Free Finding the Forger by Libby Sternberg

nodded. “She’ll be fine. She’s just a little sensitive right now.” His gaze drifted to the door and his face brightened when an older man approached us, followed by a younger guy—a guy who looked like a blonde Hugh Grant. Same rakish smile and long face. Same perpetually-tousled hair. Same sparkling eyes.
    I swooned. Well, not really. But swooning would certainly have felt better than skulking, which was what I felt like I was doing— skulking around after unintentionally causing my friend embarassment.
    “Bertrand! Nice to see you,” Mr. Daniels said, extending his hand to the older man. Then he turned to me. “Bianca Balducci, this is a fellow lawyer, Bertrand Witherspoon.” Then, to Mr. Witherspoon, “Bianca is one of Kerrie and Sarah’s best friends.”
    Witherspoon smiled at me and offered his hand. He smelled like nicotine—the musky aroma of a habitual smoker. After our introduction, he pointed to the Hugh Grant fellow. “This is my son,Neville. He’s in town looking at Hopkins.”
    “How do you do?” Neville said, not taking his eyes off me. He spoke with a British accent, which just emphasized the Hugh Grant connection. Now I really did feel like swooning. Tip for all men : to impress women, speak with British accent.
    Mr. Daniels started jabbering at Mr. Witherspoon about local politics, and it wasn’t long before they drifted off, leaving me with the dashing Master Witherspoon (“Master” is what they call young men in Britain). Unlike Doug, who sported the traditional Dressy Clothes for a Guy—nice slacks, white shirt, and tie—Neville wore a sexily casual blue blazer, white shirt, and no tie. After his father departed the group, Neville grinned sheepishly, rolled his eyes, and ran his hand through his hair.
    “Well, Miss Balducci, why don’t you tell me about yourself? Do you work here?”
    I laughed. Actually, my guffaw sounded more like seals barking, so I quickly stopped.
    “No, no. I’m just a friend of someone who works here. Well, she doesn’t really work here. She’s doing an internship here, which I guess is like an apprenticeship. She’s trying to get into college and it looks good on your resumé to do internships. But I’m not trying to get into college. I mean, not yet. I mean, I’m just a sophomore at St. John’s.” After that stunning demonstration of conversational skill, I paused and cleared my throat. “Where do you go to school, Neville?”
    “Actually, nowhere at the present time. I graduated last spring, and I’m taking something of a hiatus after some school plans went pear-shaped on me, you see. Mummy wanted me to go to Oxford, but I wanted to travel a bit, so here I am.”
    Mummy ? Hiatus ? Oxford ? Pear-shaped ? Oh, baby, could he makethe sweet talk.
    He looked hungrily at the table of hors d’oeuvres. “I say, you Americans really know how to put on a party.” He grabbed a crab puff and swallowed it in one ravenous gulp.
    From around the corner, a bell rang and Fawn Dexter’s high nasal voice could be heard urging people to join her in the lobby for a tour of the new exhibit.
    Neville looked at me and smiled. “Would you do me the honor of escorting me, Miss Balducci?” He held out his arm as if I were a royal princess. What could I do? I didn’t want to start a war or something! I placed my hand on his elbow.
    “This should be fun,” he said, winking at me. “We can hang back and I’ll give you the real story on all these art works. My mother’s an artist in London. There’s a marvelous scandal brewing here, did you know?”
    “I’ve only heard rumors,” I said as he led me toward the back of the growing herd of people.
    “It’s quite the story. Some of their art works have been stolen. And replaced by brilliant fakes. It’s quite rich.” He laughed heartily just as Fawn Dexter started us all up a broad staircase.
    Doug and Kerrie and Sarah were nowhere in sight. But at that point, I didn’t much care. I’d hook up with them