The Game. Vanessa Fewings

      Though I believed Tobias wouldn’t hurt me. We were at an impasse.

      I needed time to rethink my strategy and if this is what it took, me throwing caution to the wind and trusting my gut, then so be it.

      When the room emptied of visitors I returned the first edition to its shelf, pulled off the gloves and returned them to their wooden box. I carried my phone over to the oak book cabinet, knelt and reached around to stash my phone behind it.

      There, it was done.

      I exited the reading room and headed over to the wall phone. Within a few seconds I was speaking to the campus operator and asking to be put through to Professor Gabe Anderson’s office.

      “Zara?” Gabe answered with that American brightness.

      “Professor Anderson?” There came a wave of comfort at hearing his voice again.

      “What a lovely surprise. Where are you?”

      “I stopped off at the antiques reading room. You know how I love old books. Are you busy?”

      “Never.” He gave a sigh. “Are you okay?”

      “Yes. Why?”

      “Your chauffer was here looking for you.”

      Oh, no, Marshall had found Gabe’s office. He must have called his boss to tell him he’d lost me, and then Tobias had immediately searched The Courtauld’s teacher database and cross-referenced it with all the professors at UCLA. How easy it would have been to track down Gabe. Tobias had then directed Marshall to find him on the campus. All in under fifteen minutes.

      “Why would I have your passport?” Anderson sounded concerned. “Haven’t seen you in three months.”

      “It’s a misunderstanding. Is he still there?”

      “He headed off to look for you. He left his number. Shall I call him?”

      “No, it’s fine.” I wondered if Marshall might be trying to follow the GPS in the phone I’d just stashed, the same one Tobias had conveniently gifted me.

      “Is now an okay time?” I asked.

      “Of course. I’m in Boelter Hall, office 112.”

      “I’ll be right there.”

      After asking the librarian for directions I headed out of the library, weaving my way along the college lanes.

      There came a rush of relief when I saw Professor Anderson waiting for me outside his office door. I hurried toward him and gave him a big hug. He gestured for me to follow him into his office but I hesitated for a second, wondering if Marshall might come back. Still, if he did I could handle him. It wasn’t like he’d be able to force me back into his limo.

      I made my way in and shut the door. “It’s so wonderful to see you, Professor.”

      “Call me Gabe. I had no idea you were in LA?” He pointed to one of the two armchairs in the corner for me to sit. “Tea?”

      “No, thank you.”

      His office was an organized chaos with files stacked high on his desk and his impressive collection of Asian history books lined up along the dark wooden shelf. An empty coffee mug. Gabe was wearing his usual tweed jacket and black slacks to offset being in his early thirties, and his raven locks still flopped over his kind eyes.

      “Zara, so good to see you. I hear you got hired at Huntly Pierre?”

      “Yes, as an art specialist. Sorry I didn’t call you to let you know I was visiting LA. I meant to.”

      “Are you on vacation?”

      “Kind of. Mixing work with pleasure.” And as I was unofficially in California that version sat well with me.

      “Where are you staying?”

      “Beverly Wilshire.” I cringed inwardly, recalling how Tobias had unceremoniously checked me out of my hotel room.

      “Your chauffeur told me you lost your passport?”

      “Did he bother you? I’m sorry.”

      “No, he wanted to help you out.” Gabe stood and reached for a Post-it note on his desk. “Here’s his number.”

      I took it from him. “Thank you.”

      He sat back down. “How long are you here?”

      “A week.”

      “On behalf of Huntly Pierre?”

      “Kind of. To be honest I’m going a little rogue. Using my free time to investigate a lead.”

      He laughed. “My little librarian?”

      I deserved that I suppose. I’d been one of his quieter students and only revealed a spark of personality when I handed in my papers that always came back with an A+.

      It didn’t take us long to catch up and it was lovely to hear how he was now living in Brentwood with his boyfriend, Ned, a technology strategist for a firm in Menlo Park, though Gabe said he worked from home most days.

      The last few hours had felt like a whirlwind of emotions and seeing my old professor filled me with happiness; Gabe was the connection to home I’d needed even if he was here now.

      Jet lag caught up and I suppressed a yawn. “I need to call a taxi.”

      “I can drive you.”

      “I’m fine. But thank you.”

      He stood and reached for his phone. “Where are you going?”

      “Can you recommend a hotel? I need to be closer to the Los Angeles County Museum of Art.”

      “The Sofitel? It’s also near the Beverly Center. It’s a big shopping center and is just across the street.”

      “Perfect.”

      Gabe made the call and requested the cab park in front of Boelter Hall. With that done he scribbled a number on a piece of paper and handed it to me. “Here’s my cell.”

      “Thank you.” I tucked it into my handbag.

      “I don’t suppose you’d like to join me at a cocktail party tomorrow night?”

      “Where?”

      “The Broad. One of my students is showcasing his collection as part of a youth program at the gallery.”

      My attention spiked with the thought of visiting one of the city’s most distinguished museums that was on my list to check out. “I’d love to go.”

      “Great! I’ll pick you up tomorrow at seven. It’s black-tie.”

      “I have just the thing.” Ironically a dress that rogue Wilder had bought me back in London.

      I gave Gabe a big hug and followed the pathway toward the entrance of Boelter Hall, all the while glancing around for Marshall. When I reached the grassy bank, I saw my taxi idling at the curb. Settling in the back of the car I looked forward to checking into the Sofitel hotel and, just as Gabe suggested, visiting the shopping center. I needed to replace the contents of my suitcase.

      Staring out at the passing scenery, the enormity of what I was taking on hit me. I had less than a week to collate data from every single gallery, along with private collections in LA, the kind that might draw the attention of a thief. For now, at least, I had a motive to go on; a broken provenance consistently occurring with each painting stolen by Icon. A gargantuan task that would quite frankly have been impossible without my access to Huntly Pierre’s newly developed software. An ingenious processing program that collated the art collections of international galleries with details including their individual history. This ability was now part of my investigative tool kit.

      Why couldn’t all this be simple? Why wasn’t the enigmatic Tobias who I’d fallen hard for