The fact that the painting was hanging right there in the middle of a gallery with minimal security should have made this an easy snag-and-bag.
Should.
Because, somehow, H.G. – the woman with about a hundred years' worth of artifact experience – had wound up looking right into the damn thing's hypnotic, watercolor eyes. And now she's looking right into Claudia's eyes with the sort of hunger that she usually reserves for, well, people who aren't Claudia.
H.G. also doesn't normally press Claudia up against the canvas of another nearby work and begin kissing her in some kind of slow, hot frenzy.
Not that this is a bad thing, really, because it was H.G. and, wow, all of those other people have been lucky as hell. And, if H.G.'s hand slides any further up Claudia's thigh, she would have serious second thoughts about neutralizing that portrait.
But she has to. Fate-of-the-world and stuff.
The picture is just within her reach, barely. When she slips it into the bag – awkwardly, from this angle, and what with the Brit practically pinning her in place – the usual rain of sparks follow. H.G. pulls back, a little – disoriented. For a moment, neither of them say anything. Then,
"Well, if this is what happens when we work together, we should definitely do it more often," H.G. says, leaning in before pushing off from the wall, and from Claudia – because they're not the only ones in the gallery, and they've already drawn more than enough attention to themselves.