Timeless (A Time Travel Romance) Page 2

  “What does Stella say about it?”

  Stella Bartolomeo was the Gallery’s pricing expert, and made Scrooge look generous. “She thinks we’ll be able to sell the pieces for at least sixty thousand. I believe we can get more if we approach the right buyers.” She lifted her chin slightly. “Because of my personal involvement with the Wade family, I checked with Gerry and Kevin before I made an offer. I didn’t want to cheat anyone, the Wades or the Gallery.”

  “There’s no need to sound apologetic,” Zach said mildly. “If it weren’t for your personal connection, we would never have heard of the collection in the first place. And early Wedgwood doesn’t often come on the market, certainly not John Flaxman jasper ware. Well done.”

  Despite her best efforts, she felt her face turn pink with pleasure. “It was an exciting discovery for me.”

  “Gerry and I have been talking about you,” Zach said. “We’re both impressed with how fast you’ve learned the ropes.”

  “Th-thank you. Everyone here has been very helpful.”

  “Glad to hear it.” He pulled out a slim leather pocket diary and consulted it briefly. “Could you have dinner with me tomorrow night? I know it’s Friday, the start of the weekend, and so on, but I’m tied up all day in meetings, and I’d like to take some time to outline a special project I have in mind for you. It’s something Gerry and I both think you’re ready to tackle.”

  Her regular Friday night routine consisted of a session at the health club, followed by a late-night stint in front of her DVD player, watching a rented movie.

  “I believe I can juggle my schedule around and make that,” she said, trying to sound like a woman sacrificing her busy social life for the sake of her career. “What time, and where would you like us to meet?”

  Zach scribbled a note in his diary. “Seven-thirty sound okay? My secretary will fill you in on the details. She has a system for keeping all the maitre d’s around town bullied into giving her the best table, so I go wherever she sends me.”

  “Fine. I’ll expect Shirley’s call tomorrow morning.”

  “Great.” He gave Gerry a hearty clap on the shoulder, nodded his head briskly toward Robyn, and left to reclaim Miss Cosmos, who was wiggling her silicone-enhanced assets at a small group of fascinated reporters.

  Watching Zach weave his way through the crowds, Robyn realized her mouth was hanging open and hurriedly snapped it shut.

  Gerry patted her on the arm, his gaze annoyingly sympathetic. “Darling, don’t pant,” he said. “It’s terminally vulgar.”

  * * *

  Robyn woke up on Friday morning, determined that this day would mark a change in her attitude toward Zach. Six months was long enough to spend in a state of sophomoric sexual obsession. At their dinner tonight she would behave with brisk, professional courtesy. She would not allow herself to explode into bursts of nervous chatter. She would not spill the salt, or drop her napkin, or get distracted by the twinkle in Zach’s dark blue eyes. She would not wonder if he’d noticed her freckles. She would absolutely and definitely not wonder if he by any chance happened to find freckles cute. By the end of the evening, if she stuck to her plan, she would have taken a giant step toward transforming six months of unproductive sexual fantasy into an efficient business relationship.

  Her optimistic mood survived a typically frantic Friday at the office and a frustrating half hour in front of the ladies’ room mirror during which she confirmed the sad truth that a woman who is five feet three inches tall and has red curly hair cannot make herself look aloof and businesslike even when she is wearing an austere forest-green suit and no jewelry. Having spent most of her adult life convincing fusty professors and sexist museum curators that a woman with curls and dimples could also have brains, Robyn knew she ought to appreciate the strict professionalism of Zach’s attitude. Unfortunately, love was not a very rational emotion and she wished—just once—that he would look at her as if he registered the fact that she was a functioning, anatomically correct female.

  Quelling an absurd impulse to try the effect of the suit with no blouse under the jacket, and a dangling pair of rhinestone earrings, she dusted another layer of powder over her freckles, wiped off most of her lipstick, and left the ladies’ room satisfied there was nothing more she could do to increase the businesslike severity of her appearance.

  The afternoon’s drizzling rain had turned into a full-blown downpour by the time Robyn left the office for La Grenouille on Fifty-second Street, but by some marvel she got a taxi without much difficulty and was paying the cabbie outside the restaurant at precisely seven-thirty. She considered this punctuality a good omen. From now on, even the traffic jams of Manhattan would give way to her supercompetent handling of life. She was a dedicated career woman, with no time for the inefficiency of a one-sided love affair. Confident in the power of her new and improved self, she strode into the restaurant’s pink-lit interior—and stopped dead in her tracks at the sight of Zach chatting amiably with the maitre d’.

  He glanced up and saw her, his smile faintly quizzical, his blond hair a slash of brightness against the sober dark gray of his suit. Even at a distance of fifteen feet, he radiated a lethal combination of wealth, power, and sexuality. By the time they were two feet apart, Robyn was shaking. She drew in a deep, calming breath, reminding herself that she was now a woman with a Plan. Resisting the cowardly urge to replace her new and improved self with the old infatuated and wimpish model, she gave Zach her best imitation of a cool and dignified smile.

  “Good evening, Zach. I hope I didn’t keep you waiting?”

  His answering smile was warm, friendly, and open. But then, Robyn thought gloomily, he had no adolescent infatuation to hide. “Your timing’s great,” he said, taking her coat and handing it to the attendant. “I was a couple of minutes early. It’s getting cold out there, isn’t it?”

  She had no idea what the temperature was, had been much too flushed with bravado and excitement to notice, but the new Robyn was not going to be thrown off track by a simple remark about the weather. She treated him to another of her brisk, professional smiles. “Yes, it’s really cold. Maybe it’s going to snow.”

  “That would make a change. It’s years since we had a proper winter in New York.” Zach guided her through the tables in the wake of the maitre d’.

  “Have you eaten here before? It’s one of my favorite places, partly because it’s close to my apartment, but mostly because the food is great.”

  “No, I’ve never been here before.” She kept her answers clipped and short, because that seemed better than the alternative. It was either monosyllables, or gushers of verbiage when she was around Zach.

  A waiter materialized at their table. “Would you care to order a drink before dinner?”

  “We’ll need a few minutes to choose our meals,” Zach said, taking the menus from the waiter. “Robyn, what would you like to drink?”

  She ordered a diet Coke, since the last thing she needed at this point was a muzzy head. He nodded to the waiter. “Make that two, please.”

  As soon as the waiter left, Zach turned back to Robyn. “Thanks for agreeing to meet with me on a Friday night when I know you must have a hundred more exciting things to do. You’ve put in a lot of overtime these last few weeks, and I want you to know your hard work’s been noticed and appreciated.”

  “I enjoy my work,” she said. “I’ve always wanted to make a career in the antique trade, so my job at the Bowleigh Gallery is a dream come true for me.”

  “It’s good to hear you say that. To be honest, I wasn’t sure we should take you on. Gerry’s had two assistants in the past four years who simply weren’t up to the job even though their qualifications looked terrific on paper. When I interviewed you, I was almost to the point of deciding we needed someone with hands-on, practical experience and no fine arts background. But Gerry said you were the right person for the job and I’m certainly glad that I took his advice.”

  Robyn flushed with pleasure. “
Thank you. It’s great to put all my academic training to practical use at last.”

  “And that brings me to the reason for this meeting,” Zach said. “It’s time for you to expand your scope, Robyn. You need to get out in the field and do some actual buying. Some distant relatives of mine in England are planning to offer part of their family collection of porcelain and silverware for sale and they’ve offered me the chance to make a first bid. English bone china is your major area of expertise, and I want you to come with me. My opinion may be tainted by the family connection, so I’d like you to share the responsibility for deciding whether the Gallery should bid for the collection.”

  She was astonished and thrilled by his offer. “I’m delighted by your confidence in my judgment,” she said. “But has Gerry told you that I’ve never placed a bid on behalf of the Gallery without his prior approval?”

  “Gerry agrees with me that it’s time for you to put your theoretical knowledge to the test. On paper, you have more qualifications than any other buyer. In reality, you’ve had almost no experience of handling buys under pressure. On the other hand, I have plenty of buying experience, but I know next to nothing about the output of the English potteries. I hope we can improve each other’s skills.”

  The possibility of her being able to teach Zach Bowleigh anything about antiques was absurd enough to make Robyn chuckle. “What’s so amusing?” Zach asked.

  “I’d love to go to England with you, it would be a fabulous learning experience for me. But the idea of giving you lessons on this business is laughable. You’ve forgotten more than I could learn in the next ten years.”

  He frowned. “You’re wrong,” he said quietly. “My expertise and my success tend to be exaggerated. In more ways than one.”

  “I’ve seen no evidence of that. Your reputation seems well deserved, in every way.”

  “Superficially, maybe, but you don’t know me very well, do you?”

  She wondered exactly what it was they were talking about, and she was determined not to leap to foolish conclusions. “You’re my boss, the president of the most successful antiques company in the country. I know you’re an excellent employer.”

  He sighed. “Yes, I’m very much aware of the fact that I’m your boss.” He paused for a moment, then shrugged, almost visibly deciding to change the subject. “Let’s order dinner, then we can talk about the trip to England without being interrupted.”

  Robyn indulged herself browsing through the menu before choosing a safe grilled fish. Zach ordered something in swift, colloquial French, which she had a horrible suspicion might be stewed frogs’ legs. Despite a year in London and two brief visits to Europe, Robyn’s choice of food remained strictly American heartland.

  When their meals arrived, Zach’s plate was covered in a creamy sauce. Robyn breathed a sigh of relief. If he was tucking into a reptile of the type she had dismembered in biology class, at least she didn’t know for sure.

  When their waiter left with a final flourish of his napkin, Zach inquired politely if the meal was to her satisfaction, and they discussed cuisines of the world in a desultory fashion for a few minutes before Zach returned to business.

  “The Bowleigh family is anxious to complete the sale as soon as possible,” he said. “I’m leaving for Paris on Tuesday night, and I plan to fly from there to London sometime on Friday afternoon. I realize this is short notice, but could you meet me in Starke on Saturday morning? That would be a week from tomorrow. The family is quite willing for us to view the collection over the weekend.”

  Robyn’s work schedule for the next couple of weeks was already tight, but the chance to accompany Zach on a buying trip was much too exciting to turn down. “I’ll have to juggle a few appointments,” she said. “But I can work things out.”

  “Great. I’ll ask Shirley to make a reservation for you at the Starke Manor Hotel, which was once the family home of the Bowleighs. They turned it into a hotel twenty years ago, when the inheritance taxes got too steep for them. Rental car is the easiest way to get from the airport to Starke. How do you feel about driving on the left-hand side of the road?”

  “I drove around quite a lot when I was working in England, so it shouldn’t be a problem. Is Starke far from Heathrow Airport?”

  “Seventy miles or so. It’s in Dorset, a very picturesque little village, about ten miles from the coast.”

  She pulled a face. “If I don’t turn up for breakfast on Saturday, you’d better send out a posse. I’m a world champion at getting lost on English country roads.”

  He laughed. “The village pub is called the Dog and Kettle, and it’s been going strong for three hundred years. After spending a year in England, you should know that if you need directions, pubs are the only sure landmarks.”

  She grinned. “I’ll keep that in mind. Do you have any written material describing the Bowleighs’ porcelain collection?”

  “Not as much as I’d like. I can give you some excellent photos and a few notes made for the insurance company. I have the file with me, so perhaps you could glance at it over the weekend. I’d like your impression of the overall quality of the collection.”

  “I’ll do my best, but to make an accurate assessment, I need to see the actual pieces.”

  He smiled. “I know. That’s why I asked you to come with me. I’m not asking for an official valuation, just an initial impression.”

  Neither of them ordered dessert, but they lingered over coffee and chocolate truffles, talking about the differences between early European and English porcelain, and the recent upsurge in prices for nineteenth-century Japanese Imari ware. Robyn found the conversation so interesting that she was able to ignore the current of sexual awareness that never went away when she was near Zach. She wondered if perhaps her infatuation had flourished during the past few months because, until tonight, she had never had the chance to get to know Zach the Man, instead of Zach the Sexual Fantasy. With an upsurge of hope, Robyn decided that the trip to Starke, and two or three solid days of Zach’s company, might be all she needed to complete the cure.

  Zach took a final sip of his coffee and leaned back in his chair. “You look mighty pleased with yourself,” he said. “Was your meal that good?”

  “I was thinking about the trip to England,” she replied, glad that she could tell at least a partial truth. “I’m looking forward to working with you.”

  “I’m looking forward to that, too.” Zach was silent for a moment or two, staring at his steepled fingers. “Tell me something, Robyn, if you were a dealer who wanted to palm off an expensive fake on one of the Gallery buyers, how would you set about doing it?”

  “I wouldn’t bother to try.” Robyn answered without needing to stop and consider. The question of fakes and fraud was always fascinating to insiders in the antique business, in part because so many more fakes were offered for sale than genuine articles.

  “Why wouldn’t you try?” he asked.

  “For the obvious reasons. It would be much too risky, with the high standard of documentation we require, and all the in-house experts we have available. We’re tougher to deceive than most museums.”

  “But let’s suppose this mythical dealer wants to sell a museum-quality piece, something that’s going to fetch thousands of dollars if it’s accepted as genuine. Where can he go if not to us? There aren’t that many commercial outlets operating in his price range.”

  “True, but let’s be realistic about our industry, Zach. There are dozens of ways for a crooked dealer to make money on fakes without trying to outwit the Bowleigh Gallery. There’s a huge demand for nineteenth-century Americana, for example, and we both know there are dozens of factories in Taiwan turning out instant antiques to meet that demand. Why risk jail trying to sell one elaborate piece for a few hundred thousand bucks, when you can make a million selling ‘hundred-year-old’ desks for a thousand dollars each?”

  “But what if you could come up with a scheme for circumventing the experts and the documentation at the
Gallery?” Zach asked. “Then you might be able to rake in mega-bucks on a consistent basis. Wouldn’t that be worth taking a few risks for? Wouldn’t it be worth trying to crack our systems?”

  He sat slouched in his chair, the picture of a man engaged in idle chitchat with a fellow professional. And yet something about his manner set Robyn’s antennae twitching. She leaned across the table, meeting his gaze head-on. “What are we talking about, Zach? Are we indulging in idle speculation at the end of a pleasant meal, or are we having a serious conversation about fakes reaching the floor of the Bowleigh Gallery?”

  For a moment she thought he wasn’t going to answer. “I’m not sure,” he said finally. “You know as well as I do that this trade is riddled with fraud and dubious deals. You’re a relative newcomer to the company, so you look at our authentication systems with a more open mind than the rest of us. Can you see any way somebody knowledgeable—and clever—could consistently manipulate a crack in our system?”

  She shook her head. “I’d say it’s impossible. We use the latest technology to run sophisticated tests on all the important pieces, and we have trained experts exercising their professional judgment to assess authenticity. It’s tough to deceive machines and human experts.”

  “Well, I’m relieved to hear you say that. It’s always good to be reassured that our systems work.”

  “Why were you worried, Zach? There must have been a specific incident to trigger your concerns.”

  “An insurance company approached me about a seventeenth-century pietra-dura cabinet that had been bought from our Gallery five years ago. The owner recently died, and the heirs were trying to sell. A routine X ray of the joints revealed that the piece was a fake.”

  “But the original cabinet had been out of our hands for years,” Robyn protested. “You can’t assume we were negligent in our original authentication. There are dozens of reasons why the owner might have substituted a modern replica for the genuine piece he bought from us.”