The guard tells me that he’ll take me inside. I don’t like the sound of his voice.
“Ms. Carter is coming to see Bosman, too.” Christof says amiably, “She can come with me.”
“You run along, art guy. I’ll take care of the little lady.” Then, to me, “You come with me. I’ll give you the tour.”
“I’m here on business. I’ll just go straight in.”
“I’ve got business for you.”
He steps down, and the barrel of his chest is in my face. Reaching, he grabs my elbow. His grip is, hard.
“I don’t think so.” Christof leaps forward.
He seizes the man’s other wrist. He yanks the arm sharply back and up. High. There’s a wet cracking sound as the man doubles forward. Christof hammers the side of his fist under the guard’s ear. He keeps the wrist high, holding on to the arm as the thug crumples to the ground.
Letting the man’s arm drop, Christof extends his hand to me. He tilts his head like a courtier and waves his other arm toward the open door.
“Shall we?” If I said no, would he turn and leave with me? The twinkle in his eye says that whatever he’s here to do, he’d rather be doing something else. Something with me.
And he’s a man who does what he wants. And gets what he wants.
“Stop it,” I tell him.
He lets out the closest thing I’ve seen to a smile, but it’s only his eyes are doing it.
“Okay,” he shrugs. “If you’re sure?”
I nod as I tell him again, “Stop it.”
He knows what I mean.
“Shall we, then?” With a look over his shoulder at the goon, he says, “You need an ambulance?”
He looks like he does.
He’s groggy and trying to scramble to his feet. “No.”
Christof shrugs. “Suit yourself.”
We pass paintings in the hallway, one or two I recognize. Some small sculptures on tall plinths, too.
“Are you okay?” He holds my hand close to his body. His voice is kind. Gentle. He makes me want to trust him.
“I’m fine. Thanks.”
Just talking to him, I’m getting tingles up and down my spine. My knee shakes.
I shouldn’t be thinking about him in any of the ways that I am. I shouldn’t be thinking about him at all. Partly because that’s so not why I’m here. But more, because of the way that I’m thinking about him. I’m too young for a man like him. And he wouldn’t be interested. Not for more than one time, something like that. Some casual thing.
I guess he could get what he wanted from me. My stomach opens up and I fall straight through at the very thought. And it’s because I know that if he asked, there’s no chance I’d be saying no.
I wouldn’t even hesitate. I know it would be wrong, not only because he’s older, but he’s obviously an experienced man. It’s something else. Something even more dangerous. It’s like the air around him lights up and crackles. Maybe it only feels that way when I get near. Note to self: don’t get near. Literally, to not near this man. He’ll have the panties off you before you know it.
He gives me that smile again. The smile that says, everything is going to be all right. I’ve got you. What’s really unnerving is how much I want to trust him. And I know that I shouldn’t. I mustn’t.
The door at the end of the hallway leads into a study. It’s a den in the man-child style. Furnishings are all dark and heavy. Dark bookcases cover one wall, dark leather padded armchairs and a couch. A big, dark-stained desk. An oversized, swiveling director’s chair is like a leather throne behind the desk. Out from the corner, designed to intimidate and dominate the room.
On the desk is a little sculpture in bronze. A tiny creature, made up of four big teardrops. One tapers forward as the head, a long one tapers down for the body. Two more hang from the sides and taper down. She’s sad, and unbelievably beautiful.
“Brancaster.” Christof says. “A replica, but contemporary. You like it?” Christof picks it up. Holds it nearer for me. “Touching, isn’t it?” Then he frowns as he looks closer at the little statue.
A door opens and I recognize Mr. Bosman from the picture on his file. Shorter than I expected, he’s heavy like a bull, with fast, intense eyes that dart and stab. The people I have to see are classed as HNWI, High Net Worth Individuals, so I have to do some background before each visit. I wasn’t able to find out much about Mr. Bosman.
He scowls, and his face implodes, like a spoiled and angry child. Then he tells Christof, “Put my fucking Brancaster down. The fuck.”
Christof’s eyebrows point up and he puts the soulful figure gently back on the desk. “It’s a nice piece.”
“Cut the flim-flam. Where’s the fucking painting?”
Christof’s smile is light. Indulgent. Patient. “I haven’t decided if it’s the right piece for you.”
“And where’s the fucking Bear?”
Christof blinks once. “Excuse me?”
I take a slow breath. The way Christof acts as a smooth wall against Bosman’s rage makes me feel safe and excited at the same time. Hot and cold. Fire and ice.
“Bear,” Bosman snarls, “My guy.”
“Oh,” Christof twinkles, “Last I saw, he was having a lie down.”
Bosman glowers at Christof. Then he turns to shove a folder of papers at me.
“Here. You need to make copies? You can take those if you want. The paintings are all in the hallway, so go check. All right?”
I leaf through the bundle of paper.
His face is reddening, and he’s about to speak to Christof again, so I cut across him. “Mr. Bosman, these aren’t the Certificates of Authentication. These are just copies.”
“They’ve got the numbers, the references. You can see the signatures, and all the provenance is on the sheets attached. And, like I said, the paintings are on the walls outside. See for yourself.”
I hand the papers back to him. He doesn’t move to take them, so I lay them on the desk.
“That’s no good,” I tell him. “I need sight of the original COA’s. Copies won’t do.”
“Oh, what, you don’t trust me? The little girl is an art expert, too, now?”
“No, Mr. Bosman. It’s not trust, it’s procedure. And it’s precisely because I’m not an art expert. You could show me a paint-by-number replica. I wouldn’t know if you’d got it in Walmart this morning and painted it yourself.” Not true, but I didn’t want to make the client look like any more of an idiot than he’d already showed himself. He seemed like a man who’d react badly when he looked dumb. Which, I thought, must be tiring for him.
I tell him, “I need to take notes and photos of the original certificates. Preferably, I would take them back to the office for copying, but sometimes we can waive that.” Not this time, though, I thought. Not after this stunt.
He glares at me, “Then what’s the point of you being here?”
Chapter 3
Him
Bosman is so red he practically glows. He explodes at me, “If you ain’t brought the painting I want, there’s no point you being here, neither. So the both of you can just fuck off.”
“Works for me,” I tell him, amiably. “I really do know what I’m doing with the art, Mr. Bosman. Call me when you’re ready to hear my advice.”
“I already told you what I want. I know the dimensions and I know the value. Call me when you decide you want to bring it to me.”
As we’re walking out, Bosman shouts after Max. His voice rattles in the hallway. “I’ll tell you when you can see the certificates,” and she looks sideways at me.
She seems to be having the same idea as me. I’m stirred by that.
Quietly, I say, “He’s having second thoughts.”
Her eyebrow lifts as the angry voice from the study rumbles on, “Maybe you’ll meet me at the bank.”
She smiles.
Before we get to the door, I say, “Let me buy you a coffee.”
The flash in her eyes stirs a thri
ll low down in me. It’s partly from us being on a track of thought, thinking the same thing about Bosman.
I think we’re thinking the same thing about something else at the same time, though. Something neither of us should be thinking. It’s a fantasy.
That won’t stop me from enjoying it.
I need to be careful around this woman. She makes me think about doing things I shouldn’t do. She makes me want to be reckless. I’m too old to be careless around a ripe young woman like her. Besides, my strongest need is to protect her. And I’m exactly the kind of a man she needs protecting from.
“There’s a great place for coffee and pastries,” her eyes glint as I tell her, “It’s a short way up the hill. Follow me.”
“Okay.”
Bear is still sat under the porch.
I offer him a hand to get up. He just glowers. I shrug. “Sure you don’t need an ambulance?”
“Why don’t you go and fuck yourself.”
“Glad to see you’re taking it so well.”
Max takes a wide path around him and hurries to her little Prius.
Leading her with the Mercedes, I wonder about Bosman and his henchperson. Neither of them seem well suited to their work.
There’s something in that. Something I need to think about. Like something glinting in the darkness, but I don’t know what it is.
I can’t think too much about that while I’m looking forward to watching Max eat a pastry. I think I already know what she’ll like.
I can’t wait to find out.
Chapter 4
Her
Higher up the hill, by the pretty patisserie, he opens my car door for me and puts out his hand for me to take. When his skin touches mine, I get another quake, like one before. Not as strong, but deeper.
He’s gallant, and he makes me feel like the heroine in a movie. Like I’m stepping out of a sports car in the Hollywood hills or the South of France.
He holds my hand tenderly, like it’s something precious. As he walks me to the entrance, I feel the warmth of his hand near the small of my back. I’m struck that he’s polite enough not to put his hand on me there. I wish he wasn’t, though.
He guides me through the bright cafe. The interior is pale marble and brass. He takes me all the way through, to a table on the terrace that overlooks the ocean.
He tells me, “People come here to watch for Orcas. Maybe we’ll be lucky.”
I’m already feeling lucky. The coffee smells great and the pastries look fantastic. And expensive. I wouldn’t think of coming here on my salary. That gives me a strange mixed feeling. I’m going to let him treat me. He insisted, and I accepted. I know that he won't expect anything in return. What if he did, though? How would I feel if he demanded something?
I’m thinking he’s too sexy for me. Or too old. Then I’m shocked when I catch myself thinking, Same thing.
“You’re flushed,” he sees it immediately. Almost before I feel it. But now he said that, I really am blushing. “I want to know what you’re thinking.”
I can’t speak. I just shake my head.
“Now I really want to know,” his voice purrs. I have to fight not to squirm in my seat. I pull the sides of my lips between my teeth and bite them.
“Since you’ve lost the power of speech, will you allow me to order for you?”
I nod.
“Good,” he raises a hand, and a waitress appears at his side instantly. She has a name tag that says, ‘Bunny.’ She stands too close to him. As he holds the menu, she leans over his shoulder to peer at it.
A sharp pang stabs low in my stomach. I’m sure she knows the menu well enough. She doesn’t need to read it to take his order.
I can't believe I’m feeling jealousy. That’s not like me.
Bunny gives me her bubbly smile and I’m losing my appetite.
He asks if I’ll allow him to order for me. He says, “I think I know what you’ll like.”
I want to jump across the table at him. For an instant, I don’t trust myself to speak. Then I feel awkward. Then he’s ordering me tiramisu and asking about coffee. “I think you would like the mocaccino,” and when I still don’t reply, he gives Bunny a firm nod.
His eyes never once moved off me. I wonder if he even knows what color her hair is. But I still have a hot buzz, deep in my gut.
Partly so I can pretend that this is any kind of a professional situation, and in part to get as far as possible from the danger in what I’m thinking and feeling, I take us back to discussing Mr. Bosman. “I was pretty surprised when you told him you’d only bring him paintings you thought he should have.”
“Not as surprised as he was, though. Right? He looked like no-one ever talked to him like that before.”
“He looked like he chewed on a wineglass.”
“And it’s odd because that’s a standard thing in the art world. You never let a new client have what they want on the first purchase. And you never bring a real artwork on a first visit.”
“Makes sense. If you don’t know the client, why would you bring them a work of art that could be worth millions?”
“I’m glad I didn’t, if he doesn’t understand about COAs.” He’s holding eye contact with me. My breath rises and thickens. I know that, whatever he’s thinking about, it’s not what he’s saying. Then he changes tack. “Enough about him. He’s an idiot.”
“That’s candid. Are you always so frank about your clients?”
“I don’t know. I’m new to this game.”
I’m surprised. “The art game?”
“The art dealership game, at least.”
“You don’t look like you’re new to it.”
“No. But that’s the first thing you have to do in any racket, right? To look like the game belongs to you.”
I don’t know if he’s joking. “It’s a racket?” He lifts an eyebrow.
“Isn’t everything in business? You don’t think insurance is a racket?”
His look makes my stomach tighten and my breath skips as I say, “You found out much more than I did about him.”
“For what I do, you live or die on your research.”
His hand is on the white linen tablecloth. Large and beautifully manicured, his fingers are long and strong. I feel where he touched me like a memory on my skin. I want to reach across the table and feel the weight of his hand. Feel his touch again.
I shouldn’t have come here.
He’s saying, “Knowing who you’re selling to is definitely the most important part of dealing art.”
“More than knowing the art?”
“We have COA’s for that. It’s always easy to learn about the work. The clients, though. They’re the mystery and they can be the trap. They almost always make it hard to for you learn about them. None more than our Mr. Bosman.”
Christof Brutal (Bad Russian Book 12) Page 2