Chapter 8 8

Inside the museum, the air was thick with perfume and judgment. The Great Hall had been transformed into a cocktail lounge.

Dylan grabbed a glass of sparkling water from a passing tray. Her hand was shaking again. The adrenaline from the red carpet was fading, leaving her exposed.

She stood near a pillar, scanning the room. Garland was in the VIP section, surrounded by men in gray suits. He was holding a tumbler of whiskey, looking bored.

Ivana wasn't done. She marched over, flanked by three women whose husbands had lost millions in the Maxwell scheme.

You have some nerve, Ivana hissed.

One of the women bumped into Dylan, hard. Dylan's clutch fell to the floor, spilling her cracked iPhone and a tube of drugstore lipstick.

Oops, the woman sneered. Clumsy.

Laughter. Cruel, high-school laughter.

Dylan crouched down to pick up her things. Her face burned.

A hand appeared in her vision. A man's hand, holding a silk handkerchief.

Harrison Sterling. Garland's best friend and a notorious playboy.

Allow me, Harrison said, helping her gather her things. He stood up and winked at her. That dress is genius, by the way. Garland was just telling me he liked the... structural integrity.

He said it loud enough for Ivana to hear. The women stepped back, wary.

Come with me, Harrison said. Let's look at the art.

He led Dylan toward the centerpiece of the exhibit-a massive 19th-century oil painting of a seascape.

Ivana followed, desperate to regain control. This is the Mcknight donation, she announced loudly. It's a Turner. Valued at forty million dollars.

A crowd gathered. Garland drifted over, standing at the back, swirling his drink.

Dylan looked at the painting. She squinted. She had spent four years studying art history at the Sorbonne. She knew Turners. She knew the brushstrokes, the light.

And she knew the pigments.

She stepped closer to the canvas.

Problem, Miss Maxwell? Ivana challenged. Or is it too sophisticated for you?

Dylan looked at Garland. He was watching her. His eyes were dark, intense. He was waiting.

He wanted to see if she was just a pretty face in a tarp dress, or if she had teeth.

It's a fake, Dylan said.

The chatter stopped instantly. The museum curator, standing nearby, turned pale.

Excuse me? Ivana laughed nervously. You're delusional.

"I'm not," Dylan said, her voice steady and clear. "I interned at the Sotheby's restoration department in London for a summer. This exact piece came through for appraisal. The real one. The provenance records show it was sold to a private collector in Dubai three years ago. What you have here is the Mcknight family's very expensive, forty-million-dollar tax-deductible forgery. I'd check the customs declarations from their last family trip to Geneva, curator. The FBI certainly will."

The room was silent.

Ivana looked like she was going to vomit. If the painting was fake, the tax deduction her father had claimed for the donation was fraud. Federal fraud.

Garland took a sip of his whiskey. He looked at Harrison and smirked.

Interesting, he said.

The curator cleared his throat. We... we will have to run some tests.

Ivana glared at Dylan with pure, unadulterated hatred. You will pay for this, she mouthed.

Dylan turned and walked away, heading for the sanctuary of the ladies' room. Her legs were trembling. She had just declared war on the Mcknight family.

But as she passed Garland, he didn't look away. He raised his glass to her.