by Bay, Louise
“Whoever the painter is, he’s trying to figure it out as much as we are,” I whispered.
“I think you like trying to figure people out,” he said, brushing a strand of hair from my face and tucking it behind my ear. He’d done the same thing at the gallery. This time it wasn’t enough. I wanted more than his fingertips scattering across my skin.
But he was right. I’d been trying to figure him out from the moment I’d seen his empty apartment. He was rich, handsome and confident, but there was an undercurrent of sadness about him, reflected in this echoey place, that I couldn’t explain but I was drawn to.
“I’m going to kiss you now.”
To someone watching a video of us, not having experienced what had been passing between us since I arrived, his declaration would be out of place and inappropriate but being here with him, when he said it, I realized he was always going to kiss me.
I liked that he’d given me warning but not asked my permission. Perhaps in his lips I’d understand him more.
Towering over me, he took my face in his hands and pressed his mouth against mine once, then pulled back and kissed me again, harder this time. His touch created a hum across the surface of my skin and my body sagged despite the voice inside my head saying, Who is this man? I don’t find men like him attractive.
But I wanted him to kiss me.
My arms circled his waist, stroking up his broad back, over the muscles tight under his shirt, so different from the slight men I was used to dating. Instead of finding it strange or uncomfortable, it felt right, like every other man’s touch had been erased by his.
He stroked his thumbs over my cheekbones, then reached around to the small of my back and pulled my body against his. I gasped and he smiled against my mouth. In that moment he had all the power, not because he took it, but because I gave it to him, willingly.
His tongue pushed between my lips and I tilted my head back, wanting more of him. My knees weakened and my mind and body became unsteady as if he were taking all my energy—all my self-control.
He gripped my waist and pulled me up. “You okay?” he asked, his stare boring into me.
I nodded, fixing my gaze on his chest, his broad, hard chest. What was I doing? How had I ended up in this man’s arms, and why did it feel so good?
“Can I ask you a question?” I asked.
He chuckled and released my waist. Cool air hit my shirt-covered back and I was pissed that I’d caused him to pull away. “You’ve been dying to since you walked in.”
“How do you know?”
Scraping his fingers through his hair, he took half a step back. “I’m good at reading people.”
“Oh yeah? So what questions have I been desperate to ask you then?” He clearly thought he knew everything.
“You’re trying to work out who I am, and why this apartment is empty. Why there’s a beat-up old couch and a mattress on the floor, yet the closet is full of custom suits.”
I concentrated on the curve of his mouth as he spoke. Each word seemed so deliberate, pushing out of those perfectly full lips.
“Oh yes, and you’re attracted to me, but for some reason you’re fighting it.” He smoothed his hand around his neck. “I’ve yet to put all the pieces together on that one.”
I shivered. Who was he to think he could dip into my brain and tell me what I was thinking, even if everything he’d said was completely accurate? Arrogant but accurate.
“I have to leave,” I said, making my way toward the hallway. “I’ll send the handyman around tomorrow to put the pictures up. I’ve marked exactly where they should go.”
I glanced back to see him shove his hands into his pockets, his smile dimmed. “I meant what I said about wanting you to help me add to my collection.”
“I can’t do that,” I called over my shoulder.
“Don’t let a kiss, even if it was the best kiss you’ve ever had, get in the way of business.”
What a piece of work. Did he just go around flirting with strange women, telling them what a great kisser he was? I stopped at the hallway entrance and turned to look at him. “You think it was the best kiss I ever had?” He might have been right. I couldn’t remember a kiss that reverberated through my whole body the way his had. It’d literally weakened me and made me want more.
“I know it was the kiss of my life. So I’m thinking it can’t have been so bad for you, either.” His tone was teasing and confessional at the same time—it almost sounded like he meant it.
I rolled my eyes in the most obvious and exaggerated way I could. “Do women really buy that?” I turned back to the door, desperate to get out of there. What was I doing, kissing my clients? Wanting to kiss them a little longer?
“I’ll call you tomorrow about the consultant thing. Sleep on it.” That didn’t justify a response. I’d told him no. I was grateful for his business, it meant I could make rent this quarter, but it didn’t mean I should spend any more time with him. I’d kissed him and that was bad enough. Who knew what would happen if I had to work with him more closely?
He could find another art consultant.
Chapter Five
Sam
“You seem distracted,” Angie said, staring at her menu. Despite it being busy, we’d still managed to snag the best booth at our favorite old-school diner in downtown. Angie’s husband was working so we’d used the opportunity to eat out. There was something about the familiarity of this place that kept us coming back. That and the burgers.
I shook my head. “Nope, just hungry. Why are you studying the menu? You know exactly what’s on there. Hasn’t changed in like ten years.”
Fact was, I was a little distracted. Grace had left my apartment yesterday before I’d gotten a chance to organize my thoughts and convince her to become my art consultant. She was beautiful, and I’m sure had her fair share of admirers. I couldn’t figure out what was stopping her from letting go with me.
Angie looked up and set the menu down. “You’re working something out,” she said.
“Stop trying to read me, it pisses me off,” I snapped, waving a waitress over. “Let’s order.” When we were teenagers, Angie and I used to sneak into town on the weekends. We’d walked the streets of midtown, our heads tilted back so we could take in the skyscrapers. I’d always said I’d own one of the buildings one day. So far, I had three in midtown, two in downtown and now my place—my first investment into residential property. After our long walks around the city, we’d always ended up at this diner and ordered a milkshake to share. Those days of daydreaming were how I’d survived—I’d had to believe the future would be better than the present.
“Yeah, it’s not like you do that to me and everyone else, all the time.” Angie rolled her eyes. Grace had made the same gesture when I’d told her she was the kiss of my life.
She’d thought I was trying to seduce her, and she was right, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t true. Most people would have asked me straight out why I didn’t have any furniture. Why I was living in 740 Park Avenue but sleeping on a mattress on the floor. And although I usually didn’t give two shits what people thought about me, for some reason having Grace walk around my empty apartment had been a little uncomfortable. I shouldn’t have to explain that I didn’t care about filling my home with lots of fancy furniture, or that I liked my beat-up old sofa and I didn’t need anything more than a mattress on my floor.
And yet, I’d wanted her to understand.
“I’ll have a cheeseburger, fries and a chocolate milkshake.” I ordered first out of self-defense. If I didn’t, Angie would never make up her mind.
“I’ll have the same, but can I get a side of onion rings and the mac and cheese?” The waitress scribbled down the order. “Oh, and can I get extra tomato?”
“Am I going to have to roll you home?” I asked. “Your husband hates this place, so I know you aren’t ordering for him.”
“I’m hungry.” She shrugged. “Stop avoiding my question and tell me what’s on your mi
nd.”
“I bought some paintings,” I said, trying to deflect her attention.
“Just the stuff your consultant told you to buy?”
“I guess.” I slid the menus to the side and traced my fingernail around the metal surround of the table. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d lied to Angie. I was always completely honest with her. But we never discussed women in any detail because they were rarely on my mind. Unlike Grace.
“And are you going to buy some furniture? I know you’re sentimental about the couch but maybe put it in the office or something.” Angie’s nails tapped on the countertop.
“I’m not sentimental about the couch; what are you talking about?” I wasn’t sentimental about things at all. That’s why I didn’t have much.
“Then why on earth do you still have it? It’s falling apart.”
“It’s perfectly okay,” I replied. “If you make sure the cushions are the right way up, you can’t see the holes. There’s no reason not to hang on to it.”
“Whatever.”
Our food arrived and Angie pounced on the mac and cheese as if she hadn’t eaten for weeks. She always had a healthy appetite but even for her she seemed a little overenthusiastic.
“Buying furniture is like burning money. The couch I have is fine.” I didn’t need to live any differently just because my address had changed. Although it would have been nice to have been able to offer Grace a drink. Maybe I’d order some wine glasses. I didn’t even have silverware at the moment. I’d taken a couple of the office mugs and brought them home with me, but I was a simple man. I didn’t need much.
“You don’t want a house warming?” Angie asked. “Seems a shame to have such a fancy place and no one to show it off to.”
“A house warming?” I chuckled. “Who would I invite? I only know you and Chas.” Angie and her husband were my only friends. I didn’t have drinking buddies. I’d not gone to college. And aside from Angie, there was certainly no one from my past I wanted to stay in touch with.
“A business party, then?” she asked.
I took a bite of my burger, chewing slowly to give myself time to think. I didn’t want the people I did business with in my home. It shouldn’t matter, it was just an investment after all, but I didn’t want a bunch of strangers standing around the place judging me. “No. I’m not a party person.”
“What about a TV then? Surely that’s not too extravagant?”
While it would never be an investment, it didn’t seem too much to own a television. “Will you get off my back if I buy a TV?”
I might even get a new couch. That would show Angie that I wasn’t even a little sentimental about a piece of furniture. Not a couch, not anything.
“Jesus, Sam, I just want you to enjoy life a little. Don’t you see? You made it; you don’t need to hang on so tight. At least go and get laid.”
I wiped mustard from my mouth with my napkin. “You think I’m sexually frustrated?” I tossed the paper onto the counter. Angie knew I didn’t go without.
“I’m just saying that you should have some fun. Spend some money, get a girl.”
“With a face like this, you think I need money to get a girl?” I chuckled and Angie started to laugh.
“You’re a prick.”
“But a handsome prick, right?”
“With your money, you never need to worry about looks.”
I picked up my napkin and threw it at her. She grinned. “So you got your eye on your latest victim?” she asked.
“I’m not a serial killer, for Christ’s sake.”
“You’re a serial heartbreaker, that’s what you are.” She took a huge bite of her burger, as if afraid it might disappear if she didn’t disable it immediately. I guess it was a habit formed in group homes when you had to eat quick or risk having your food stolen by the kid next to you. Angie had moved on from her past—meeting Chas had helped. But the scars were never too far below the surface.
“The girls I have fun with understand it’s just that—fun. None of them stick around long enough to get their heart broken.”
“That’s because you don’t call them.” Angie was riding my ass a little more than usual. I wasn’t in the mood.
I shrugged. I would never marry. What was the point in stringing a girl along just to dump her a couple of months down the line when she got serious?
Angie’s eyes dropped and I could tell a sympathy smile wasn’t too far away.
“Don’t even,” I said. Whatever she was thinking, I didn’t want to hear it. “Let’s go and buy a TV, get you off my back.”
“Okay,” Angie replied, her voice soft. “I just want you to find happiness.”
“I doubt you’ll fit through any store doors though, after this meal,” I said, ignoring her comment.
“That’s okay. I’ll wait outside. This mac and cheese is way too good to waste.”
* * *
I pulled out my cell from my pocket and slid it onto my dark mahogany desk in my office. I had more furniture within these four walls than I did in my entire apartment, even if I did now have a television. While Angie and I’d been out, I’d also picked up some kitchen essentials, including some crystal whiskey glasses I planned on seeing Grace Astor’s lips pressed against sooner rather than later.
As she still hadn’t called to change her mind about being my consultant, I decided I was going to have to switch up my game.
I leaned back into my leather office chair and pressed call.
“Grace Astor Fine Art,” she answered on the second ring.
“Grace, it’s Sam.”
“Oh, Mr. Shaw.”
Mr. Shaw? I’d swapped bodily fluids with the woman. What was with the formality?
“What can I do for you?”
And wasn’t that the question I wanted her to answer? Kneel on the floor and take my dick to the back of her throat? Wrap her fingers around the base of my cock and squeeze just hard enough? Strip naked, bend over and feel my solid dick as I pounded into her pussy until we both came, panting and breathless?
No doubt about it—I wanted to fuck this woman. Like Angie’d said, I needed to get laid.
“I need you to come to the apartment. Your handyman hasn’t done such a good job with the installation.” I swung my chair around so I could take in the view of the city. Could I see her building from here?
“That’s not like Mr. Grames,” she said. A rustle of fabric on the other end of the line brought her into sharp focus.
What was she wearing?
“What exactly is the matter with them?”
“I’ll show you. I’ll be available after seven this evening.”
There was a second, maybe two, of silence. “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” she said finally. “I can send Mr. Grames back and you can just tell him what you want changed.”
“I’m afraid that won’t do.” I hated having to pull the client card, after all what I wanted from her was entirely personal, and I wasn’t about to let her off so easily. I knew she found me attractive, so unless she gave me a good reason for keeping her distance, for not giving into me, I wasn’t about to give up. Quitting hadn’t gotten me to owning three billion dollars’ worth of real estate in midtown Manhattan alone. “Make this right, Grace, then we can discuss what you’ll do for me as my art consultant.”
“Mr. Shaw—”
“Grace, I’ve had my tongue in your mouth and your ass in my hand. Please, call me Sam.”
She sighed. It wasn’t wistful, more of an exasperated exhale. “Sam,” she said, her tone deliberate, as if she were addressing someone whose first language wasn’t English, “I’ve explained that I can’t be your art consultant.”
“It sounded more like a won’t than a can’t, and I don’t accept that.”
“Either way, it’s not going to happen. I’m happy to give you a couple of names, though. I have a number of contacts who would be more than willing to help you.”
“I’m not interested in anyone else
helping me.” I liked the fact that Grace had tried so hard to hide the most personal art at the back of the gallery because she knew what would make money was at the front. But I’d found her secret art. I imagined she was much the same—hiding the most interesting things about herself—providing the world with a glossier version. I wanted to know her secrets.
I wanted to discover more of what she was hiding, physically and mentally.
“Well, I’m sorry, Mr.—Sam, I think it’s best if—”
“Do you have plans tonight?” I asked. I wasn’t going to back down.
“That’s not the point. I’m saying that I don’t think it’s—”
“So, you don’t have plans. I’ll be at the gallery to pick you up at six thirty.”
I hung up the phone. I’d arrive early. She wasn’t about to lock up before closing time to avoid me, and if she hadn’t come to terms with the fact she’d be coming back to my place by the time I arrived, I was pretty sure that in person I could convince her.
A kiss, maybe, to ensure capitulation.
Chapter Six
Grace
Sam Shaw had hung up on me. Typical spoiled billionaire, expecting everyone to dance to his tune, do whatever he said. I didn’t have the time or the inclination to be his art consultant. I needed to concentrate on the gallery. Steve’s show had brought us a lot of attention and I had to capitalize on that. I still had four big pieces of his to sell and there was growing interest in his previous work, which we’d agreed I’d get a higher commission rate for.
Playing nursemaid to a man who wanted nothing but someone to tell him what was going to make money wasn’t what I’d opened the gallery to do, even if he had purchased the pieces from me before he knew whether or not they were a good investment. I wanted to nurture new talent and feed people’s soul with old masters, not just make rich guys richer. Despite Steve being a terrible boyfriend, and looking back, not a particularly nice person, no one could deny he was talented. And I was proud that Grace Astor Fine Art had been able to launch his career. That was the kind of thing I wanted to focus on.