And he’s mine, she thought, her heart swelling with the sort of emotion that could only be identified as love, no matter how inconvenient or risky. She was falling in love with him—wildly, madly—and she doubted very much there was anything she could do to stop it now.
“Here we are,” she said, placing the contract on the table and taking a seat between Jean-Christian and Mrs. Carnegie.
“I’m not sure if you know,” said Libitz, “but it was actually Mr. Rousseau who sold me the Kandin—”
“Oh, yes. Jean-Christian already told me.”
“Delilah, you are a delight!” he said in a thicker-than-usual French accent. He finally slid his gaze to Libitz after he’d fawned sufficiently over the older woman. “Bonsoir, Mademoiselle Feingold.”
“Bonsoir, Monsieur Rousseau,” she answered, drinking him in with her eyes.
But he didn’t hold her gaze as she’d become accustomed to. In fact, he dropped it rather quickly, turning back to Mrs. Carnegie. “I’m taking Libitz to the Met tonight.”
“To the Met! How lovely! The opera?”
“The museum,” he clarified. “We’re on a bit of a treasure hunt.”
“Is that right?”
He nodded. “Oui. We found an old painting, and we’re both dying to know its history.”
“Que c’est excitant!” exclaimed Mrs. Carnegie, leaning toward Jean-Christian conspiratorially. “Ah, to be young and in love again.”
Libitz, who had been filling out the last of the paperwork, jerked her head up in surprise, her eyes slamming into Jean-Christian’s at Mrs. Carnegie’s inadvertently awkward mention of the L word. His face froze for only an instant before his eyes cooled to amusement, and he looked away from Libitz to smile at the older lady.
“Libitz and I share a love of art, not each other,” he said smoothly.
Much to her dismay, Libitz gasped almost inaudibly at his comment, staring at his profile for a moment before returning her attention to the paperwork at hand. Though neither J.C. nor Mrs. Carnegie appeared to have noticed that her heart lay slain on the table, inside she ached.
Not each other.
Not each other.
Not each other.
The words circled in her head as she finished writing in Mrs. Carnegie’s contact information, forcing herself to remain composed.
Why had he said such a thing? They’d so recently shared their feelings for each other, both using the words “crazy about you.” Why would he make such a bold point about there being no love between them? Even if there wasn’t, it seemed a very cold thing to say. And why, dear God, did it hurt so goddamn much? She blinked her eyes, horrified to realize that they were burning with unshed tears.
When she raised her head, she carefully avoided Jean-Christian’s eyes, though she felt them boring into the side of her head.
“I need your signature here, please. And here,” said Libitz, sliding the contract to her client. “And your card, please.” Mrs. Carnegie handed her a credit card, and Libitz slid it through the Square reader.
Chancing a glance at Jean-Christian, she found him staring at the table, his face pinched, his lips pursed, his jaw clenched. He looked as upset as she felt, which was baffling, since he’d said the words so easily, as though they hadn’t cost him a thing.
“Your signature once more, please,” she murmured, handing Mrs. Carnegie a stylus and positioning the iPad before her. Subtly reaching for her belt, she pressed the button for Duane. It wasn’t normal practice for her to let her assistant finalize details on a big sale unless there was another client waiting to see her, but she simply didn’t trust herself right now. She blinked again, trying to swallow over the lump in her throat. She needed to get away from Jean-Christian before she embarrassed herself.
When Duane arrived, she nodded in thanks for his efficiency. “Please walk Mrs. Carnegie through the delivery process tomorrow. There’s a call I must take.” She held out her hand to the older lady. “Thank you very much. I hope you are very happy with the painting.”
“I’m sure I will be,” said Mrs. Carnegie, searching Libitz’s face for a moment before turning to Duane. “Can we do this on the way to my car? I have somewhere I need to be.”
Duane helped her with her chair, holding an umbrella as he held the door for her and walked her half a block to her waiting chauffeur.
Libitz pushed the signed papers into the file folder and picked up the iPad, clutching both to her breasts, unsure of what to say to J.C., who still sat motionless in his chair, staring down at the slick, black tabletop. She didn’t want to go to the Met with him. She didn’t want to go anywhere with him. The sweet but fragile connection they’d built suddenly felt flimsy and silly, and she felt embarrassed and foolish for trusting it.
“I don’t feel very well,” she said, reaching for the forgotten stylus. “If you’ll forgive me, I think I’ll just—”
His fingers shot up, wrapping around her wrist with an unyielding grip and forcing her to stay, though he didn’t look up at her.
“Stop,” he growled.
She didn’t know what to say or do, so she stopped pulling away and stood still, waiting for him to say something else.