Altered Images by Maxine Barry

his aura of power and knowledge had been unmistakable, now it suddenly became overwhelming. Within minutes, it became clear to everyone that here was one of the great experts of Fine Art anywhere in the world.
    Not that Frederica herself had required any additional proof. From the moment she’d set eyes on him, she’d known he was a man like no other. It embarrassed her now, as she thought back to their first meeting, the way she’d gaped at him like a moonstruck calf. It made her cringe to think how it must have amused him. For it was hopeless to think that a man as astute as he would not have noticed.
    She pushed open the gate angrily and marched up the wallflower and forget-me-not strewn path, trying to thrust the thought of Lorcan Greene far away. But the damned man just wouldn’t go. He lingered in the back of her mind, looking down at her, dressed in his expensive suit, his green gaze washing knowingly over her. Taking in every little sign of her infatuation. It was enough to make her want to spit.
    Everyone was out, so she headed straight for the kettle, a cup of tea, and hopefully a return to sanity. As she made a drink, she told herself not to be so hard on herself. A man like Lorcan was bound to have women falling for him like ninepins. Besides, he’d probably never even given her a second thought.
    During his lecture he’d been quite up-front and honest about why, as a businessman, he hated fakers. But he’d also spoken with sincere passion about the immorality of forging the works of other, greater, geniuses.
    It had made Frederica feel absurdly guilty. Even now, she could remember standing at the back of the room, feeling as guilty as sin when his green eyes swept over her as he spoke. And yet, it was not as if he was looking at her particularly—although she felt her guilt must be written in large letters on her forehead. No, he’d seemed to be talking to the entire student body and watching each of them with sharp, all-seeing eyes, almost as if he was looking for something, some sign in particular.
    She sighed as she drank the last of her tea, and sent up a silent ‘sorry’ to Forbes-Wright, talented artist. She hoped, wherever he was, that he really didn’t mind that she was going to copy his painting. Then she shook her head at herself. It was no good feeling guilty. She’d made up her mind to try painting a copy of ‘The Old Mill and Swans’, so best get on with it.
    And it was all Lorcan Greene’s fault. She’d returned to Oxford determined to forget her father’s outrageous plea, and if Lorcan Greene hadn’t been there, sweeping her off her feet and being so damned arrogant and challenging, she wouldn’t be here at Rainbow House now . . . about to raid the family attic for a 200-year-old canvas.
    She climbed the stairs to the top floor, pausing to admire a Jackson Pollock on the landing, one of her father’s few ‘lucky acquisitions’, before forcing her feet onward and upward.
    The attic at Rainbow House was probably unique in that all the accumulated ‘rubbish’ was art-related, so it didn’t take her long to find what she was looking for. She already knew that one of her ancestors, a particularly talentless lady called Ariadne Delacroix, had painted several truly awful paintings. With a tape-measure in hand, and hope in her heart, Frederica inspected the canvases for her ancestor’s signature.
    She coughed in the dust, and grumbled her father’s name under her breath, but eventually found what she was looking for. What’s more, one of Ariadne’s efforts, dated around the same time as ‘The Old Mill’, was exactly the same size as the Forbes-Wright original. Although she could have cut down a bigger canvas to size, of course, Frederica was determined to take no chances. She was going to do this thing properly. And an expert like Lorcan might be able to tell if a canvas had