“More French words,” Zach said.

“If you aren’t familiar with them, you have no business advising anyone on fine art,” Worthington said in a clipped voice.

“I understand French just fine,” Jill said, hoping her anger wasn’t coming through. “But the painting was a landscape, which is well within Dunstan’s oeuvre.”

Zach wanted to laugh, but it would have spoiled his bad-boy sex-toy act. He stroked her arm instead, fiddling with the silky edges of her sleeve.

“Dunstan seldom painted human figures into his work,” Worthington said to Jill, ignoring Zach entirely. “Less than four percent of Dunstan’s paintings had human figures. The figures were invariably male. Dunstan had an uncanny ability to paint landscapes that conveyed enormous masculine strength measured against the power of a raw, untamed land.”

“I thought it was pretty well tamed by the time Dunstan was painting,” Jill said.

“That’s why Dunstan’s work has always been so sought after by the very men who subdued the West,” Worthington said, glancing at his watch. “His paintings were a tribute to the brute male power it took to survive in, much less to tame, the West.”

Zach wondered how he would defuse the coming explosion. Jill wasn’t about to take that kind of chauvinism without giving feedback. A lot of it. He squeezed her arm, reminding her that she was supposed to be the good cop in this duo.

Her muscles were tight.

He wondered if prayer would help.

Jill didn’t give him time to find out.

“Are you saying that women didn’t exhibit strength and courage in the old West?” she asked, wide-eyed. “I’d think that kind of bigotry would get you bounced from the national association of politically correct art critics tout de suite, mon ami.”

“You make my point for me,” Worthington said, smiling without warmth. “Western art has been politically incorrect from its inception. For better and for worse, Western art is an almost exclusively male domain. Dunstan not only knew that, he celebrated it. His homage to male strength is the very core of his iconic status.”

“Gee, and here I thought art was universal,” Jill said, shaking her head. “Goes to show you what a college education is worth. Guess that’s why I need an adviser.”

And if that adviser doesn’t stop petting me, I’m going to bite him.

Only question is where.

Worthington’s smile warmed and he lied like the salesman he was. “In general, of course, art is universal and not gender specific.”

“That’s why there are so many famous women artists,” Zach drawled, tracing the inside of Jill’s arm. “Universal as all hell.”

Worthington ignored him and concentrated on Jill. “The Old Masters of the West, and Dunstan most certainly was one of them, were true products of their age. They believed masculine power was the force that subdued the wilderness and created civilization. That is still a fundamental belief among the collectors of Western art. It is the very touchstone of authenticity in the genre.”

Jill nodded like a good student. “So you’re saying that you rejected my great-aunt’s painting not on the basis of the artistic technique itself, but on the political subtext.”

“Exactly,” Worthington said. “All art is created in a historical context. That’s every bit as important an element in judging the authenticity of a work as style and pigment selection, brushstrokes and types of oils.”

Jill fought to look like a student rather than a well-educated woman who had just been patronized by a salesman.

Zach slid his fingers from her wrist to her elbow, and from there beneath the silky sleeve of her blouse. Caressing. Distracting.

Warning.

She let out a long breath. “I understand your point of view.” Arrogant, condescending, bigoted.

“I’m sorry,” Worthington said. “I know you must have had some high hopes about the value of the painting. Believe me, I would have loved to say the canvas was a Dunstan.”

Jill tried to look like she cared. She must have succeeded, because Zach took his maddening fingers off her arm and opened up the auction catalogue.

“Not only would I have been introducing a new Dunstan to the art world,” Worthington continued, “the painting would have been a stellar addition to the Las Vegas auction. Our showcase lot is comprised of some of the finest Dunstans ever put under the gavel.”

“Really?” Jill asked, not having to act surprised. She was. “With such well-known names as Remington and Russell in your catalogue, I’m surprised that Dunstan would be the star.”

“Among Western art cognoscenti, Thomas Dunstan is without peer. Setting the intrinsic value of the art aside,” Worthington said, “Dunstan is a terribly attractive business investment. His worth has been rising sharply in the past few years.”

Jill’s attentive look encouraged Worthington.

“Frankly,” he continued, “we expect to set a new sales record for a Dunstan canvas.”

Zach looked up from the catalogue. “Good luck. You’ve got your Dunstans listed at between four and seven million right now.”

She made a startled sound.

“That’s conservative,” Worthington said. “These are large canvases, for Dunstans. Last year, a smaller one brought four million. It was a private sale between a Dunstan family heir and a collector. Once the major collectors start bidding against each other in Las Vegas, the price could easily go to eight figures.”

“Yeah? Who are the lucky collectors?” Zach asked.

“That’s none of your business.”

“Sure it is. I represent the owner of a dozen canvases that can be attributed to Thomas Dunstan.”

Worthington’s eyes narrowed. He turned away from Zach and looked at Jill like she had just peed on his socks.

“I’m not in the business of offering free advice,” Worthington said coldly, “but I can’t let that preposterous statement go without comment.”

Jill waited.

She didn’t have to wait long.

“Your so-called adviser is leading you down a dangerous path,” Worthington said in a clipped voice. “His claim that you have a dozen unprovenanced Dunstans is worthless and actionable. If you persist in this foolishness, you will find yourself arrested for fraud. Any number of well-known art experts will be pleased to work for the prosecuting attorney.”

“I presume the chorus of naysayers will include you,” Jill said, trying to look disappointed instead of furious.

“You bet he’ll be there, probably singing lead,” Zach said. “Nothing like the prospect of money to put a man in fine voice.”

Worthington’s face flushed with anger. “I have no monetary interest in Dunstan canvases. I don’t own any.”

“If two Dunstans sell at auction for seven million apiece, you’d make ten percent of fourteen million,” Zach said. “If that isn’t a monetary interest, what is?”

“This conversation is over,” Worthington said through thin lips. “Leave immediately or I’ll call the guard.”

Zach laughed derisively. “That rent-a-cop? Get real.”

Jill stroked Zach’s arm and tugged him toward the office door. “Forget it, honey. If Mr. Worthington isn’t interested in newly discovered Dunstans, it’s his loss.”

Without a word, Zach allowed himself to be led out of the gallery and back to the rental car. He tossed her the car key, got in the passenger side, and slammed the door hard.

“What’s wrong?” Jill asked as she got in and started the car. “I thought it went well.”

Zach didn’t answer.

“Didn’t it?” she persisted. “We came here to scatter enough rumors to bring our buddy ‘Blanchard’ out of hiding. Once he finds out there are more paintings, that he missed them at the ranch and the casino, he’s going to come sniffing around. So why are you angry?”

“He’ll be sniffing right up your sweet backside.”

“Isn’t that what St. Kilda expected?”

“Yeah. But that doesn’t mean I have to like it. Take us to the airport while I make some calls.”

“What about the other galleries?”

“Not going to happen. I’ve had all the fun I can take putting your ass on the firing line.”

36

RENO

SEPTEMBER 15

1:00 P.M.

Crawford residence, Caitlin speaking.”

“Caitlin, this is Ramsey Worthington. Is Tal around?”

Caitlin closed her eyes for a second, murmured a prayer that nothing had gone wrong with the auction, and said, “Hello, Ramsey. Let me check.” She hit the hold button, then the household intercom button. “Tal? If you can tear yourself away from the game, Ramsey would like to talk to you.”

“I’m taking a crap. I’ll call him back.”

She winced at the coarseness that was as much a part of her husband as his bolo tie. And his money.

Unfortunately, money could be lost. Tal had done a lot of that in his life.

He always comes back richer than ever, she reminded herself.

He was younger then.

That doesn’t matter.

She took a steadying breath.

Does it?

Fear crawled coldly through Caitlin’s stomach. At forty she was too old to find another trophy husband looking for a trophy wife. She let out her breath in a long exhalation. When she was certain her voice would be calm, she picked up Worthington’s call.

“Is it something I might help you with, Ramsey?”

There was a pause, then an impatient sound. “I just wanted to tell him that there are two scam artists peddling unsigned and almost certainly fraudulent Dunstans.”