A Reckless Note (Brilliance Trilogy #1) - Lisa Renee Jones Page 0,35

don’t need to be told twice.

My feet move forward in a slow, steady pace, but my heart is racing. The violin is in fact, beautiful, the exterior shiny and perfect, and the truth is that this is the first time I have been near a Stradivarius, or any violin for that matter since I was a child. Memories flood my mind of my father playing and crafting the Stradi, his creation, that could not duplicate our ancestors’ work. I stop at the glass and glance up at Mark. “Can it be removed from the glass?”

He lifts a hand. “William.”

Instantly, a man I hadn’t even noticed until now, William it seems, steps forward, dressed in a protective cape and gloves. Mark inclines his chin at William and William opens the case. A few delicate touches later, and William gently settles the violin on a soft blue blanket. For several minutes, he shifts the instrument around for me, and I study the craftsmanship, which is quite impressive, but this type of inspection will not deliver the answers I seek.

I cast Mark a dubious look. “I’ll need a light to look inside the instrument for a proper assessment.”

His expression is unreadable, but he does respond. He pulls a flashlight from his pocket and hands it to me, but as I reach for it, he pulls it back. “Do not touch the instrument. William will do that for you. Understand?”

“Understood,” I confirm, which earns me a probing stare before he allows me to accept the flashlight.

For the next ten minutes, I have William angle the instrument for me in several directions as I look for the marking my father said would be inside any original Stradivarius instrument. Antonio Stradivari had included a label on each instrument and printed the first digit “1,” but the last three digits were in script. This checks out. An authentic label will be hand-written with 732, old Roman font, and the creator, Antonio’s age at the time. Many fakes include font not of the proper century but in this case, the font is accurate. What’s missing is what many simply don’t know to look for. In each instrument, he included a unique watermark to ensure duplicates could not be created. This one does not have that watermark.

I glance up at Mark. “It’s fake. A good fake, still worth millions, but it’s not an original.”

Mark’s jaw sets hard. “The instrument is authentic. We’ve had it authenticated.”

“Incorrectly,” I assure him confidently. This is my ancestry. This is my world, even if, for now, I’m forced to hide that fact. “Antonio Stradivari placed a unique watermark in each instrument.” I add, “This one does not have it.”

“That is not documented in any analysis of authenticity that I’ve seen.”

“But it’s accurate.”

“Based on your client’s visit to Italy?”

My jaw clenches. “Based on a relationship with the ancestral family.”

“Unless you can provide me with your client’s credentials, that’s not enough.”

“Okay.” I press my lips together. “I just—I don’t want you to get burned, but thank you for the showing.”

I turn and head for the door, where I push a button. The guard opens it and just as I am about to exit Mark says, “Ms. Alard.”

I twist around to face him. “Yes?”

“Are you bidding on the violin?”

He believes I’m trying to corner the market on the auction in some way, which bites but is understandable. He doesn’t know me. “My client seeks an original, so therefore, no I am not.” With that, I turn and exit, and I’m actually the one who is burned, not by Mark, but the absence of any answers. There was nothing in that vault to help me find my brother. I just have to hope he shows up to bid.

I rush down the stairs to search the crowd for Gio, entering the cocktail room to come face to face with Alexander. “There she is,” he greets, offering me a warm smile and giving me a once over. “Looking lovely yet again, Ms. Alard.”

He’s a charming man, he really is, and a man driven by some inner demons, I think, but in my ponderings about his offer, I do believe he reminds me a little too much of the past for comfort; of men I remember visiting my father before he disappeared. I smooth his lapel. “You look snazzy yourself, Alexander.”

“I’m glad you approve. You haven’t cashed the check I left you.”

“I haven’t. I’m—still thinking. I’ll call you tomorrow. Okay?”

“Why don’t we talk it out after the auction?” His eyes are