Making like a wallflower, she veered toward the left side of the room. Piano music played softly in the background as she pretended to be interested in a gold-framed painting. She studied the blurred appearance—French Impressionism. This could very well be the counterfeit painting her father had sold Wells, and he would be just slimy enough to pass it off to some poor bidder.
The next table held two glasses of champagne. That was a weird auction. Upon closer inspection, she read the description on the paper. Each glass contained a diamond earring. Creative but still odd. She checked to make sure that nothing foreign sat in the bottom of her flute then took a sip. The cold bubbles burned her throat momentarily and she sneezed.
“Bless you, Miss Prentiss.”
She turned at the mention of her name.
A tall man in a tuxedo extended his hand. He was probably in his mid-forties with a bit of silver beginning to show at his sideburns. Women would call him distinguished.
“Xavier Wells. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” A small white rosebud peeked out from the pocket at his breast.
Olive tried to remain stoic. The last thing she wanted was to be dazzled, but Xavier was not what she had expected, and the warmth of his smile disarmed her.
She transferred the champagne flute into the hand that carried the relic so that she could shake his hand.
Xavier stole a quick glance at her cleavage before returning his gaze to her eyes. “Your father failed to mention what a beauty his intelligent daughter was.”
Olive looked past Xavier and into the crowd. “Apparently, my father failed to mention a few things to you.”
His shoulders slumped slightly as he chuckled. “And a sense of humor to boot.”
Despite her best efforts, Olive smiled. She’d hoped Xavier would’ve been like the other benefactors she’d met, a stodgy old man with thinning hair and a pot belly. No such luck. And there was no ring on his finger. He was probably an insufferable bachelor who dated trophy women with fake boobs and fake smiles. Xavier moved in beside her. His cologne was subtle, clean, woodsy, as if he’d just gotten out of the barber chair after a hot cream shave.
“What charity will this auction benefit?” Olive asked.
“The Wells Foundation.”
Why was she not surprised? “I believe that’s the same foundation that funded my dig.”
“It is. We also fund scientific research. I’d like to see a cure for childhood cancers.”
“That’s a noble cause.” Sarcasm dripped from her words like venom; she couldn’t help herself.
“I think it is.” He stuck his elbow out. “Let me show you what we’re auctioning.”
Olive raised an eyebrow but looped her arm through his anyway.
Crystal chandeliers with tiny lights too numerous to count hung strategically from brass plates in the high ceiling. People touched Xavier as they passed, as if they couldn’t resist him.
A brunette woman stopped in front of them and put her hand out to him. “Xavier. It’s been ages.” Her teeth were too big and too white and her boobs were fighting a losing battle with her tight, low-cut blouse. The old adage that money couldn’t buy class was exemplified in this one.
“Yes, it has.” Xavier took her hand and pressed his lips to her knuckles. “Renee. Nice to see you. How is Mr. Lang?”
Renee rolled her eyes and laughed obnoxiously loud. “Oh, you know. He’s playing golf in Aruba or somewhere.” She held up a small black leather clutch and winked. “But I have his checkbook.”
“Fantastic.” Xavier tried to disengage his hand but Renee held onto it. “Enjoy yourself.”
Renee glanced at Olive and her smile faded. “You too, darling. I’ll see you later.”
After Renee was out of earshot, Olive exhaled. “She’s an interesting character.”
Xavier laughed. “Indeed.”
Small tables sat in front of each exhibit. A sheet of paper and pen were provided for people to write down their name and how much they were willing to pay for the proffered item. The painting they stood in front of now depicted a bowl of fruit. Red and green apples with a banana on top. The highest bidder was someone named McAllister Wentworth III. She laughed quietly to herself. What a pretentious name. And he was the third to bear that moniker. His bid was twenty grand. While Olive could appreciate a pretty picture, she didn’t possess the love for art that her father had. The symbolism in a bowl of fruit was lost on her. She’d rather get her hands dirty in the sands of a pyramid and wipe sweat from her brow than stand in front weird paintings with men in tuxedos while worrying about her lipstick.
“This was painted by a young Italian artist in the early nineteenth century. She was later killed by her lover. It’s interesting how the degree of tragedy affects the value. Had she simply drowned, it would worth far less.”
“That’s horrible,” Olive said. “I don’t understand all this.” She waved her hand around. “All this excess.”
Xavier nodded. “This is what funds your digs, sweetheart.”
No one stood near them; small clusters of people gathered in front of different exhibits talking in excited but hushed tones. She had no idea so many people would travel to Egypt for a charity function. Or maybe they lived there.
Olive turned to face him. “Why do you want it?”