The Thief of Hearts Read online

For someone like Director Lohse, a man who’d spent years building his reputation and business, a mistake with provenance probably wouldn’t mean the end of their career. It would be a blip. Something he could sweep under the rug or blame on an inexperienced curator.

  But for Shira?

  It would be the end of everything she was reaching for. No one would hire her; she’d be done.

  “Do it, Shira.” The call disconnected and Shira placed the phone on the receptionist’s desk. Carmen, their receptionist, gave her a blinding white, though sympathetic, smile. Tall, blonde, and beautiful, Carmen was only working for the gallery while head shots were passed around various modeling agencies. With Shira’s luck, the girl would be jetting off to Italy on the day of the auction, leaving Shira in the lurch.

  “I’m hiding this here,” she told Carmen. “If it rings, let it go to voicemail and then call me. I have to much to do to be interrupted again.”

  Carmen nodded, her blue eyes widening. “You got it.” It was unfortunate she wouldn’t stay. Shira found her to be reliable, considerate, and drama free—unlike the director—these days.

  Not for the first time, Shira tried to figure out where she’d gone wrong. Had she let herself be blinded by Lohse and Gottleib’s reputations, and ignored the warning signs at her interview? Looking back, she remembered haughty tones, and side-eye glances between the co-owners and directors.

  Shira paused in the main sculpture gallery. The lights overhead were directed to each piece, highlighting each plane and angle.

  Honestly, the pieces Lohse had acquired were beautiful. More than beautiful. Amazing, really. Shira approached one of the more unique treasures: a Hanukkah lamp. Eight holes were drilled into the dull bronze. A menorah was carefully etched into the center of the lamp. According to the provenance for this one, it had been sold by a woman in Jerusalem to someone here in the city.

  Tapping her finger against her lips, she stared at it, considering the person who would be forced to part with something so old and steeped in history.

  Her finger paused above her lip. Forced. For some reason, the word seemed to fit. Who would willingly sell something this beautiful?

  Nearby sat the white cotton gloves she used to handle artwork. She carefully pulled them on before removing the lamp from its perch. As she walked, she examined it, turning it from side to side and upside down. Once she reached her desk, she bit the fingers of one glove and pulled it off. With that hand, she turned on the extra-bright, adjustable light and angled the beam toward the lamp.

  The folder containing the provenance sat at her elbow, and she flicked open the file. Any piece that had gone through a reputable art house would have some mark of that gallery. According to the paper, the Posse Gallery, an auction house near Paris, had handled the transfer of ownership from the woman in Jerusalem to someone named Alfred Linz, here in New York City.

  There was a photo of the lamp, and the original gallery receipt. Everything was in order.

  Shira removed the other glove. Her computer sat idle, and she touched a key, bringing it to life.

  Posse Gallery. It wasn’t a place she was familiar with, but she hadn’t heard of every gallery in the world. A dark gray brick building appeared on her screen, along with a number. Shira glanced at her watch. Paris was five hours ahead of NYC, which meant it was ten o’clock in the evening at the gallery.

  It was worth a shot.

  For God’s sake, she’d worked last night past nine. Maybe somewhere in the world was another overworked and anxious curator flipping out over provenance papers—a comforting thought.

  Mind made up, Shira returned to the reception desk to collect her phone. Carmen had gathered her things, and was shrugging into her coat when Shira appeared. “I’m headed out, okay?”

  “That’s fine. I’ll see you tomorrow,” she answered, accepting the phone Carmen handed to her.

  “Don’t stay too late,” Carmen said, frowning. “If you do, call a ride. This neighborhood may be up and coming, but it still has some sketchy parts.”

  True enough. But Shira was already thinking about Paris. Waving distractedly, she hurried back to her office.

  Please pick up. Please pick up. Shira dialed the number for Posse Gallery. As she did, she reached into her desk for yet another pair of gloves.

  “Allô?”

  “Oh, thank god,” Shira said before wincing. So much for professionalism. Switching into the French she’d spent countless hours practicing for just such a moment as this, she hurriedly explained what she needed, only to be rewarded by the person on the other end answering in English. “I’m sorry. Provenance papers for what piece?”

  “A seventeenth century bronze oil lamp. 1998: Sold to Alfred Linz via Maurice de Palme, Posse Gallery, Paris,” she read the provenance, and waited for the person on the other end.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “In the mid-nineties, Posse Gallery was sold by Maurice to its current owners, the Printemps, and our records are not as well organized from that time. What is your name and your phone number?”

  Shira told him.

  “And what gallery?”

  “Lohse and Gottleib House,” she answered, tapping a pen she didn’t remember picking up against the edge of her desk. Shit. Another pair of gloves for the trash.

  “Bruno Lohse?” the man asked.

  “Yes,” Shira answered.

  “I will call you tomorrow or the next day with this,” he said, his voice a little colder than it was before—or perhaps she’d imagined it—there was a certain haughtiness she unconsciously attributed to anyone with a French accent.

  “As soon as possible,” she said. “I have an auction in six days.”

  “Very good,” he answered, which Shira interpreted as, “Not my problem.”

  Without saying goodbye, the man hung up. Sighing, Shira got yet another pair of gloves from her desk to carry the lamp back to its base in the gallery.

  As she seated it in the perfect position, she found herself imagining all the Hanukkahs the lamp had passed.

  The seventeenth century was a difficult time for Jews; many of Shira’s ancestors literally had no home, and nowhere to go.

  Oliver Cromwell had tossed them out of England. They’d long ago been expelled from Spain, and in Italy, they were already wearing the yellow badges that would haunt them in the years of the Nazis.

  Most practicing Jews in Europe worshipped in secret.

  So where had this come from? What borders had it crossed? It had meant something to survive so long, and end up here, in America, all these years later.

  Many of Director Lohse’s pieces had come through France, but that wasn’t unheard of. In fact, it wasn’t a cause for concern at all. France had some of the best, most well-established, auction houses in the world. Perhaps they weren’t as well-known as Christie’s or Sotheby’s, but even the least art-savvy person knew “Paris” and “art” went hand-in-hand.

  Leaving the lamp in place, Shira returned to her office to muddle through the rest of the provenances.

  By the time she glanced at her phone again, it was nearly midnight, and she’d only made it through one provenance.

  At least the ones she’d finished were legit. That was something.

  Her fingers felt thick as she struggled to button her coat, and she could barely see through her bleary and aching eyes..

  The gallery was quiet as she walked through the building, flicking off lights and setting alarms. Now and again a car would fly by, but it was a Wednesday night. Most people were home in bed, warm and tucked beneath their covers.

  The final alarm was set, and she was locking the front door before she remembered Carmen’s directive to call a lift.

  “Don’t move.”

  Shira’s heart dropped to her toes—along with her keys.

  Something poked into her side. A gun? A knife? It was blunt and rounded, so probably a gun. Oh God, she was going to die here.

  “Give me your purse and empty your pockets.” The man�
��s voice was low, barely above a whisper, and hoarse, like he had a cold.

  Okay. She was being mugged. Her hands slid across her coat. For the life of her, she couldn’t find her pockets.

  What would happen if she took too long? Would the guy holding the gun get mad? Shoot her because she couldn’t get the travel pack of tissues out of her pocket? Her purse hit the ground, and from the corner of her eye, she saw the man duck his head to pick it up.

  Something came over her. She didn’t know what it was, because her mind wasn’t working right, but her body acted all on its own.

  Throwing her weight to the side, she knocked into the man, sending him sprawling to the ground. He landed with an “oomph!” and she took off, tearing down the street as fast as she could run, and slipping on the ice that had formed when the sun went down. She skidded into the side of the building as she ran around the corner toward the bright lights of the 24-hour Denny’s a block away.

  She couldn’t hear anything over her breathing, and the pathetic, half-sob, half-squeaks, she was making as she ran. But she imagined the man behind her, running full-tilt, ready to lunge and drag her into an alley to finish her off.

  The lights bobbed ahead of her. Almost there. Safety was ten feet away. She was going to make it.

  Her foot hit a slick patch of pavement, and her legs flew out from under her. She saw the lights and darker rooftops against the lighter, city-lit sky before her head cracked into the pavement.

  Now the only stars she saw were the ones dancing in front of her eyes as she waited to be murdered.

  Her breath made little white clouds. Move. Get up.

  Her body wouldn’t obey. Like earlier, it let her down. Far away, someone ran toward her. Here they come. This is the end.

  Green eyes met hers, and a warm hand cupped her cheek. “Are you okay? Don’t move. Dov!”

  Shira couldn’t move if she wanted to.

  Another set of green eyes in a more serious face appeared next to the first. The man studied her and frowned. “Stay still. You’re okay.” Shira glanced up at the sky, but it was hidden by the men. A moment later the two were joined by a third man, and then another.

  Four beautiful faces stared back at her.

  “Wow,” she breathed. Later, she could blame fright and adrenaline for her slip-up, but right now, Shira would enjoy the sense of shelter and protection these guys gave her.

  “What happened, Ravi?” the serious man asked. Shira’s gaze slid toward the man to whom the question was addressed. Ravi. She made a mental note. Worried green eyes and warm hands.

  “She ran and slipped, Dov,” Ravi answered shortly. The frowning man had a name, Dov.

  Her head was starting to pound, a concentrated throb right on the back of her skull. Slapping her hands around the pavement, Shira tried to find a patch that wasn’t ice to push herself up.

  “Whoa.” Dov touched her arm, pressing lightly to keep her in place.

  “I have things to do,” she said, stupidly. “I need to go.”

  “Help her.” Ravi sounded out of breath. His words tumbled over each other, and his eyes were wild. He glanced from one face to another, and when no one did what he asked, he slid his arm around her shoulders. “I got you,” he whispered. “Call the ambulance, Dov.”

  “Ravi…”

  “Call them!”

  The guys’ faces blurred, and Shira’s eyes closed. It was nice to be held. Far off in the distance, she heard sirens, but she wasn’t cold anymore. Her head lay pillowed on Ravi’s arm. I’ll just rest a bit. She didn’t know how, but she knew she was safe.

  “Miss?” Body rocking, Shira opened her eyes. A paramedic shone a light at her, and she winced. The movement happened again, rolling her from side to side. They’d placed her on a gurney, and lifted her into an ambulance.

  “Stop.” Shira didn’t have time for the hospital, or tests, or x-rays, or whatever it was she’d need to do when she got there. “I’m not going to the hospital.”

  “Miss, you hit your head. You need to go to the hospital.”

  “Worst case…” she began, forcing her legs over the side of the gurney, “it’s a concussion. I’ll rest at home.”

  “Miss?” A deep voice spoke from outside the ambulance. When she glanced over, Dov watched her. Dark hair curled around his head, whipping around in the winter breeze. Dov. She liked the way his name sounded. Upright, she could truly make him out now. His skin was tan, like he spent a lot of time in the sun.

  “Shira,” she told him. Her voice shook and she tried again. “My name is Shira.”

  He wore a black peacoat, collar lifted around his neck to block the wind. The tall buildings acted like funnels, the wind whipped down the city street, slicing through people hurrying around the sidewalks. It was bitterly cold. “Shira,” he said her name softly before squaring his shoulders. “I’m Dov Hasmone. Do you remember what happened?”

  “Yes.” She nodded along with her answer and a bubble of nausea threatened her. Moving her head was a bad idea.

  “I’m a doctor. Please listen to the paramedic. You need a hospital.” His voice was accented, but not with a New York accent. He didn’t round his vowels, drawing out o’s and ou’s. English wasn’t his native language. She’d heard the accent before, though right now she couldn’t place it. Still, her mind sifted through possibilities. German? No. Spanish? Also, no.

  “I’ll be fine. I have too much work to do. There’s paperwork I need to sign, yes?”

  Dov’s gaze stayed on her. Shira could feel it, but she turned her attention to the paramedic. Something about the doctor’s green-eyed gaze made her want to obey him.

  “Yes.” The man spoke into the radio affixed to his shoulder. “Patient is declining transport.” He reached over her shoulder for a clipboard and pen. “Sign here. Here. And here. You understand you’re refusing medical treatment against counsel?”

  “Yes,” she answered, scribbling her name quickly. Her hand trembled, and her signature, when finished, wavered across the page.

  She handed the clipboard back to the paramedic. It was difficult to climb out of the ambulance with her stomach threatening to heave and her head throbbing, but she did it, even if she had to clutch the side of the vehicle to do it.

  “Thank you,” she told the paramedic, who merely nodded, shut the doors, and jumped in the front of the vehicle.

  In a moment it was gone, leaving her on the chilly street in front of the Denny’s where she’d collapsed.

  “You do need a hospital. I’m sure you have a concussion.” For a second, Shira had forgotten he was there. Or maybe she’d forced herself to pretend he wasn’t, but there Dov stood.

  Disapproving.

  A shadow of movement made her startle. It was almost as if she could feel the gun in her back again, and she jumped toward Dov, grasping for his coat. Smoothly, he wrapped an arm around her waist and dragged her a little closer.

  “It’s my brother, Ravi,” he whispered. His breath warmed her skin and she shivered. Embarrassed, she moved away, but he squeezed her waist a little tighter as if he didn’t want her to go.

  She was relentless, however. Dov was a stranger, and as good, and as safe, as she felt in his arms, she shouldn’t be there. “I’m sorry,” she said. His arm skimmed her hip as it fell away, but he didn’t move. He still stood by her, a silent sentinel. “Hello.” Shira held out her hand, and then, glancing down, pulled it back. Her hands were filthy, gray from the dirty sidewalks. Surreptitiously, she wiped it on her coat. “I’m a mess,” she apologized. “But it’s nice to meet you. I’m Shira Rose.”

  Ravi had the same build and tan skin as his brother, but his face was different, sadder, somehow. His eyes were heavily lashed and a scruff of stubble darkened his chin.

  “Shira,” he repeated. He reached for her hand and brought it to his chest, covering it with both palms. “I’m so sorry.”

  She shrugged and immediately regretted it. There was the movement that made her want to barf. Breathing deepl
y through her nose, she willed the sick back to her stomach before risking speaking again. “It happens. This is New York. Could have been worse.”

  “Shouldn’t have happened,” Ravi said, staring at her intently, his accent caressing his words. “Why didn’t you go to the hospital?”

  “She refused.” Rocks skittered across the sidewalk as Dov kicked at it. Why was he upset? She was nothing to them. Her choices didn’t affect them at all.

  “I need to get home,” she said. The warm light of the diner tempted her. It felt as if her clothes were soaked through, and each gust of wind went right through her wool coat to her skin. “I’ll call… Shit.” Her phone was gone. Her purse was gone. She had no money and no way to get home.

  It appeared as if the same thought occurred to Ravi and Dov, because they stared intently at each other. “It’s after midnight. Let us take you home.”

  3

  The Third Day

  Shira pulled the sleeve up on her coat to stare at her watch. It took her a long while to decipher the time. Longer than it should have. But her mind wasn’t really on it being after midnight. It was coming up with excuses not to have these strangers, however safe they seemed to make her feel, bring her home.

  Though what were her choices? Call her father from their phone? No doubt if she did, he’d drag her right to the hospital, and not to her apartment. These guys weren’t criminals; they set off none of the internal alarm bells that would warn her they were dangerous.

  Except… she wasn’t sure she should be relying on instincts. Hadn’t she decided to leave the gallery, alone, near midnight to walk home? And then she’d just refused medical care against the advice of professionals…

  “I can see you ruminating on accepting our offer. There’s no way for us to prove we mean what we say, so let us call you a ride.” Dov’s voice cut through her worries and she let out a sigh.

  “Yes. Thank you.” A car she could accept. “Please give me your phone numbers so I can repay you.”

  Both men shook their heads. “It’s the least we can do.”

  What a strange phrase. They owed her nothing. If anything, she owed them. Dov removed a wallet from his pocket and pulled out a card. She took it between her fingers. Dov Hasmone, MD. Hertzburg Palliative Care Institute. Mount Sinai Hospital. His phone numbers were on the card. “Thank you,” she said, slipping it into her pocket.