The Art of Stealing

By Sandi Perry

Valentina Philips loves her position as Decorative Arts curator at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Just because she's a recovering thief doesn't mean she can't still enjoy being surrounded by masterpieces. After an unhappy childhood growing up in Italy, it seems as if she has finally found peace. The only obstacle in her path now is her former childhood friend, Luca Greppi, jewel thief extraordinaire. He stepped in years ago as protector and mentor, introducing the lonely Valentina to the beauty of art—and so began her dual lifelong obsessions.
Valentina has successfully brought the Fabergé Eggs for exhibit at the Bargello Museum in Florence to rave reviews, yet still looks over her shoulder for Luca. Knowing he'd never be able to resist teasing and tormenting her in the city where they first met, she's on full alert. And of course, one day as she returns to her hotel suite she finds Luca lounging on her sofa. "What is it with you and my sofas?" she asks. "If you'd invite me to your bed, I wouldn't have to settle for the sofa," is his reply.
As the exhibit closes, Valentina says good-bye to Luca for what she hopes is the final time. She has long ago outlived the need for his approval and watches helplessly as he prowls society parties stealing precious gems and replacing them with ones of inferior quality. His recklessness grows as he tries to outrun his demons. He wants to know if Valentina has forgiven him for losing control of their car years ago when they were sixteen and in love—the night they put his younger brother, Roberto, in a wheelchair. She nods through her tears, but she hasn't forgiven him or herself.
Returning home, Valentina asks for a leave of absence from the museum. She plans to set her GPS and follow the prompts to wherever they lead her. She intends to make peace with herself, as Roberto has urged her many times, and to purge her thoughts of Luca. Elizabeth, her sister, asks if Luca is aware she said her final good-bye in Florence, and Valentina says yes. "It's never good-bye with him," Elizabeth says wisely and her prophecy comes true as Luca tracks down Valentina tucked away in a beach house in Cape Cod. He has come to tell her that he has always loved her and wishes life had taken them in another direction. His declaration is heartfelt and stirring and Valentina's resolve weakens. They share a night of raw passion and he is gone in the morning when she awakens.
After returning to New York, she is satisfied that she has erased Luca and her guilt about the accident from her mind and returns to her position at the museum refreshed. Except she isn't; she’s exhausted and soon discovers that she will be bound to Luca forever because she’s carrying his child.
The story jumps eleven years as we find Valentina raising their daughter, Lily, on her own. She has opened a successful antiques shop in Westchester and is satisfied with the life she has carved out for herself and her daughter. One day a limousine rolls up to her property and Luca steps out. He looks into a pair of eyes that mirrors his own, and Valentina wonders how long it will take Lily to discover the truth. Luca claims he has left his thieving days behind, but Valentina fears he has one more theft up his sleeve—to steal Lily's heart and her own.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sandi Perry
• Release date: Feb 8, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311474414

Sandi Perry

Writing and interior design have always been my dual passions. And to that end, I am delighted to share my latest book: The Next Best Thing--which brings my two loves together. It is about an interior designer in New York looking for love and getting unexpected results. If you enjoy my latest entry, feel free to look up my two previous books--Come Fly With Me and The Art of Stealing as well. I am a former English teacher and the mother of four grown children. I run my own interior design company and generally sprinkle design and art references in my books because frankly, I cannot resist! I enjoy writing breezy, lighthearted romances that explore all the wonderful aspects of women and their interior dialogues. Each of my books challenges the female protagonist to look into her soul in order to find her true self. I hope my readers will be able to see a bit of themselves in these very real characters who push themselves out of their comfort zones to spectacular results. My dream is to have my readers enjoy discovering these women as much as I've enjoyed bringing them to life.

Book preview

I had been to Texas once before, to study Gaugin’s Siesta, and now to steal it. Although I wasn’t a fan of his work—I had always thought his technique too heavy-handed—I’d reproduced the painting to perfection. My college roommate, Caroline, whose parents’ bedroom I happened to be standing in, had no idea about my corrupted talent. It was another part of my life I didn’t share with anyone. Well, except Luca, after all, he was the one who had discovered me so to speak, back when we were kids growing up in Florence.

I touched the masterpiece on the wall and felt the copy I had earlier taped around my thigh constrict in response. Did I still want to do this? I stepped back for a better view. The night's full moon illuminated the painting that hung above the bed suffocated with pillows. The painting belonged to someone else—a matter that would not have caused me concern a couple of years ago, but lately…

I heard a snap from behind. Merda! I forgot to check the walk-in closet. He came up from behind, dragging me in close.

What are you doing here? I hissed over my shoulder.

I can ask you the same, he said.

I'm… visiting a friend.

In Mrs.Galston's bedroom?

Voices out in the hall interrupted us, and in one swift move he shoved me onto the bed, kissing me as if he meant it. It was better than I had remembered. It had been a long time since we had been together, and I cursed my fickle body for remembering him. He hastened to his feet as the lights came on, smoothing his tuxedo.

Margaret, Luca said to the botoxed woman who entered the room. Please excuse us—surely you remember how it feels to lust after someone. He gestured at me while his liquid brown eyes fixed on the much younger man standing next to her who was clearly not Mr. Galston.

I sure do. Sam here was just helping me...find my shawl. Please, she said, winking at me. Enjoy the remainder of your evening. She gestured toward the stairs and the festivities taking place beneath us. The caterers have strict instructions to keep the drinks flowing.

While reaching for me he bowed, as if he held her words in great esteem. Yet I knew what he thought of her, and of most people, for that matter. As we left the room, the music reached up to us. It was loud, but I welcomed it now, hopeful that the over-stuffed room might provide enough distraction so I could shake him off. We walked toward the grand staircase and as soon as I got to the first step, I ground my spiked heel into his ankle.

"Dannazione Valentina!"

Vai al diavolo!

I've been to Hell; I like this better.

Are you following me? I asked.

Can we do this later? There are too many ears.

We made our way down the monstrosity of a marble staircase and left through the French doors. Stepping onto the portico, we kept to the shadows, picking our way among the rosemary shrubs as we headed toward the front of the estate. I hoped I'd crushed at least a couple of bones but a glance at his surefooted walk confirmed I had not. He opened the passenger door of his Ferrari.

Seriously, you brought your car over here?

Not now, please get in, he said, pointing me toward the low-slung seat. Reaching down to help the shimmering folds of my evening dress into the car, he paused as he smoothed the fabric down my thigh. Our eyes met in silent combat until I slapped his hand away. He drove off down the deserted road, leaving the lights and merriment behind.

Which one is taped to your thigh—the copy or the original? he asked.

I didn't respond.

Don't pout—I won't judge you, he said.

Sure you would. Texas is the last place I'd expect to find you.

Why is that? There are plenty of tasteless jewels here, he responded.

I rested my head against the seat. What you mean to say is people without taste.

Aren't you supposed to be at university?

I hate summer classes. What did you take? I asked.

The ruby ring.

How? She was wearing it all night.

He shook his head. The real one was in the safe. Did you have time to switch the paintings?

I didn't answer him. He pulled over, cutting the engine and lights.

Give it to me, he said, gesturing at my thigh.

Luca.

Let me see it.

I lifted the folds of fabric and made a huge show of removing the taped canvas from my thigh, handing it to him wordlessly. My deliberate movements were rewarded with a slight flaring of his nostrils—he'd always loved my long legs.

He examined it carefully with his mini-Maglite and loupe.

These are your strokes. Why didn't you make the switch? He examined the canvas carefully. Since when have you been a fan of Gaugin?

I got bored; I grew tired of copying those Old Masters and their gloomy paintings.

You're a terrible liar. What's really been going on here in the States? He shook his head in frustration.

I ignored his taunts as I looked out into the inky darkness. Three years at NYU had taught me a reverence for art I didn't care to share with him. I was beginning to wonder if I’d outgrown my need for his approval altogether. I felt his eyes on me and turned to face him.

A smile tugged at his lips. You're growing a conscience. Have I taught you nothing?

I sighed inwardly. He’d taught me too much, and now I wished I could unlearn it all.

Chapter 1

Eleven Years Later…..

The group of thirteen-year olds trailed me through the halls of the Metropolitan Museum of Art. They were a well-behaved group except for the occasional snicker from a couple of boys as they passed the naked statues in the Greek Hall. Although giving tours to recalcitrant teenagers did not fall under my curatorial responsibilities, I welcomed the opportunity to expose fresh minds to the art the museum offered. We stopped when we reached the European Sculpture and Decorative Arts wing. Some jostled for prime viewing positions while a few others hung farther back, their boredom and restlessness apparent on their young faces. I loved my position at the museum, but I’d been feeling the same way lately. Maybe five years here was long enough. I envied them their candidness.

"This one, the Blue Serpent Clock Egg is a favorite of mine. Note the detail of the diamond-set serpent as it coils around the base of the egg and see how its head and tongue point toward the hour. I paused, monitoring their expressions for any change in interest. The eggs were exquisitely crafted, but what makes them even more interesting is that the majority of them held a surprise. Most of them were lost, unfortunately, over the years."

Yeah, like a box of Fruity Pebbles, snorted one of the boys, in a feeble attempt at getting the attention of the cute girl standing in front of him.

Shh! she said, snapping her long hair in a dismissive sweep off her shoulder. Ms. Philips is actually teaching us something.

I hid my smile as I continued. "Fabergé created fifty Imperial eggs. Czar Alexander III commissioned the Hen Egg and presented it as a gift to his wife, the Empress Maria Fedorovna. The egg opened to a gold yolk, which then opened to a gold chicken, which then opened to reveal a diamond miniature of the Imperial crown that had a ruby pendant dangling off it. The girls gasped in wonderment, temporarily bringing me out of my funk. These Imperial eggs were often referred to as Easter eggs. I bet you'd love to find something as beautiful as these hiding in the grass at your next Easter egg hunt."

This would be my last tour for a while; I was set to prepare the eggs for exhibit at the Bargello Museum in Florence. The expressions on their faces were priceless as they absorbed the intricacies of the eggs in the showcases. I remembered the first time I'd seen a Fabergé egg—that sense of joy has never left me.

Their teacher clapped her hands to get the group's attention, bringing me back to the present. Please thank Ms. Philips for taking the time out of her busy schedule to give us this very special tour.

I waved my good-bye as the group left.

Luca approached, his feral stride silent as the group dispersed. A woman of your stature, reduced to giving penny tours to school children. I'd say the museum curators are at a loss of how to, he paused, ...utilize your unique talents.

I always knew it was only a matter of time before he showed up at the museum, but still I felt unprepared and exposed under the gaze of the tourists passing us by. I turned without reply and walked back into the Great Hall. His hand whipped out and jerked me back.

I have a silent alarm in my pocket and in thirty seconds you'll be surrounded by ten guards, I whispered.

Ten lazy guards who are half-asleep, wondering if the shish kebab vendor outside will have any left when they get off duty at six.

I eyed him carefully. Get your hands off me, Luca.

That's not what you said in St. Petersburg.

That was a momentary lapse in judgment, I sighed. It was fun, but things are different now.

"How so, cara mia?" he asked, stepping in closer.

Well, you disappeared in the middle of the night and then not one word from you for five years. It is possible I’ve outgrown you, Luca. I frowned. What are you doing in New York, anyway?

I need to get down to the storage rooms.

My head began to throb. Why? So you can palm some priceless artifacts?

Tsk, tsk, Valentina, you make me sound like an amateur.

Just answer my question.

"I don’t need to because three of the eggs in this room are only here because I...retrieved them—for you."

Lower your voice, I said, glancing around. Do your hunting in someone else’s museum—leave mine alone.

Righteous indignation? Is that what living here has done to you?

Don't make this about me; you do what you do because—

I'm so good at it?

—you can't live without the danger. I'm not part of that world... I caught myself before I added anymore. It wasn't any of his damn business what I was up to now. Go back to Italy, Luca, you aren’t welcome here.

My heels rang out on the limestone floor as I walked toward the elevator. I jabbed at the button, glancing casually at the overhead camera in the corner. It wouldn’t do my career well to be caught on film consorting with a phantom jewel thief who, if not for his family connections, would have Interpol on his heels. The elevator pinged its arrival. I was still fuming when it deposited me in my office in the sub-basement of the museum. Luca was back. That was not a good thing.

****

I was done for the day, had been ever since Luca had turned up. I put some papers in my leather tote and flung it over my shoulder. The side service entrance led me directly onto Fifth

Avenue, and I looked longingly at the entrance to Central Park. Although I shared the park with millions of New Yorkers and countless tourists, I always viewed it as my personal sanctuary. The winding paths, fountains, and countless places to hide in plain sight were a balm to my occasionally frayed nerves. It was after eight and my feet had put in a long day, so I reluctantly cabbed it back to my building on the Upper West Side.

I waved at Steven, the night doorman, as I headed toward the elevator. It dropped me off on the sixteenth floor, and I unlocked my apartment door. As I reached to disarm the alarm, I saw it was off. I'd left it on. I always made a point of it—even on my most hectic mornings. My heart pounded as I tiptoed to the front closet to get my gun. My sister, Elizabeth, had insisted I get one for my safety, and I agreed because I often kept valuable paintings here. I reached for the top

shelf, pausing as my eyes and ears adjusted to the dark room. The rug muffled my steps as I walked toward the sofa.

Merda! I should have known he'd try something. My adrenaline turned to fury as I drew my arms forward and pointed the gun directly between his eyes as he lay there. He watched me silently through dark, heavily-lashed eyes, daring me to pull the trigger. I had always envied those lashes. He didn't move a muscle until I drew back. I walked toward the kitchen with the gun hanging loosely from my hand as my urge to do him bodily harm was replaced by the quandary of how to finally rid myself of Luca.

The gun suddenly felt heavy and pointless. I put it down on the countertop—cold black steel met cold black granite, neither yielding its strength nor dominance to the other, much like Luca and myself. It was exhausting. I blinked as I opened the fridge, and the light hit me. The milk glugged as I poured it into a small saucepan that I always kept on the stove. Three heaping tablespoons of Dutch-processed cocoa and a generous amount of sugar added up to my favorite

drink. I reached into the pantry for a handful of mini-marshmallows. There'd never been any marshmallows in Italy when I was growing up. Luca came into the kitchen and sat down on a stool at the counter.

A nine millimeter is a pretty serious piece.

I didn't hear him at first—I was so absorbed in trying to figure out how he'd bypassed my alarm. I wanted to ignore him, but knew he wouldn't leave until he’d gotten his answers.

New York can be a dangerous place for a woman living alone, I responded.

You live in a doorman building on a busy street—

—and yet you broke in so easily.

Are you comparing my abilities with that of the common thief?

I laughed. He could do that to me, get me from annoyed to amused in two seconds.

You sound insulted. Don't worry, you're still the best thief I've ever met, I said as I sat down on the stool beside him, armed with only a steaming mug of chocolate.

"And here I was thinking I was the only thief you knew,'' he said dryly.

Everyone's a thief of some sort, Luca. You're nothing special. I turned to look him full in the face. That was a mistake. He looked great in the muted lighting slipping in through the open blinds, his face rivaling any Greek Gods that I walked past daily at the museum. I realized I missed him as much as I loathed him. My anger returned and I forced myself to remain calm. He loved baiting me almost as much as he loved stealing. I took a sip from the hot chocolate and burned my tongue.

I'm not getting you into the storage rooms, I said. It would be career suicide.

It's not for me; it's for you.

"What does that mean?"

"Last month I was called in to appraise some artwork for an old family friend in Provence. Mr. Jordano showed me a lovely Degas, Two Dancers in the Studio. I appraised it at six million, which I would say is a bit steep for a fake. I'd recognize your brushstrokes anywhere."

I blew on my drink this time before I took a sip. How'd you get in here? The lock wasn't picked, and I change the code on the alarm every week.

You know a gentleman never tells.

You're only a gentleman when it suits you.

I knew you wouldn't let me in otherwise, he said. I've come to convince you to return the Degas.

And maybe you stole it and are looking to share the blame?

Valentina, you know I prefer jewels.

Well, you could have gotten bored of jewels. Isn't getting bored the other thing you're so good at? I paused in my attack and decided to offer up a plausible explanation. Yes, you're right. They hired me to paint the Degas reproduction, but I didn't take the original—I returned it to them along with the copy. There must be some kind of mix-up—it's probably languishing in a forgotten safe somewhere. I unbuttoned the cuffs of my silk blouse as I spoke.

The rich loved to show off their acquisitions, but few were comfortable putting those treasures at risk while opening their estates to host charity benefits and parties. It was a little- known secret that most of the artwork displayed were copies of the originals they owned and kept securely in a vault. My little side job had proved quite lucrative. My fee for a reproduction was upwards of $25,000.

"While I appreciate your attempts to legitimize your talents, the Jordanos believe that your reproduction is their original. There is a remote possibility they might find out the truth."

I didn't steal it, and I don't need your advice. And that's not the reason you're here.

My hot chocolate had turned cold, as had my interest in the conversation. I stood up to put the mug in the sink. I left the kitchen, turning my back on him as I opened my bedroom door, heading toward a much-needed shower. Walking into the bathroom, I freed my hair from its topknot, peeled off my clothes and stepped into the blazing stream.

Luca and I had met when we were children in Italy. At that time, the petite, dark-haired girls in my class bullied me daily for sport. They made fun of my height, my blonde hair, my accent—just about anything that was different. At least those were the reasons I made up in mind. More likely, they were just mean and had picked a weak target. I had begged my parents to put me in The International School, hoping I’d have a better chance of fitting in there. My British

father, who had us transferred from England just as I was hitting puberty refused, saying we owed it to my mother’s Italian heritage to absorb as much of her culture as possible.

The first time Luca had spoken to me, I'd been on my way home from school when five girls pedaled past me on their bicycles, knocking me into the mud on purpose.

Maybe if you took some of that mud you're sitting in and covered your hair with it, you'd fit in more? he had suggested.

Luca Rodolfo Greppi, scion of the aristocratic Greppi family and most whispered about boy at school had appeared out of nowhere and was looking down at me. I remember the amused glint in his eyes, as if I were there solely for his entertainment. He was only a year older than I, but already carried with him an air of gravitas, as if he'd come out of the womb covered in silken flax rather than the detritus of gooey membrane the rest of us spend our lives trying to shed.

Why would I want to fit in? I'd asked.

He'd made no move to help me up. I remember hoisting myself up ungracefully and walking back home without bothering to clean my school uniform—doing so would only have smeared the mud and lent a concrete reality to my daily nightmare. Luca's presence as he walked beside me would have been thrilling any other time. But at that moment, I'd found it annoying, as if my predicament had given purpose to his day. We'd never spoken before, but I recall that I'd had enough of being pushed around.

I don't need your protection; go back to your manor. You've done enough slumming for one day.

He fixed me with a long look that had me wondering if I would’ve been better off with the bullies. Assisting the British envoy’s daughter is hardly an unworthy task, he'd said, adding the role of protector to his list of familial duties.

He had that ridiculously formal way of speaking even at that young age. It felt as vivid and real to me as if it had happened yesterday. I stood under the spray of hot water until I felt it could wash away the memories.

When life throws you a curve, you can run with it or from it. It’s a quick calculation, this decision, a mostly instinctual one, depending on your need for survival versus your fears. It can come in any form, this curve—it can be something or someone that veers you off that set path you’ve imagined for yourself. It might be the sudden death of a loved one, or even a mentor that opens your world to possibilities never imagined. But not every mentoring relationship is a positive one. They can become all-consuming, even devastating. Luca was my curve, my Svengali. He had the power to undo me, and even as I knew it—knew I should run from him, I couldn’t.

Chapter 2

Luca’s visit had disturbed me. No—it had terrified me. I hadn’t had any contact with him in five years, and while I had become accustomed to him appearing at whim, I’d never had so much at stake before. My position at the museum had been hard earned and was one I cherished. I valued sharing my day with priceless works of art, the added bonus being the respect I received from my colleagues who appreciated my eye. My instinct wasn’t something quantifiable, but rather a combination of an organic talent honed by years of forging the great Masters and the advantage of growing up in Rome and Florence. Much of what I had learned was because of Luca’s urgings, when we were young and roaming the halls of the Vatican Museum and the Uffizi. I wasn’t about to let his re-appearance throw me off track—not at this point in my career. While his near misses with Interpol and the FBI made his blood sing and added purpose to a life filled with meaningless pursuits, my former need for adrenaline was now replaced with a greater one—to see if I could make a life for myself in a completely legitimate way.

I’d driven up to my sister Elizabeth’s house in Westchester on an impulse, and now as I stood on her driveway, I wasn’t sure why. She was five years older than I was, and had a different experience growing up in Italy. She had taken after my mother’s Italian side in her coloring and stature, while I received my father’s graceless British genes. Indecision paralyzed me as I stood in front of her doorway feeling foolish. It wasn’t as if Elizabeth could help me; she knew nothing about my nonsense with Luca, but she wasn’t stupid. I could tell she sensed the undercurrent of an

unnamed something. I didn’t have any friends to tell, having always circumvented the need for them. But, I was feeling vulnerable and exposed, and it had been a long time since I’d felt that way.

I didn’t like it.

I rang the bell, letting myself in with the spare key. I stepped into a chaotic kitchen as a carrot stick sailed past my shoulder. It was dinnertime and Elizabeth was bustling around the kitchen barking orders at her three rambunctious boys. She paused for a minute to hug me, announcing gleefully to no one in particular.

Reinforcements have arrived!

She hadn’t seen the flying carrot, but my nephew Mikey shrugged his shoulders sheepishly at me. I laughed, knowing I was the softie between the two of us, but quickly kicked off my shoes and rolled up my sleeves to dish out spinach lasagna and break up fights.

Carl working on a case? I shouted above a spirited discussion of whether the Yankees had it in them to make the series this year.

She nodded. Elizabeth was always frazzled when she knew her husband would be out late the whole week. Finally, she was satisfied that enough peas were eaten, although I spotted quite a few roll the way of Waldo, the boys' golden retriever. She sent them off to their rooms with stern warnings to do their homework and no splashing in the tub.

They're just little boys. Maybe you should lay off the threats. If you're not careful they'll end up in juvie like the guys you used to put behind bars! I said.

Never let them see any weakness. They can sense it and then kaboom, it all goes up in smoke. She made a dramatic gesture with her hands before wrapping up the leftovers for Carl.

After putting the kettle on the stove, she turned toward me. Why are you here on a Thursday night?

I’d almost forgotten why I’d driven up—the routine bedlam having erased my stress. It was astounding how soothing I found the noisy household after the silence of my apartment.

Can't a sister visit a sister if she wants to? I asked.

She sent me a