She followed him, stopping before Composition Seven, which hung without noise or competition on its own wall a few yards away.
“Mrs. Carnegie will be thrilled,” she said, stepping closer to the painting. There was no doubt about its authenticity, and her lips tilted up in an easy smile of wonder as she admired it. “It’s stunning.”
“I can arrange to have it packaged and sent on Tuesday. Right after the holiday weekend. I assume you prefer private courier?”
“Yes, thanks,” she said. “I’ll have my assistant—”
“No need. I’ve already called the company I work with here in Philly and had it reinsured for eleven million. I have the address of your gallery, or I’m happy to send it directly to Mrs. Carnegie. Your call.”
“I’d like to be there for the installation,” said Libitz, breathless from his efficiency and trying not to find it a tremendous turn-on.
“Of course. I’ll arrange for it to arrive at your gallery by Tuesday evening and leave any remaining details to you.”
“I’ll wire the—”
“We can worry about that later.”
“Jean-Christian.”
“Fine,” he said with a sigh. He caught her eyes and held them intensely, clenching his jaw as he searched them for the answer to a question that he hadn’t asked.
“What?”
“Why don’t you—come into my office. I can type up an invoice.”
She nodded. “Thank you. This is a big transaction, and I know we’re…” She was about to say “family,” but that didn’t sound right at all. Nor did “friends.” Nor did “enemies,” much to her surprise. “Business associates” sounded way too impersonal for people about to pledge their love and guidance to the same baby, and “acquaintances” would be ridiculous, seeing as how she could still feel the imprint of his hand on her breast almost two months later.
“What are we?” he asked her, taking a step closer.
She gulped, opting for honesty. “I don’t know.”
His face—his beautiful, chiseled face, which had looked so stormy a moment before—softened. “I don’t either.”
“Can we let that be okay for now?”
***
He grinned at her, nodding slowly. “Yes.”
Why her answer had made him feel so happy, he wasn’t sure. Maybe because for the first time in his own life, J.C. was also in unchartered waters. He didn’t have a tidy little box for Lib’s keeping. He didn’t know what to call her. He only knew that the longer he knew her, the more his feelings for her swelled in proportion to his attraction, which was quickly becoming all-consuming.
Never in his life had he seen anything as fucking beautiful as Libitz standing under his Anthony Primo, eyes closed, surrounded by art he’d handpicked, breathing in the je ne sais quoi of his gallery the way other people sipped fine wine or appreciated music. He understood what she was doing, he had done it himself more times than he could count, and it was insanely erotic to catch her in the act of inhaling his most sacred space. It did wild things to his heart that he’d never seen coming.
As her heels clacked over the marble just behind him, he tensed in excitement and anticipation. The best was yet to come. Les Bijoux Jolis hung on the wall of his office across from his desk, and he intended to watch her carefully as she first laid eyes on it, to see if he was alone in his fascination or if she felt the sort of kinship to it.
They stepped into his office, but when Libitz reached for one of the chairs in front of his desk, he gestured behind her to the couch.
“It’s more comfortable there.”
She looked over her shoulder at the couch, and from where Jean-Christian strategically stood, he could see the exact moment her eyes slid up to the portrait, and he watched intently as she turned her entire body, slowly, slowly, to face the painting.
Gasping softly, she stepped closer, her eyes glued to the model’s face on the far-left side of the portrait, her hand reaching up as if to touch the canvas before suddenly stopping herself and lowering her arm to her side.
“Who—What…What is this?”
“It’s called Les Bijoux Jolis,” murmured Jean-Christian, moving to stand beside her, his eyes flicking quickly to the bejeweled model, then back to Libitz.
“My God…” she hissed, taking another step closer.
“It’s uncanny, isn’t it?”
She darted a quick glance at him, her eyes wide and troubled. “At first glance, I thought maybe you’d had it commissioned. I couldn’t understand…”
“Why I’d have a portrait of you in my office?”
She nodded slowly. “Yes.”
“It was painted in 1939.”
“By whom?”
“Pierre Montferrat.”
“I’ve never heard of him.”
“He was a French painter in Marseille…and my great-uncle.”
Her neck jerked to the left, and those huge, wide brown eyes were suddenly trained on his. “Your uncle?”
“Mm-hm. My sister Jax found the portrait in her attic.”
“In 1939,” murmured Libitz. “O’Keefe and Dalí were popular. Modernism ruled. No one was doing this.”