To Steal a Weeping Widow

Chapter Twenty: Daniel and His Den

"La Clairière" by Pierre-Auguste Renoir (1885), stolen 1987, recovered 2009 - value unknown

Chapter Twenty

"Eleanor Vaycker! What a surprise."

I hated the smug voice that called from across the gallery. I loathed it, but I plastered a smile and turned. I was gripping Simon tight, one arm looped with his and my other hand clasping his forearm. To my surprise, Simon didn't pull away; instead, he bent his elbow to better allow my grip.

Both of us looked to the man approaching us. The smug voice belonged to an even smugger douch—

...man.

To make a long story short, and their complicated personalities simple, the Ponting brothers were pretentious. Even for me, their use of wealth and reputation was off-putting.

It was Daniel who came to a stop before us, plucking his sleeves and smiling too bright. James was probably prowling elsewhere; even in adulthood, the twins never seemed far from the other. Although, I certainly wasn't complaining of his absence. Daniel was more than enough on his own, reminding me of a dragon in its cavern of wealth where he stood.

"Daniel! How lucky to see you," I lied. My voice was too smooth, too easy, too well-practiced. I swallowed my grimace like I was raised to do. "I didn't think you'd be around tonight. Is James here as well?"

"Ah, he's around here somewhere," Daniel brushed off, flicking his hand. A ring flashed on his finger like a glittering scale would. He was always gaudy in his wealth. Some things never changed. "We're always available to help our lovely patrons—present company included. I noticed your interest in 'Laura'."

"It's very nice," I agreed, glancing at the painting. I'd hardly looked at it, having been much too occupied with Simon to give it due diligence, but I nodded along anyway. There was a gleam in Daniel's eye I didn't like.

"It's a new addition. Buyers are already lining up, surprisingly enough. We didn't expect it to be so popular. Who knows with these new wave fans and wannabe critics, right?" He cracked a patronizing smile, chuckling in superiority.

I nodded again, but his ring wasn't the only part of him that gleamed in greed.

"Yet, James and I must be mistaken. It must really be worth something if Eleanor Vaycker herself has deigned it worthy of her time."

"Well, I—"

"If you're looking to purchase, I can always make a deal for you," his head tilted to Simon with a knowing smile, "anything for an old friend."

"I wouldn't—"

"Of course, you'll have to pay for it. Not sure how they do it at good old 'hill these days, but we personally don't like to give anything away here," he quipped. He paired it with a nauseating wink, as if that'd do any good to imbue his coarse comment with humor. "We don't let our pieces leave without a little something in return."

He just couldn't resist, huh?

Simon scoffed at his words, but I squeezed his arm in warning. It was a low blow, screaming distasteful manners that money couldn't fix, but I expected nothing less from him. A man who believed he was God's gift to women didn't err on the side of caution. Daniel hadn't been sent to the lion's den; he was the lion. Unfortunately, Simon's disapproval was enough to earn Daniel's attention.

"Oh, how rude of me!" The arrogant snotwallet pasted even more exaggerated niceties on his facade as he introduced himself. "Daniel Ponting, co-owner of Ponting and Painting Gallery. My apologies, I was just so thrilled to see Ellie here, I forgot we never formally introduced. But, hell, can you blame me?"