“It’s a bit of an eclectic collection,” Grace said, tilting her head to the right as she stared at the woman at the desk.
“Yes, but I like that.” It was as if I could sense they were her choices—they felt personal. “They’re for sale, right?”
Grace captured the corner of her bottom lip between her teeth before answering, “Yep, they’re for sale.” She sounded unsure, reluctant. Was it that she didn’t want to sell the artwork at all? Or did she just not want to sell it to me?
I bent to look at the nude on the right.
“Well, like I said at the opening, they don’t really go together. The photographs are the most modern of the selection. The photographer has had some attention recently, but he’s not got a huge following at the moment.”
“Tell me a little more about his pieces?” They were the only photographs in the gallery that I could see.
“Well, they’re beautiful.”
I wanted her reason to be more than that. I liked what she’d told me about the background of the photographer. “And?” I asked. I was taken in by each of the pieces in this section, but the photographs were the most interesting. Grace had liked the artist’s story. Her interest in a homeless photographer indicated an empathy I didn’t come across very often.
She glanced up at me quickly. “I like that he still looks for the beauty, despite having seen such darkness. And I think you can see the tragedy in them but also . . . hope.”
My breath caught. This woman was someone who saw beyond the surface, and I wanted to know more about her.
“And with these nudes . . .” She circled her fingers toward the two on the left. “At first glance, they’re almost carelessly put on the page, but if you look closer, and you notice the turn of her head, the artist is fascinated by her.”
I knew that feeling.
“But I don’t know if they’re any good,” I said.
Grace transferred her weight onto one leg, pushing her hip out and emphasizing the curves of her body, and crossed her arms, almost as if I’d offended her. A small grin tugged at the corners of her mouth. Had I managed to chip away at that armor she wore? She shrugged a shoulder. “If you like them, why does it matter?”
I drew in a breath. “Because I don’t want to lose money.”
“Of course,” she said, her tone suddenly more professional. “Well you won’t. Not on any of these.”
“I’ll take them,” I said, straightening up.
“Which?” she asked, her frown returning.
I smiled at her, and I thought I saw a hint of a pink in her cheeks in response. Did my attention make her blush? I could only hope. “All of them.”
“All of them?” she asked, breathless. “Are you sure?”
I tilted my head. Why was she hesitating? Did she think I wasn’t good enough to buy them? “Is that a problem?”
Pushing her glasses back up her nose, she said, “No, not at all. I just thought you’d come to see the Steve Todd exhibition.”
“That was Nina’s idea,” I said, stepping toward her. “Not my thing.” Not that I knew what my thing was. “Seemed like a big gamble to spend money on something I didn’t understand and felt no desire to know more about.” Without thinking, I brushed a strand of hair away from her face.
Our eyes locked and Grace’s eyes narrowed slightly as if she was considering her next move. She was trying to figure me out and I liked that.
“So, you want these instead?” she asked even though we’d established that I did. She stepped back, her eyes flickering from my face to my feet almost as if she were trying to decide whether or not I was coming on to her. As if I wasn’t making it entirely obvious.
I knew from experience what it felt like not to be important to anyone and instead of letting that eat me alive, I used the knowledge to make myself powerful. Attention was seductive. Angie kept telling me I should insure my face, but I knew it wasn’t my looks that made me so successful in the game of seduction. Women understood I’d do whatever it took to succeed—in or out of bed—and were pulled in by the attention and focus. It was the same in business. When I wanted to make a deal, it was flattery, puffing up egos, that got them across the finish line. People liked to feel important—men, women, in business or the bedroom.
I kept my eyes on her and she fiddled with her glasses. Usually I’d elicited a smile by now, a coy tilt of the head. But Grace Astor was still unsure.
“Okay, well if I can just ask you to follow me.”
“Anywhere,” I replied.
She hesitated just long enough that I knew she’d heard me and turned on her heel and clipped back toward a desk. Maybe she was married. I glanced at her left hand. No ring. I watched her full, tight ass sway as she walked. Boyfriend?
She fumbled about in the drawers below her desk, giving me an even better view of the curve of her body and her breasts falling forward, pressing against the opening of her dress. “Here,” she said, pulling out a pad of paper. “If I can just take some details, I can arrange to have the pieces delivered. You live in the city?” she asked, shutting down just as I’d thought we’d begun to have a conversation.
“Park Avenue.”
At that revelation, I got an eye roll. “Of course.”
Jesus, did she know she was being rude? “Is that a problem?” I asked.
“Oh, no, sorry. I just . . . When would be a good time to arrange delivery?”
“I presume you’ll be there to oversee installation?”
Her mouth opened slightly, her generous lips almost inviting me to stroke my thumb over them. For a second I thought she’d say no; instead she smiled. Not the genuine twinkle of the smile she’d worn when I confessed I didn’t know anything about the paintings I was buying, but a fake, have-a-nice-day, pleasure-doing-business-with-you smile. “Sure. Of course, Mr. Shaw. When’s convenient?”
I never pushed for something I wanted when I knew I wasn’t going to get it. But I wanted to know more about Grace. Perhaps she could replace Nina and be my art consultant. If I asked her now, she’d say no. So I’d wait. When she came to my apartment, she’d have all my attention and focus and I’d make sure she said yes.
Chapter Four
Grace
I stood outside the building I’d grown up in, this time at the goods delivery entrance, waiting for the van with Mr. Shaw’s paintings to arrive. I’d been determined not to just be a spoiled Park Avenue princess and spend my life going to charity luncheons, but somehow I’d still managed to find myself back here. But it was on different terms. I had my own business and I was making my own money. I checked my phone. No message. I folded my arms in front of my chest. How was it taking the driver this long to come from the gallery? I didn’t want to keep Mr. Shaw waiting.