by Louise Bay
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.
And I certainly didn’t want to be near a man I wanted to kiss. It was the last thing I needed. I didn’t trust my lips, my body, my heart at the moment. Especially with someone as spoiled as Sam Shaw.
My cell chimed on my desk. It was Steve’s new agent, who he’d signed with a couple of days after the opening. I’d never come across her before, which didn’t bode well—a bad agent could be worse than no agent at all—but it didn’t have anything to do with me anymore.
“Hi, Victoria,” I answered.
“Grace, I’m glad I caught you. I wanted to let you know we don’t need you to do any more work on Steve’s historic pieces,” she said, her voice as breezy as if she’d called to tell me my dry cleaning was ready to be collected.
My brain started to whir. “What do you mean ‘work’?”
“Just that we’ve decided to go in a different direction, and we won’t need you to sell any of them.”
My body tensed. “That wasn’t the deal I made with Steve. He said I could sell his older stuff at the standard commission rate.”
“Do you have a copy of the contract you could send me?” She knew full well I had nothing in writing. The guy had been my boyfriend. I’d trusted him.
“Steve gave me his word. Is he there? Can I speak to him?”
“He’s not here, and I’m sorry, but that’s not the way he remembers things. Grace, I’m not trying to be an asshole here, but I need to act in my client’s best interests. He needs to be with a bigger gallery.”
Jesus, he wouldn’t have even met this agent if it hadn’t been for my gallery. It just wasn’t fair.
“I’m not going to take away your commission for his sold pieces,” she continued. “I believe there are four works that are yet to sell, and I’ve arranged for those to be collected this afternoon. You understand, don’t you?”
I got that I was being fucked over loud and clear. The commission from the older work would have meant I could relax a little—not have to worry about rent next quarter. I’d thought I was on my way when in fact Steve’s exhibition had been a false start. My ex-boyfriend was a moral wasteland. But I’d learn and get everything in writing next time.
I really wanted to tell her to go fuck herself, but I didn’t have the energy.
“You better get your guys here fast.”
Victoria laughed as if I couldn’t be serious. “They should be there any moment.” As if by magic, the bell over the door tinkled and two men carrying tissue paper and bubble wrap entered.
I hung up the phone.
“You have four paintings for us to collect?” the taller guy bellowed from across the room. “If you just point to them we’ll pack them up and be on our way.”
I pushed the breath out of my lungs, trying to calm myself, but as I leaned against the desk, the room rolled as if I was on a boat. I closed my eyes. I needed to keep it together until I’d gotten rid of these paintings, then lose it and drink a bottle of wine by myself.
I opened my eyes, fisted my hands and marched over to the first of Steve’s paintings that hadn’t sold. I yanked it off the wall and passed it to the little guy. “Here’s the first one.”
He just managed to catch it,
pressing his no doubt sweaty palms across the splashes of color. The second painting was bigger, but I pulled it from its fixtures and set it down on the floor. “And this.”
My anger increased with every moment. I wanted Steve out of my gallery, out of my life, and I never wanted to be taken in by someone so selfish and egotistical again.
“And you can take these as well,” I said, handing over the last two paintings.
I took a deep, resigned breath. “Leave. You can wrap them up in the truck.”
The men looked at me, and then at each other, clearly not understanding my anger, but thankfully they didn’t argue. I followed them as they left, locking the door and pulling down the cream shade with a snap.
I turned and rested against the blind, tracing my eyebrows with my index fingers, trying to flatten out the scowl I knew I was wearing. What was I going to do? I’d been counting on the sales from Steve’s old work to allow me to buy some more inventory. I couldn’t just find another artist to exhibit on short notice. Now I had nothing of his to sell; his paintings were just taking up space. I needed to get them shipped out and make room for things I was actually going to make money from.
I’d been so excited to open my own gallery, so proud to put on my first exhibition. Now everything I touched seemed to turn sour.
Someone knocking on the glass interrupted my pity party. Steve couldn’t possibly want anything else from me; they’d taken anything of any value already.
I unlocked the door, and found Sam Shaw towering above me.
I caught a whiff of his citrusy scent. It wasn’t the heavy cologne lots of Wall Street types used. It was lighter, subtle, more like a body wash. I liked it more than I wanted to and despite my bad mood, my nipples puckered under my blouse. I rolled my eyes. “Oh, it’s you,” I said.
“It’s nice to see you, too.” The corner of the left side of his mouth turned up slightly higher than the right as he smirked at me. “I thought I’d come a little early in case you closed up to avoid me. Looks like your plan failed.”
“It wasn’t you I was avoiding.” I turned and headed back to my desk. I wanted to kick off my shoes and get drunk, not go to Mr. Shaw’s to rearrange art.
“Oh, really?” he asked as he followed me.
I stuffed my phone and keys into my purse and logged off my computer. I needed to get out of this gallery, and if it meant going with Sam Shaw, so be it.
“Come on, Mr. ‘I can buy whatever I want, including people.’” I picked up my bag and stepped back into the storeroom behind my desk to set the alarm. “Let’s rearrange your art quickly so I can go get drunk.”
“That sounds like the kind of night I was hoping for,” he replied.
“Good evening, Miss Astor,” Gordon, the doorman at 740 Park Avenue, said, tipping his hat as we arrived. I’d expected Sam to pick me up in his car, but instead when we’d gone outside, he hailed a cab. His driver must be sick or something.
“Good evening, Gordon, how are your girls?” I asked. His twin granddaughters were beyond cute.
“Very well, and more beautiful by the day.”
“Be good to them,” I said, following Sam through the lobby.
“Always,” he called after me as I hurried after Sam.
As we stood in the elevator, facing the tiled mirror, Sam said, “You make friends fast.”
Before I had a chance to reply, the elevator stopped at the twentieth floor. “Damn, they need to get this thing fixed,” I said. It was as if the west elevator was haunted.
“Get what fixed?”
“For some reason, this always stops on the twentieth floor,” I said, pushing the thirty-fourth button furiously.
“Someone probably just called it, then realized they forgot something,” Sam said. “You get irritated easily. How many times has it happened to you? Once, twice? Get over it.”
“It’s been like this for seven or eight years, smartass.”
“Seven or eight years? What do you do, ride all the elevators of the Upper East Side, checking they’re running smoothly?”
Despite my sullen mood, I couldn’t help but laugh. “Yeah, I do, actually. What do you care how I spend my spare time?” I grinned at him and he smiled back and I remembered the way he’d held me, tightly but gently, as if I was something precious that he should be careful with. I looked away.
“Gallery owner by day, elevator rider by night. There’s so much to know about you, Grace Astor.”
“You have no idea, Sam Shaw, no idea at all.”
As we entered his apartment, the lack of any furniture took me by surprise again, even though it was exactly the same as it had been before. “Okay, so tell me which of these pieces are hung incorrectly.” I turned when I didn’t get an answer and found myself alone in the living space. “Sam Shaw?” I called out.
“In the kitchen, Grace Astor.”
I followed his voice. He was in the kitchen, which, unsurprisingly, was almost empty, pouring whiskey into two crystal tumblers.
“Drink?” he said, handing me a glass.
Hell yes. I threw the whole thing back, thrilled to let the liquid happiness trickle down my throat and make everything better. “Thanks.”
He didn’t say a word, just grabbed my wrist and held it as he added more whiskey to my glass.
As he took his hand away from my arm, his fingers trailed across my skin. I blinked and looked up at him from under my lashes. He needed to reel it in. Stop his flirting, hold back his kisses.
My heart was bruised, shut down, and if it wasn’t it would never be open to a man like Sam Shaw. Too rich, too spoiled, too willing to do whatever it took to get his own way—including show up at my gallery and drag me to his apartment.
At least he’d given me whiskey.
If he’d just stop looking at me like that. I felt the pressure of his gaze all over me.
“Thank you,” I whispered.
He eyed me over the edge of his own glass before taking a sip. His Adam’s apple bobbed and I imagined tracing my tongue down his throat.
“One of those days?” he asked.
“Hmmm.” I turned and moved out of the kitchen, back into the living space and toward the La Touche.
“Want to talk about it?” he asked from behind me.
That was the last thing I wanted to do. I wanted to forget about my day. Forget what a horrible judge of character I’d been about Steve. He’d always been so humble about his art whenever I’d told him how talented he was. He’d seemed so grateful when I’d agreed to hold an exhibit for his work—concerned he wouldn’t do anything for the reputation of the gallery. Most of all, he’d acted like he loved me.
And yet at the first sighting of success he’d morphed into someone so alien it must have been there all along. I’d tricked myself into thinking he was one kind of man when he was entirely another. He’d used me to get what he needed and then when he thought I might hold him back he was gone.
I took another sip, wanting to dilute my realization.
“This looks just as we discussed.” The frame was exactly where I’d placed the pencil marks on the wall.
“Do you like it there?” Sam asked, his voice soft from just a few feet behind me.
The whiskey loosened my muscles, and blurred the stress of the day into something more manageable.
“It would look good anywhere.” I didn’t turn around, just tipped back my glass, wanting more of the day to slip away from me. If I let myself be seduced, just for the evening, just for now, the worries about how I’d pay the rent, how I’d buy more inventory, would all seem less important. Even if just for an hour or two. “The whiskey’s good, too.”
Sam chuckled and I kept my gaze on the painting as I listened to him retrieve the bottle from the kitchen.
My heart gathered pace as he came closer, his hand going to my back as he topped up my glass.
“Are you trying to get me drunk?” I asked.
“I think you’re wanting to get a little buzzed,” he said. “A
nd I get the impression that’s not a regular occurrence for you.”
“You can tell if I’m a regular drunk just by looking at me?” I asked, glancing up at him.
“Not just by looking at you.”
What did that mean? What else was he basing that information on?
“But you are looking at me.” I turned back to the picture, not making an effort to move away from his hand on my lower back. I liked that we were connected.
“Of course I am. I told you, you’re beautiful.”
“And like all rich men, you collect beautiful things. Paintings, real estate, women.”
Sam removed his hand and chuckled. “Come and see where I think your man got it wrong,” he said, heading to his office.
I followed him.
As I turned into the doorway, he nodded toward the wall. “Here,” he said. “I’m not sure if you didn’t want it there or if it’s just off.” He folded his arms and stared at three nudes lined up next to each other.
He was right. They looked off. The one on the left was slightly bigger and the background paper a little darker than the other two. It would look better in the middle. I checked the wall for the pencil marks, but they had been put exactly where I’d instructed. “I agree. This one”—I circled my hand at the picture in the middle—“needs to be swapped out with the one on the left.” I took two off their brackets and placed them on the floor, leaning them against the wall. “Let’s see if we need to change the fixture or if we can just swap them.”
“I think this works,” I said, moving them around. I stood back, mirroring Sam by folding my arms. “What do you think?” I glanced across at him, his eyelashes curling toward the ceiling, his five o’clock shadow giving his smooth suit a rugged look. Maybe the whiskey was underlining this buzz between us.
“I’m not trying to collect you,” he said.
I’d thought we left this conversation in the living room.