The Portrait
I don't own White Collar.
Peter found the door half open and entered. Neal wasn't there but the cozy loft apartment looked different. Neither the furniture nor the books had been moved. The originator of the change was staying on the easel. A new painting… It wasn't a copy of Raphael or Degas… Peter had the pleasure to see an original Caffrey's masterpiece- a portrait of a woman.
A pair of clear eyes pierced the FBI agent. Eyes, rich in such different shades of light blue, that meeting them, you feel like watching the almost invisible between the horizon and the ocean. Peter couldn't be sure whether they were looking at or through him. The gaze was so calm as if there weren't yesterday or tomorrow- only this moment was existing. Long lashes ended the eyelids and dark eyebrows outlined an oval face with hardly noticeable imperfections. Lips, tender pink as the dawn, were smiling. But it wasn't Mona Lisa's melancholic smile. This one was about to burst into clear-ringing laughter that every observer expected to hear in a second. Straight black hair was falling freely on the back and shoulders as it almost melted into the night background. A naughty tuft was dancing in the fingers of the left hand. The right was carelessly lying on a baroque parapet – the same as the terrace one. An emerald ring which was glittering on the fourth finger strikingly reminded the jewel that saved Peter's life.
A transparent cloak was hiding the shoulders and the body by hinting at slender curves. Its miniature golden threads looked like a caress of the brush on the paper. It was apparent only for vigilant eyes that their interlaced design formed initials – K.M.
Kate Moreau
She wasn't a mythical nymph or a ghost. She looked so alive and real that Peter almost smelled her perfume. Only a step forward and he was going to feel a warm breath and the touch of sparking white skin. It wasn't the scared girl on whose shoulder Garret Fowler's hand laid. This Kate represented happiness...
Behind her brilliant skyscrapers of New York celebrated the nightfall. Chrysler Building stabbed the sky and the curious stars stuck on its windows. City lights merged with those of the night giving the impression of luxury and greatness.
On the edge of the painting it was written "Ä portrait of"- the other words were crossed – "one hope".
Leaving June's mansion Peter unconsciously turned a look to Neal's room. If Kate was that amazing creature, he could understand why his friend had broken all the rules to find her. The plane exploded with Miss Moreau on the board. Actually Kate Caffrey would be there on that terrace forever – shining of love and happiness.
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