Page 1 of Girl Anonymous
CHAPTER 1
SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA
THIS MORNING
In the fourth-floor library of the Arundel mansion
“Interesting piece, isn’t it?”
Maarja Daire of Saint Rees Fine Arts Movers didn’t start at the sound of the man’s voice. When handling a painting by one of the Three Kingdom masters, or an antique statue raised from the depths of the Aegean Sea, orthisminiature pitcher of fragile red glass, one did not physically startle.
Yet she realized how deeply she’d fallen into her vision of the past, for how else had this man managed to position himself close enough behind her without her hearing his approach?Thisman, of all people?
She swiveled to face him. “You are…?” She did know who he was: scarred, unsmiling, pulling darkness around him like the black Armani jacket he wore with his blue jeans and worn white running shoes.
“I’m Dante Arundel. We spoke on the phone.”
“Yes.” His voice was distinctive: slightly accented, deep, and so soft she should have had to strain to hear him, yet so resonant she heard every word inside her head, as if a specter of the past communicated through a bond so ancient she had thought—hoped—it was broken. “You’re Mrs. Arundel’s son?”
“I am. Pronounce your first name for me.”
She blinked at him, drawing on her acting skills to subdue the primal chill that warned of imminent danger. “I introduced myself on the phone.”
“I like to be sure.”
Strangers frequently asked how to pronounce her name. But he hadn’t asked, he had demanded. Based on nothing more than that, she diagnosed him as an obnoxious bastard, intent on throwing her off-balance. Ridiculous on her part, but when a woman worked in this field, obnoxious bastards proliferated like the weeds in her garden.
The question was, why did he want her off-balance? Was he like this with every woman he encountered?
Or did he recognize her? “My name isMar-ja.”
“It’s Estonian for Mary.”
“Yes.” She smiled again, pleasantly, and thought,If you know that, you could have found the pronunciation online.
He smiled, too, the sharp, toothy smile of a circling shark. “Is your family Estonian?”
“My mother liked the name.” Not an answer, but a mind-your-own-business nudge.
She didn’t think he’d take the hint, but he followed with, “I appreciate the care you use to move my mother’s possessions.”
She gazed down at the tiny pitcher she cradled in one palm. “That’s my job.”
“You’ve worked for her before.”
Annoying man; he knew very well she had. “Saint Rees Fine Arts Movers are the best fine arts movers in Northern California, and your mother demands the best for her possessions.”
“You’re the best at Saint Rees Fine Arts Movers?”
“Yes.” The job had landed in her lap in the summer after her high school junior year, and Saint Rees had quickly recognized her spookily accurate talent for antiquities.
“You’re not modest,” Dante said.
“I know my worth.” She’d had to pass inspection with Mrs. Rees, the power behind the throne, and a deal was struck. She’d worked for Saint Rees Fine Arts Movers in the summers while attending college, and they contributed financing toward her studies. After five years, she still had her instinctive perceptions about authenticity, a new art degree that gave her cred with the clients, and she loved her wildly lucrative job so much she’d brought her foster sister Alex onto the team.
“You’re in charge?” Dante was like a dog gnawing a bone.
“Yes.” She was done with his unwarranted interrogation. “And yes, this is an interesting piece. One of the earliest works from the Italian island of Murano, stopper missing, assumed broken, its contents sealed with wax.”