Park Avenue Prince

by Louise Bay

  My attention wandered from Grace to the art. These works were small, discreet, personal. Although it didn’t seem as though any of the pieces were connected—they were clearly by different artists—they were subtle, almost as if not meant for an audience. The intimacy of them made them all the more compelling because they seemed to tell me about the person who created them. The rest of the gallery was full of loud, attention-seeking pieces that shouted their importance the moment I walked in—there was no mystery in them.

  But these told me much more about Grace. Four nudes, all drawings; what looked like a proper painting—Grace had said it was done in oil—of a woman at a desk; a small painting of a harbor and the two photographs of the city.

  “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.

  While it wasn’t unusual for a gallery to oversee delivery, I had expected Nina to be involved with this part. If Mr. Shaw was paying her, then why did he need my help? I shouldn’t complain. He’d been a good customer. Steve’s exhibition had done well, but because he was just starting out (and because I’d been sleeping with him), I’d agreed to only a quarter of the commission I’d normally take from the sales.

  We hadn’t put anything in writing, and all the money had been paid to me, so I could insist on taking a standard cut, but a deal was a deal. Even
though I hated him, I didn’t want to lower myself to his level. I’d be careful not to be so stupid again. Steve had offered me no apology, no explanation. He hadn’t tried to patch things up, either. He just acted as if we’d never been more than friends, as if I was just the gallery owner where he’d had his first exhibition. He’d switched so easily and effortlessly I wondered if he’d ever had any real feelings for me. We’d been dating exclusively for over nine months. He’d been living in my apartment for all that time.

  Maybe he’d just been using me all along.

  But ruminating on how bad of person he was wasn’t going to get me anywhere. I needed to move on and concentrate on the future, on Grace Astor Fine Art, and on clients like Mr. Shaw. Mr. Shaw who I was trying not to find attractive.

  The truck pulled up and I texted Mr. Shaw to tell him we were on our way up. I’d hired three delivery guys to help me; one to stay with the truck and two to deliver the work. None of the art was big enough to need two people, but it would be good to see how this delivery arrangement worked. Hopefully this would be the first of many across Manhattan.

  “Hey, guys. Let’s get this door open and make sure nothing’s damaged,” I said.

  “It’ll be fine. We know what we’re doing.” The older guy rolled up the back shutter to reveal the pieces securely fastened to the sides of the truck.

  “Good. If you hand me that one,” I said, pointing to the Degas, all packaged in paper and bubble wrap, “and you take one each, that’d be great. I don’t want you bringing up more than one at a time, okay?”

  We walked into the service entrance to the building, and Victor, the security guard, held the door open for us.

  “Thanks, Victor.”

  “No problem, Miss Astor. I just saw your mother come through the lobby.”

  I hadn’t told my parents I’d be in the building today. My father would be at work and I avoided one on ones with my mother as much as possible. “I’m actually here to deliver these paintings to Mr. Shaw.”

  “Oh, the new guy.” Victor nodded. “Okay, well you know this place as well as I do. If you need anything, let me know.”

  I smiled at him and made my way to one of the service lifts.

  As we arrived at Mr. Shaw’s apartment, the door was already propped open with a box. Was he just moving in? Victor said he was new, but anyone who’d not been in the building at least twenty years was new to Victor.

  “Hello?” I called from the threshold.

  “Come in.” Mr. Shaw’s voice boomed from the other end of the corridor. I turned briefly to the two men behind me and stepped inside. The hallway looked devoid of any signs of life. There was nothing on the walls. No console tables or rugs or furniture of any kind. Perhaps he was just moving in. I walked toward the light, unsure where we’d find Mr. Shaw.

  As I reached the doors to the living space, I found him facing the New York cityscape, the sleeves of his white dress shirt rolled up, his hands stuffed in his pockets. Okay, Scarlett and Harper had been right, he was handsome—in an obvious sort of way. He might not be my type, but I still knew a good-looking man when I saw one. And the way he’d studied me at the gallery was … perhaps I’d been imagining it but it was almost like a physical touch—like his focus had mass. Watching him look out onto the rooftops, he was tall and broad and his ass was a little tighter than I remembered. I liked the way the ends of his curls shimmered in the light. I’d thought he might be flirting with me when he’d come to the gallery but I hadn’t been sure. He spun and I gasped, worried that somehow he’d know I’d been breaking him down piece by piece, as if he were a painting I was passing judgement on.

  “Grace,” he said as he walked toward me, his heavy gaze coating me until I looked away as if I’d been staring directly at the sun.

  I turned toward the two delivery men. “Just put those down and bring the rest up, one at a time.”

  As they walked out, I turned to Mr. Shaw, who was still staring at me. I took a step back. There was an intensity in his attention that was unnerving and uncomfortable. But at the same time it felt good. It felt like I wanted to stand in his way a little longer.

  Should I have one of the men stay?

  “I thought Nina might be here,” I said, glancing around. If Nina had been involved, she wouldn’t have had Mr. Shaw buy such a mixture of artwork. But I wanted to know why, if he was focused on keeping his money safe, he’d made these purchases without her. The room was completely empty of furniture apart from a beaten-up leather chesterfield set opposite the windows. There were no rugs, no TV. Not even a potted plant.

  “I fired Nina.”

  Wow. Nina was the most sought after in the business. I doubt she’d ever been fired before. “I’m sorry to hear that.” I put down the small print, concentrating on keeping my expression neutral.

  “Don’t be. She told me what I wanted to hear. I prefer people who tell me the truth.” He revealed his values and where he put his energy with every sentence he spoke.

  “She’s very sought after.” Although he’d satisfied my curiosity, and he’d given me more detail than he needed to, I still wanted to know more. But not about Nina, about him. “She doesn’t often accept new clients.”

  “You think I made a mistake?” Did he really care what I thought about him firing Nina?

  “No.” I shrugged. “I mean, I have no idea. You can choose who you work with.”

  “Exactly,” he said, holding my gaze and I felt it slip over me, like warm water.

  I shivered.

  “Are you nervous?”

  “No.” I rubbed my arms as if I were cold.

  He grinned and nodded. “I see,” he said. He knew I was lying.

  I frowned. I wasn’t sure I wanted to know what he saw. “Where did you want these?” I had to focus.

  “Aren’t you here to tell me that?”

  “You have no preference? Bedrooms, living space?” Why buy paintings if he didn’t even have a table to put his coffee cup on?

  He offered no explanation for the emptiness.

  “Not really. You have free range.”

  “Okay, well I’ll get them unwrapped and then we can decide together. You’ll know the light better than me.”

  I bent down and began to unwrap the Degas I’d brought up. I hated to see my secret collection of paintings go—particularly the La Touche—but I was a business-owner now. These works weren’t for my enjoyment, and though Mr. Shaw clearly wasn’t a connoisseur, I liked that in a way. There was something about the art that had drawn him in. Maybe Grace Astor Fine Art had triggered a passion for art in Mr. Shaw—perhaps I would be touching people with my gallery and not just making money.

  As the delivery guys brought up the rest of the paintings, I unwrapped each piece from their cardboard, bubble wrap and tissue paper trying to concentrate on something other than Sam Shaw. Eventually, all eight were lined up against the wall opposite the windows.

  “So, are you planning to buy anything more?” I asked. I wanted to make sure I didn’t take up space earmarked for anything else.

  “I don’t know,” he said as he stood next to me, so close I could feel the heat of his body. “Maybe. I need to find someone to help me. Like I said, I don’t know anything about art.”

  “But you like these pieces,” I said, glancing at his sharp jaw as he fixed his stare on the paintings. “Art doesn’t have to be about what critics say is good. You can just have an emotional reaction rather than an intellectual one.”

  “Passion over logic?” he asked.

  I couldn’t stop my grin. “Is such a concept so alien to you, Mr. Shaw?”

  “Call me Sam.” His tone was slightly curt. “You think I’m not passionate?”

  The conversation seemed to have veered off course. I hadn’t meant the comment to be personal. I felt as though I was tumbling down a rabbit hole into unknown territory. “I don’t know you,” I replied, wondering if I’d created a dead end in this conversation.

  A beat of silence pass
ed between us.

  “I think the combination of the two things is where I’m most effective,” he said. Again, it seemed like an unnecessarily personal revelation. But it drew me to him and I couldn’t be sure that he hadn’t designed it that way.

  He turned to face me. “Is your reaction to art emotional or intellectual?” he asked.

  “It can be either or both.”

  “And this?” He swept his large tan hands toward the lined-up works.

  “Both,” I said simply. I felt as if I was giving something away by admitting it, and it seemed he knew it.

  “Ahhh,” he said. “Passion and logic.”

  I didn’t respond and he didn’t ask any more.

  “In your gut, which is your favorite?” I asked. I needed to get these pictures placed so I could get out of there. The way he got so personal so quickly made me feel uncomfortable. It wasn’t just his nearness, or his intense stare. It was as if he were trying to unmask me without me noticing. But I had noticed. And my uncomfortableness existed because I wasn’t sure that he’d like what he found when he looked underneath. And for some reason that mattered. I wanted him to like me, find me attractive.

  “I like all of them.”

  “Or you wouldn’t have bought them, right?” As soon as the words were out, I realized how sarcastic they sounded.

  He chuckled and I relaxed. “I’m not sure about that. Like I said, I’m new at this art stuff. I really want to make sure I make good investments.”

  “But you fired Nina.” I crossed my arms in front of me. I didn’t know what I was doing wondering about this man. I should focus on my job not his hard body or deep brown eyes. “She’s the best at finding great investment pieces.”

  “I did.”

  “And you don’t know whether what you bought here,” I said, tilting my head toward the unwrapped works, “is a good investment.”

  He drew in a breath and shoved his hands in his pockets, turning away from me. “You’re right. I’m not following my own logic.”

  Silence stretched between us. I needed to get better with clients if I was going to make this work. I was insulting him and he was taking it. I was testing him—trying to elicit a reaction from him I wouldn’t like so I could turn away from him.