The Game. Vanessa Fewings

was taking on history itself and his capture was inevitable. This beautiful man who’d watched his parents die in front of him would be tortured for the rest of his life because of this tragedy. Tobias was playing out some kind of retribution as though trying to salvage his past and dull his pain.

      He needed a friend. An advocate who cared. Someone who could make him see sense. Or at least find a way to prevent him from ruining himself.

      As I ran over my options I came to terms with the fact that whatever was in my suitcase I could live without.

      My hand slid toward the door handle.

      The door handle wouldn’t give.

      I was bloody well locked inside this Rolls-Royce.

      The luxury leather-and-chrome interior highlighted Tobias’s grand lifestyle and in any other circumstances I’d have been thrilled to be taken to the airport in a chauffeur-driven car or have a private jet waiting for me. All I had to do was resign to my fate and I’d be sipping bubbly and heading back to my Notting Hill flat.

      Luckily, Marshall hadn’t caught my subtle attempt to escape. Staring through the front window I could see we only had one red light left and we’d be on the freeway. Rummaging through my handbag with my fingers tracing over my passport, I shoved it to the bottom of my purse.

      “Oh, no.” I raised my gaze to look at Marshall in the rearview mirror. “I left my passport in the hotel safe.”

      “Ma’am, I checked you out of the Beverly Wilshire. Nothing was left behind.”

      “You packed my stuff?” I hated the thought of this stranger handling my underwear.

      “The concierge took care of it.”

      My jaw tightened at the injustice. “It was right in the back of the safe. They missed it. We have to go there.”

      “Let me have the concierge take care of it. She’ll have your passport transported to meet us at the VIP lounge at LAX.” He tapped the screen on the dashboard. “Beverly Wilshire.”

      With a forced smile, I feigned gratitude for his thoughtfulness and listened to him request the staff to retrieve my passport from my room.

      “I know where I left it.” I sounded chirpier then I felt.

      Marshall’s eyes met mine in the rearview.

      I gestured my relief. “UCLA. I was showing an old professor of mine how different they look now. This issue with the EU had us changing them.” I waved it off as though it was boring. “Would you mind taking me there?”

      “The university?”

      “Yes, the campus.” I pulled out my phone. “I’ll text him.”

      It wasn’t too much of a lie, though. I’d not had the time yet to visit Gabe Anderson—one of my favorite professors at my old alma mater, The Courtauld Institute of Art. Two months ago he’d returned to California to teach Asian art history, a subject he was obsessed with. I didn’t think I’d be taking up Gabe’s invitation to visit him so soon and neither would he.

      After Tobias, Gabe was the only other person I knew here.

      Marshall turned left when the light flashed green and navigated us east away from the freeway.

      It’s going to be okay.

      Clothes, that’s all I had in my suitcase, oh, and makeup too. I could go without all of it. There were plenty of shopping malls here so I could buy all the essentials later.

      This decision had so many consequences—not the least of which was Tobias’s lingering threat of ruining my reputation if he exposed St. Joan as authentic. He’d gone to so much trouble to steal her from Christie’s after an unknown collector had shipped her from Europe to London for final endorsement. Icon had snatched her away before the specialists had gotten to prove she was real. His ulterior motive was now glaring. That painting served as leverage.

      Damn him, he knew the effect he had on me.

      The ghost of his kiss lingered on my lips and he still had my hands trembling, or perhaps this was merely the tension I’d been holding from the thought of seeing him again. I’d promised myself I wouldn’t let him throw me off my reason for being here.

      Yet here I sat, thrown.

       3

      Within twenty minutes we were winding our way along the UCLA campus roads, and my heart rate rocketed from my brilliant plan inspired further by the impressive old brick buildings of this bustling college. Students strolled to and from their classes. I imagined Gabe would be happy here amongst all this prestige and academic camaraderie.

      My focus returned to Marshall. He looked like a reasonable man.

      Discreetly, I reached into my handbag and pulled out my phone. I hated the idea of being without it, but this was the only way I’d be able to evade him. If he skipped town, there was a chance I could find someone with the skill to reverse engineer the signal and track it to him. I was going to have to stash it somewhere safe for now.

      “Right over there, please.” I pointed to the Franklin D. Murphy Sculpture Garden.

      The car pulled up to the curb.

      “I’ll let Mr. Wilder know we’re running late,” said Marshall. “He’ll inform his flight crew.”

      I raised my phone and smiled through my lie. “He told me to take all the time I need.”

      Marshall narrowed his gaze in the rearview, seemingly unconvinced.

      You don’t intimidate me, buddy, not even after you broke into my hotel room and violated my privacy.

      “Can you open the door, please?”

      He hesitated. “Did you text your professor? Does he have it, miss?”

      “I hope so.” My gaze swept the sculpture garden. “I’ll be right back.” I grabbed my handbag ready to bolt.

      With a click of the lock I was free and my feet hit the curb with a bounce of triumph. I turned to give a wave of thanks and then realized Marshall was getting out.

      “I’ll be quicker alone.” I took off, striding fast through the well-tended garden, passing an array of sculptures, one of them a large golden female torso on a solid granite base. It was beautiful, and I pined to be able to enjoy these modern masterpieces with the attention they deserved and not while running from Tobias’s chauffer. A perky tour guide led a long line of prospective students around the campus. I took advantage of the endless line of people and weaved through them and shut off my phone.

      Turning left and a sharp right, I saw the Charles E. Young Research Library up ahead and hurried toward it and with one quick glance back I confirmed I wasn’t being followed—

      The atmosphere was expectedly serene and as I strolled toward the reception desk situated to the right of the glass foyer, I threw a big smile to the librarian, a man in his thirties who was slim and studious looking with his head buried in a book. He frowned his interest when he greeted me.

      Within minutes I was heading down the staircase to the rare book reading room after providing a convincing performance as a foreign student. Throwing in some academic jargon that gave me the credibility I needed along with my unusual request to see their out-of-print edition of a collection of paintings by Paul Gauguin from the late 1800s. Gauguin was a famed painter, printmaker and sculptor, and this was the first rare book that came to mind.

      I made my way into the air-sealed room, respectful of the other students, and picked up a pair of white gloves out of a wooden box on a corner table and pulled them on. Instead of looking for the book on Gauguin, I pulled a first edition biography on William Shakespeare off the shelf that in any other circumstance would have had my full attention. I pretended to read it.

      Tobias