***
“Miss Feingold,” said Mrs. Carnegie, her eyes narrow as she inspected the painting, “well done. It’s exactly what I wanted.”
“I’m so glad,” said Libitz, inclining her head in thanks.
With a subtle hand gesture, she advised her lead assistant, Duane, to move the painting from the table to an easel with gloved hands, so Mrs. Carnegie could see it upright.
Professionalism was paramount at the Feingold Gallery, and every one of her six employees knew it. Showing and selling paintings was managed with ballet-like grace and precision and with as few words as possible. She didn’t want to impinge on her customers’ experience with the art. She knew her place: she was their purveyor, not their friend.
“Yes. Yessss,” sighed Mrs. Carnegie, moving closer to the Kandinsky to admire it. “It’s so vibrant and naughty. Breathtaking.”
From several feet away, Libitz nodded in agreement, giving Duane a look to tell him he was no longer needed. He slipped away without a sound, and Mrs. Carnegie was left almost alone with the art, Libitz’s quiet presence neither a distraction nor an addition to her experience, only there should she be needed.
With her hands clasped behind her back, she must have looked the picture of serenity, and yet a swarm of bees whizzed and zoomed in her belly, and her eyes kept sliding without permission to the glass doors of the Fifth Avenue gallery. Jean-Christian had left her apartment at ten o’clock last night to check into his hotel, and she’d missed him every second since. All day she had imagined the moment he’d appear at the doors, walk through them seeking her eyes with his and, upon finding them, how he would— “…all right, Miss Feingold?”
She jerked her head to her client. “Ma’am?”
“I’m so sorry to interrupt your thoughts,” said Mrs. Carnegie, lips pursing with annoyance as she took a step toward Libitz. “Am I keeping you from something?”
“Of course not,” Libitz assured her, raising her chin and offering the older woman a small smile. “I’m so glad you’re pleased with it.”
Mrs. Carnegie’s face clouded further. “Yes, yes. You’ve already said that. But can you have it installed tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow?”
“What have I been saying?” asked Mrs. Carnegie, becoming exasperated.
“Tomorrow is fine.” Libitz touched a pager button hidden under the belt of her tailored black dress, and Duane appeared within twenty seconds, standing at attention behind Mrs. Carnegie. “Thank you, Duane. Please arrange delivery to Mrs. Carnegie’s penthouse tomorrow. At what time?”
“Eight,” said Mrs. Carnegie, turning back to the painting. “Bridge is at ten. It must be perfect by bridge so that Henrietta Goering can see it. She just adores Kandinsky.”
“I’ll see to every detail,” said Duane in his low, cultured voice.
Libitz turned back to Mrs. Carnegie. “Will you have a seat, ma’am?” she asked, gesturing to a chic black lacquer table with four wingback chairs. “I’ll get the paperwork and return in a moment.”
“Yes. I don’t have all day, you know,” said Mrs. Carnegie, huffing softly as she sat down, her mood still soured by Libitz’s slight distraction a few minutes ago.
“I’ll be very quick,” Libitz promised.
Sailing into her office on four-inch heels, she grabbed the file for the Kandinsky off her desk and the small Square reader for her iPad so that she could charge everything without returning to her office. But she couldn’t resist taking a quick peek at herself in the mirror by the door before returning to the gallery floor. Her hair was gelled and styled today, slick and suave, and her dress, a clingy black Max Mara sheath, looked professional enough for her day but would be sexy for her date to the Met with Jean-Christian. She had freshened her red lipstick before Mrs. Carnegie’s arrival, and her Kohl-lined eyes were dramatic but not slutty. She looked sophisticated and urbane, and she nodded at her reflection, feeling satisfied.
Hurrying back to Mrs. Carnegie, she was surprised to hear girl-like laughter coming from the gallery floor. When she turned the corner from the back offices, she found Delilah Carnegie tittering with delight at Jean-Christian Rousseau, who sat across the table from her.
“Oh, you are simply wicked!” she said, patting Jean-Christian’s arm.
“Alors! Vous êtes méchante aussi, madame,” he said, winking at her.
“Flirt!” she accused him, simpering behind two fingers.
He was…beautiful, and Libitz stole just a moment to admire him. His chiseled cheeks were high and perfect, his square jaw masculine, his green eyes dark and mysterious.