. Not to be trusted, and certainly high on his list of suspects.

Leslie disappeared out to the balcony and Richard turned away. A shell of a man, that's what he'd become. Emotions tumbled over him, making it too difficult to hide behind a mask of indifference. This wouldn't do. He shook off his melancholy and forced his legs to propel him forward. He'd pay his respects to Frank Simon, make few introductions, and get the hell out.

* * *

"Is that Claire O'Neill?" Leslie spoke across the balcony. His eyes crinkled at her astonished face, her mouth widening with every hurried step towards him.

Claire shrieked and threw her arms around his neck. "My God, I can't believe it! You're here in New York." She pulled back and studied him. "You look wonderful. Oh, this is such a surprise." Claire grabbed his hand and looked over his shoulder. "Where's Aaron?"

"Aaron didn't come. You know him. As much as he complains about London, he'd never leave the place. But he sends his love."

Claire wrapped her arms around Leslie's waist and her fragrance reminded him of everything fresh in the world.

"Thank you for sending that terrific write-up on him," she said. "I saved the article. He's taking off, and it's swell."

"I heard you're also making a name for yourself. New York's been good to you."

Sadness passed over her face, and he wondered if Richard had entered her thoughts. Momentarily, she recovered and gushed. "New York's wonderful. There're endless possibilities, and I plan to grab for every one of them." She fixed a bobby pin slipping from her hair. "Frank Simon represents me...me! It's incredible to find my work hanging next to a Matisse."

"I'm going to be here for awhile. I'll definitely make it over to see your work."

Claire clapped her hands. "Oh, this is even better."

"But I did travel with someone." Leslie moved in closer to protect Claire, knowing it was useless to think he could save her from pain. "My traveling companion's Richard."

Claire's mouth twisted into a scowl, and her eyelids drooped. She grasped onto the balcony rail. Leslie stepped forward, a reflex to prevent her from jumping. Ridiculous notion, but he laid his hand on her shoulder.

"Tell me he's not at this party," she said.

"Indeed, he is. Don't you think you need to speak to him? Air out your differences?"

Claire took in his face with moist eyes. Leslie retrieved a linen handkerchief from his trouser pocket. She took it from his hand and wiped under her lashes. "He'd never come here, not unless he was forced into it."

"I don't know what happened between you, but it's madness. He's lost without you."

"He needs no one. Trusts no one, especially me."

"He's been miserable, a real ass to be around."

Claire crossed her arms. "Suddenly you show up with Richard. There has to be a reason."

"There is, and you're involved. I can't tell you much, not here."

"Claire, here you are. Peggy's been asking about you." Frank Simon stepped out on the balcony. He took in Leslie with ardent approval in his smile.

A stir in his trousers warned Leslie to tread with care. In a severe tuxedo and red bow tie, Frank cut an attractive figure, and his goatee assured his sophisticated manner.

Claire drew Frank into their circle. "Frank Simon, I'd like you to meet Leslie Havens. Leslie introduced me to Aaron Stein, the painter I told you about."

"Ah yes, the artist who took you under his tutelage in London," Frank said.

"Their artist temperaments were always at odds," Leslie said, ruefully. "But good-natured. Both are extremely competitive and talented."

"You're exaggerating. I demurred to Aaron most of the time." Claire cupped Frank's elbow. "Frank's been wonderful to me. He owns one of the most prestigious modern galleries alongside Peggy Guggenheim."

"Art of This Century, this is Guggenheim's gallery, is it not? I read an article on the ship about the interiors rivaling the artwork." Leslie chuckled. "I can't imagine hanging paintings using baseball bats."

Frank kept his eyes focused on Leslie's face. "Sure, it's over the top, but it gets people into the gallery. I use nails to hang artwork, but I hope this doesn't deter you from coming in. Are you a collector?"

"I prefer the traditional."

"Except when it comes to my paintings," Claire added. "And, let's not forget Aaron's work."

"You must come, then. Perhaps I can change your mind about the moderns." Frank touched Leslie's sleeve. "I thrive on a challenge."

Leslie pulled away from Frank's close proximity. He walked over to the edge of the balcony and took in the view. "It's good to be here. London's too dreary with rationing, and one does get tired of the dogfights. It's a bloody bore, this war."

Frank touched the rim of Leslie's empty glass. "Looks like you need a refill. May I refresh it for you?"

"That'd be lovely." Leslie turned to Claire. "Let's have tea tomorrow at the Plaza. Say, around four o'clock? We'll talk then."

"You two go, get your drinks," she said. "I'm going to remain here for a while longer. The cool air feels good."

Leslie leaned into Claire. "It'll be all right, dear. He loves you."

"I don't think it's possible for him to love."

Leslie patted Claire's shoulder and left with Frank.

* * *

Claire took in the spectacular view of Central Park. The ribbons of mist wrapped around the canopy of trees. The air crackled with far off lightning. A thunderous rumble spread across the sky. How wonderful the skyline would look with all the lights in full display. Few office lights outlined the windowpanes of skyscrapers, the dim-out another reminder of the war.

Richard was here, in New York, in this very place. The thought sent her reeling, and she felt like a fool for caring at all. Glued to the balcony, too afraid of facing him, she remained, reliving memories of their last days together in San Francisco. Joyful memories tied to a terrible ending, a secret she'd thought was stilled forever. Her hopes dashed by Richard's inability to take her completely into his life.

"Claire, please turn around."

The scent of Richard's cologne made her heart lurch. She clutched the balcony railing and stepped forward, her toes bumping into the cement wall. Claire gritted her teeth and refused to give in to the seduction of his voice. Her eyes watered. Hate and loved rubbed her raw, and left her open to his attraction. Looking down at her strained knuckles, she released her hands from the rail and massaged her stiff fingers. All she wanted was to shove Richard back to where he came from - a place outside her physical world.

Richard touched the small of her back. He leaned in, and his voice whispered across the curve of her cheek. "You're freezing. You're always without your coat." He draped his jacket over her shoulders and it carried a moment of warmth. His hands rested an instant too long before he stepped back.

Wobbling on her feet, she twisted around and cried out. "Stop taking care of me!"

Richard's hand rose up to his scarred cheek. The familiar gesture unnerved her. His voice grated. "Believe me, this is the last place I want to be. You made it perfectly clear how you feel about me."

"It was you who didn't want me."

"I never said that. It was best to wait, that's all."

"Best for you."

"I called you every day. Went to your place, begged to see you, to explain." He raised his hands in surrender. "Forget it."

"It was unforgivable to dismiss my feelings."

"Every chance you got, you reminded me of how you felt about marriage. I was doing you a favor."

"You lied to me."

"I did it to protect you!"

"No, you did it to protect yourself. You refused to trust me, refused to be honest, telling me that ridiculous lie, and, and..." Her pent-up anger stalled her thoughts.

Inflexible, his eyes obstinate, Richard's mouth thinned into a sliver with no deviation or twist of a smile. She didn't care. "Who were you really protecting?" she said, her words fading. She lost steam, her anger disintegrating into broken fragments.

"You think every man's out to use you. All I ever wanted was your happiness."

"If it meant following your rules," she said. "Always conditions with you."

"First I have to contend with my mother, and now I have to answer to you."

"I don't see...?"

"Nanette's at this party. You can't miss her, in that ridiculous pink dress."

"That's your mother? Why, she's married to Stephen Bishop." And, Mrs. Stephen Bishop was a study in elegance with her pearl white skin and platinum hair. Claire had missed the resemblance between mother and son. Now that she knew, it was evident--the same graceful carriage, the cool green eyes and sensuous mouth. "Are you okay?" she said, knowing the tumultuous history between mother and son.

"What do you think? No, I'm not okay. I can't stand the woman. I don't trust her. Now she lives in New York, married and supposedly on our side." Richard rubbed his jaw, his eyes narrowing. "How long have you been stepping out with Paul Brody?"

The quick change of subject startled Claire. "We're good friends. I used to date him before I met you."

"Ah, that's how I know the name. Now I remember. He'd wanted you to move to New York." He moved into her space. "Are you sleeping with him?"

The audacity of this man! Claire twisted the edge of her collar. "That's all you have to say to me? You're insufferable." She swept past Richard but he caught her elbow and swung her around to face him.

"Don't run away. You've been running away your whole life."

Claire lifted her hand to slap him, but his eyes burned with regret, and she dropped her arm. What was the point in pursuing a senseless argument? Richard was incapable of admitting his mistakes.

"Tell me about Brody."

Claire bristled at Richard's interrogative stance, his eyes slits, arms crossed over his chest. She lowered her voice. "What right do you have to ask?"

"Are you two an item?"

"I've known Paul since the Academy, back in San Francisco, but you know all this. Why the questions? I suppose you stayed celibate?"

"I blew off steam by drinking too much."

"And loving too much."

Richard's lips pressed together, and he gazed past her shoulder, and Claire knew. "Were you going to tell another lie to protect me?"

Richard grasped her forearm and drew her in. "They meant nothing to me, all of them faceless. Sad to become immune to feelings, but when I lost you, I lost myself. Feeling this way caused me to almost lose an entire crew. After that, I paid attention to living, at least to save my men."

"Such trite sentiment. Surprising, coming from you."

Richard closed the space between them. His breath warmed her face, the scotch on his breath sweet. Claire parted her lips in anticipation, knowing how he'd feel, and missing the depth of his passion despite her anger.

"I'm sorry if I hurt you, but my intentions were honorable," he said. A light brush of his lips tantalized her mouth, his desperation pulling at her breath.

Honorable! Her throat seized. A year of missing him, and here he stood as if nothing had changed between them. Oh, but it had, and she'd paid too dearly for his lack of trust.

Claire shoved Richard's jacket into his hands and before she could tell him off, Paul materialized and stood between them. Bright lipstick smudged across Richard's upper lip, and he wiped it off with the back of his hand. A scowl replaced his relaxed grin, and he ignored Paul's offered handshake. Claire sighed. Two cocks, feathers ruffled, ready for a fight. Yet, she had longed for Richard's kiss. Damn him, she refused to fall into his arms, a willing victim to his charms.

Paul rubbed her bare arm. "You feel like ice."

She shook him off. "Actually, I'm quite warm." With brisk steps, Claire left the two of them to fend for themselves. Let them kill each other for all she cared.

Chapter Three

Leslie stood by the bar where he had a clear view of Claire and Richard arguing on the balcony. The conversation between his friends appeared disastrous. Their estrangement worried him. He shook off his gloomy thoughts and turned his attention to Frank. According to Nanette, it was Frank Simon who called about the Picasso and this fact piqued Leslie's interest.

Leslie swept his hand to take in the living room. "Your flat's brilliant. It's amazing how everything in America's bright and shiny. Nothing like London. There, everyone's a rag and bone man."

"Our history's nothing compared to Europe, but I'd say that gives us tremendous freedom."

"How's that?"

"There's no preconceived notion of how to live one's life."

"Yes, you colonists call it the American Dream."

"Something on that order." And, there was that grin. In the light, Frank's eyes reminded Leslie of liquid silver, a dangerous, seductive color. He swore the man was coming on to him, but the dossier said nothing of his sexual orientation.

Frank went behind the bar and dumped the ice in the sink. "Will scotch do?"

"Yes, perfect."

"Ah, a scotch man. I knew I liked you."

The spark of interest in Frank's eyes spoke volumes, and the innuendos ruled a homosexual's seduction. "Are you a native New Yorker?" Leslie asked.

"My parents came over from Germany during the last war. My oldest brother took over the business and left me free to pursue my passion. I'm forever indebted to him."

"And your passion?"

"Artworks of beauty and daring. I love the traditional, but appreciate the edginess of the modern. I studied art history at the university, but since I attended a Catholic university, my focus was on the medieval and Renaissance periods. Artists born after the eighteenth century were considered suspect."

"You're a devout Catholic, then."

A look of mock horror crossed Frank's face. "Christ, no. My parents are the devout ones. I was forced to attend catechism, church every Sunday, and parochial school. Thank God I put my foot down on becoming a priest." Frank chuckled, and then puckered his brows. "Ah, I haven't offended you?"

"No, no, Church of England. I take it you don't practice the faith. No burning candles to the saints, chanting in Latin."

Frank poured two drinks and shoved a full glass over to where Leslie stood by the counter. "You make it sound positively morbid," Frank said.

Leslie tipped his glass up in a mock toast. "Cheers." What a pleasure to enjoy a good scotch without having to go through the black market or pay a fortune at the hotel bars. He scanned the room but Richard remained on the balcony, most likely wallowing in self-pity. Better to concentrate on the matter at hand, and find out all he could about Frank while he had the chance. Consoling Richard would have to come later.

"So, why did you open an art gallery?" Leslie asked.

"I enjoy working with young, emerging artists. Their work's fresh and exciting."

"I see. You're through with the past."

"Don't get me wrong. I have a love for religious art, Russian icons, and still occasionally work the auction houses. They hire me to consult on certain matters, and to authenticate pieces. Stephen Bishop's an avid collector of both traditional and modern." Frank rested his hand on Leslie's arm. "Would you like to see the rest of the place?"

"Lead away."

Frank led him down a hallway and into a walnut paneled room. Built-in bookshelves decorated one side of the wall, backlighting displaying various art objects. Leslie picked up a brass paperweight from the cluttered desk, the initials FMS inscribed on the front.

"What does the M stand for?"

"Manfred. Horrible, isn't it, but it was my grandfather's name."

"I've heard worse." The office evoked a comfortable ambiance. "This is where you work?"

"My real life is here. Not very bright and shiny."

"I like this better. Suits you somehow."

"Shabby?" Frank laughed.

Leslie's brows shot up. "Indeed, that's not what I meant."

Frank was well turned-out, even more than Richard, who never went out without his trousers and shirt pressed, his pleats crisp and straight, the exception his askew neckties. In contrast, Leslie felt staid and threadbare in his frayed dress suit, darned at the hems, the typical London fashion during wartime.

"This room's a bloody museum." Leslie walked over to a row of paintings. "I recognize Matisse, van Gogh, and Cézanne...impressive."

"Unfortunately with the war, foreign collectors are forced to sell. These particular works came from Austria. The gentleman had to sell off his collection in order to leave the country with his family. This was before the occupation. He'd rather sell them to an American than hand them over to the Nazis."

"Poor chap, to have to sell in such times. At least he'd received money for his paintings. Many have been less fortunate."

"You're talking about the Jews?" Frank said.

"It must be horrid to lose everything. I'd imagine the black market's flooded with confiscated paintings." Leslie scrutinized Frank's expression. "It must be a good way to stock your gallery."

Frank's back stiffened. "There're dealers who take advantage of the situation. I find it appalling."

"What about the artists clamoring to get out of Germany and France? Paintings are sold for a pittance. Like the ones here, I suppose." Leslie touched the gilded frame of the Cézanne.

"I purchased them for a fair price. I don't do business with the Germans. I'm careful to research the history of any painting I plan on selling, especially if it comes by nefarious means."

Not a flinch in Frank's face, and Leslie looked away. Was he lying? After all, Frank had called Nanette to ask if she was interested in the Picasso. Leslie stroked the frame of the Cézanne. "This is especially wonderful."

Frank rubbed his lip with his fingernail. "It's a fake. A good forgery, but a forgery, nevertheless. The paint's too bright for his palette."

"It's exceptional that you would know this."

"It's visceral with me. You're going to think I'm crazy, but I get a twinge in my side when something's not right."

"This sounds rather mystical."

"You can say that. Something will appear out of sorts, the piece might look too fresh, or not fresh enough. A curve of the brushstroke too stiff, or too delicate, the canvas too new. I admit to seeing fakes that fooled my eye."

"Sounds positively spooky. If you knew it was a fake, why did you purchase it?"

"For the heck of it, and to help the fellow. And no one knows. The "ahs" are the same, fake or no fake."

"Care to show me the rest of the place?"

Frank led him to the end of the hall. He opened the door to the master bedroom. His eyes pierced through Leslie and he gave him a knowing wink. "My other room where I can be completely myself."

Leslie rubbed the back of his neck realizing he blushed. Surely, Frank heard his heart thumping. To distance himself, he walked over to the dresser and picked up a framed photograph. It showed Frank dressed in white slacks and a striped T-shirt. An attractive lad sat at his feet, his face lit up for the camera. Something about the fellow's facial expression nagged at Leslie. He returned the photograph to its proper place. "We should get back to the party."

Frank placed his hand on Leslie's shoulder and led him to the living room. "I see Vincent found the bartender."

"Ah, yes, I see. The young lad in the photograph. A mate of yours?"

"You can say that." A frown shadowed Frank's face which made Leslie wonder if he cared for Vincent. Frank continued. "How to explain him? A friend of a friend, his father's an art dealer in Lucerne. I promised to take him under my tutelage. Show him New York."

Leslie scratched his chin. Vincent was a connection to Switzerland, and this could prove to be important. "He lives here now?"

Frank voice took on a sharp edge. "He lives in El Morocco."

"Africa, you say?"

A gruff sound escaped Frank's throat. "Sorry, a bad joke. El Morocco's a nightclub. He lives there most nights."

"Well, yes, that I understand. My friend spends most evenings pub-crawling. My friend, ah, from back home."

"Let me introduce you to the whore."

They approached the bar, and Vincent reached for Frank's hand. He ignored Leslie, and wrapped his arm around Frank's elbow and gave him a hug. Leslie smiled despite his annoyance. This blatant affection was rather a shock, even in a room full of bohemians and artists. Leslie took note of Frank's embarrassment. Even he had his limits of how much of his true self he presented to the world.

Vincent's hair was cropped short to show off sultry green eyes complemented by a smooth complexion. Yes, this boy would devour a man, and yes, Leslie could see the attraction. Frank was wealthy enough for one such as this.

Frank pulled away from Vincent's affections. "Vincent, I'd like to introduce you to Leslie Havens. Leslie, Vincent Roth. I'm hoping Leslie will be here for some time."

"Then we must show him around," Vincent said, his Swiss accent a soft, rolling sound.

Frank laid his hand on Vincent's back. "Since you're seeing to the bar, make sure all the guests are taken care of."

Vincent went behind the bar to talk with the bartender, while Frank sidled next to Leslie. "Would you like to go out some evening?"

A casual invitation but Leslie balked. "It sounds lovely, but--"

"Then it's settled."

Leslie downed the rest of his scotch, and handed the empty glass to Frank. "I'm billeted at the Plaza."

Frank bent his head towards Leslie's cheek. Was he going to kiss him, here, in front of his guests? Leslie stepped back, raising his hand to ward off the kiss. Frank touched his arm. "See you soon, then."

Frank walked away, leaving Leslie in a state of anticipation. Not good to be this thrilled about a date with a suspect, but what was the use of fooling himself? The attraction was real. Frank caused a stirring of sexual desire lying dormant for too long. Tempted to go outside to console Richard, he saw Nanette glide over to the balcony doors. He didn't want to get between mother and son. It was best to stay out of the crossfire sure to ricochet between them.

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