“The heirs would love to get fifteen for it,” Rene said. “But for you, it would be only ten.”
Annette nodded. “Why don’t you show us the rest,” she said. “And then we’ll talk numbers.”
Rene pressed on. “Of course, you can see here in the way she’s sloped his shoulders and angled the neck the same lines in the portrait,” he said, pointing to the sketch. “It’s dated on the back, September of 38.”
Annette nodded again, and then stepped to Clifford’s side. She took him by the elbow and guided him further into the room. “Let’s look at what’s over here.”
Clifford looked at her, puzzled. Annette gave a very quick shake of her head, hoping Rene didn’t see the gesture. “I just want to see everything before we make any decisions.”
“The Carrington is the best piece,” Rene said, following them. “I’ve already had two people calling about it.” Just then, his phone rang. He glanced at it and smiled. “That’s one of the gentlemen now.” He stepped away to take the call.
“You don’t think it’s worth ten million?” Clifford said.
“I don’t think it’s worth ten dollars,” Annette replied. “Go look at it again.”
Clifford walked back in front of the sketch. He peered at it intensely. “I’m not seeing what you’re seeing, obviously. I really love the energy. It’s got a freshness about it.”
“The reason it’s got a freshness about it is because it’s fresh,” Annette said. She gestured toward Ernst’s arms working on the sculpture. “See those lines there? The swoop and glide? You’ve seen them before.”
“I have?” Clifford asked.
“In your Magritte,” Annette said. “There, they were painted, and here, they’re drawn, but the arm that made them was the same.” She gestured into empty space, indicating the way the artist moved while creating the work.
“Are you sure?” Clifford said.
“I’m absolutely sure,” Annette said. She lowered her voice. “On top of that, Carrington was notoriously private. She was known for destroying her preliminary work – and her breakup with Ernst was really, really ugly. You know she wound up in asylum after he left her.”
“I didn’t know that,” Clifford said.
“She did,” Annette said. “She had electroshock therapy, the whole nine yards. It was what they did at the time.”
“Horrible.”
“It was,” Annette agreed, “and from what I read, she never fully recovered. I find it hard to believe she would have kept any of her work from that time – especially this.”
“Maybe she didn’t,” Clifford replied. “She could have sold it then, or given it away. Maybe she gave it to Max.”
“After he got away from the Nazis, he took off,” Annette said. “And who could blame him?”
“You don’t think it’s real?”
“I know it’s not,” Annette replied. She felt absolutely certain of her position. “I can call Feigenbaum’s if you want me to, but they’ll tell you the same thing.” She cocked her head. “If you want to buy something, buy those prints in the hallway.”
“Not the Miró?” Clifford asked.
Annette shook her head. “If you like that one, there are better examples to be had. Sotheby’s has one coming to auction at the end of the month.”
“But I don’t like the prints,” Clifford pouted. “I do like this.”
Annette nodded. “It’s a gorgeous sketch.”
“And you’re still telling me no?”
“I am.” Annette cocked her head. “The question now is if you’re going to listen to me or not.”
Clifford stared at Annette for a long moment. “What if you’re wrong?”
“I’m not wrong.”
Clifford took a deep breath. “I really like this.”
Annette shrugged her shoulders. “You either trust me or you don’t. I’m telling you it’s fake, and it’s fake. But at the end of the day, it’s your money. Do what you want.” She fell silent as Rene rejoined them.
“I must say to you that you are not the only interested buyer,” Rene said. He indicated his phone. “Wilbur Ross is getting on a plane right now.”
Clifford’s body tensed.
“Tell me,” Annette said, speaking before her billionaire boss had the opportunity to. “Do we know how this sketch made it from Paris to Montreal?”
“It was during the war, apparently,” Rene answered. “We don’t have exact dates for every piece, but we know that a lot came over in 1940, 1941.”
Annette frowned. “Carrington would have been in Mexico then.”
“Perhaps,” Rene said. “There was a time when she was in Spain.” He shrugged. “It may be that this came over earlier. Or later.”
“We just don’t know, do we?” Annette looked at her watch. “Oh!” She said, letting a note of surprise enter her voice. She turned toward Clifford. “If you’re going to make that conference call with Madison and the Pittsburgh investors, we’re going to have to get going.”
“It’s that late?” Clifford said. His delivery was flawless; if Annette hadn’t of known better, she would have believed Clifford really did have a meeting scheduled. “Let’s head out. I’ll think about this,” he said to Rene. “You said eight and a half million?”
Rene smiled. “Ten, mon ami.”
Clifford nodded. “We will definitely be in touch.”
Chapter 9
One week later, Annette was carefully paging through the Christie’s catalog that had landed on her desk that morning. Clifford wanted her to identify any pieces that looked interesting, along with her own recommendations regarding what each piece was worth. She had her computer open, a search for recent auction prices running on her smartphone, and a reference book propped open to a chronological listing of major works.
“Look at you, hard at work,” Madison said. Annette looked up, startled. She hadn’t had much interaction with Clifford’s assistant since she’d started her new job; Madison was always, always busy.
“Well, I’ve got to earn my keep,” Annette said.
“I don’t think you have any worries on that account,” Madison said. Her smile was strange. “Can you come with me, please?”
Annette stood up. Her stomach sank. She was convinced that somehow Madison had found out about the night she’d spent with Clifford in Montreal. Despite her boss’ assurances, Annette knew their time together was totally unprofessional. She followed Madison down the hallway to Clifford’s office, certain that she was going to be dismissed from her position.
If that happened, Annette knew she couldn’t go back to Feigenbaum’s. They would never forgive her for disgracing the house’s good name.
What a stupid, stupid thing to do, Annette chastised herself. She had no illusion that Clifford seriously wanted to have a relationship with her. The night in Montreal was just a fluke, a one-off that never should have happened. Since they’d gotten back to the States, her boss had been friendly but distant: Madison had kept him extremely busy working on some kind of merger project.
Madison pushed Clifford’s door open without knocking. Clifford was sitting at his desk, reading through a pile of documents.
“Hey, what’s up?” he said. His smile broadened when he saw Annette. “Good morning!”
“It is a good morning,” Madison said. “It’s a great morning, in fact.”
“What’s so great about it?” Clifford asked.
“Guess who I just got off the phone with?”
“Who?”
“Shauna Murphy.” The name meant nothing to Annette, but it clearly did to Clifford. He cocked his head, clearly curious.
“Really.”
Madison nodded. “And do you know what she told me?”
“Wilbur bought the Carrington.”
Madison’s smile got wider. “That he did.”
“And…” Clifford glanced at Annette. “It’s a fake?”
“Yes, it is.” Madison spun on her heel. “You get a high five, girl!�
� She put her hand up in the air, meeting a startled Annette’s palm with a smack. “That’s twelve million dollars you saved us.”
“I knew it!” Annette exclaimed. Her voice came out a little louder than she’d meant it to, but she was too excited to care. “The way Max’s arms were in the drawing – they just looked wrong.”
“Wilbur’s not admitting anything, of course,” Madison said. “But according to Shauna, he’s furious.” She stared at Clifford for a long moment. “Apparently, he sent some associates to talk to Rene about exactly where the sketch came from.”
“I thought he knew the family,” Clifford said. “The ones who’d inherited the entire collection.”
“There is a family, and there is a collection,” Madison said. “But apparently Rene enhanced the collection with a few pieces of his own.”
“That’s why he was so sketchy when I questioned him about the provenance,” Annette said. “I thought he just didn’t like me.”
“Well, you weren’t there for him to like you,” Madison said. “You were there to do exactly what you did. Wilbur’s associates discovered that the Carrington came from one Hans Grüber.”
“You are kidding me,” Clifford said.
“I’m not,” Madison said. “The same man who burned you with the fake Magritte sold this sketch to Rene for two million.” She shrugged. “Apparently he needed some cash money in a hurry.”
“This is the part where you tell me Hans has been arrested, and we’re going to recover that twenty-two million, right?” Clifford asked.
“Sadly, no.” Madison’s smile faded. “This is the part where I tell you that Wilbur’s associates can’t find Hans anywhere.”
“Has he gone to the police?”
“You know Wilbur’s not going to go to the cops with this,” Madison replied. “Especially after all those comments he made to the media after you got burned.”
Clifford snorted. “I shouldn’t find that funny.” He laughed. “But I guess I do.”
“I’d rather have you laughing than crying,” Madison said. She turned to Annette. “Good job. There’s going to be a nice little bonus in your pay this week. Our way of saying thank you.”
“Thank you,” said Annette. “I mean, it’s not necessary – that is why I’m here, after all. But thank you.”
“It’s totally necessary!” Clifford said. He stood up behind his desk. “When I think about what a hard time you gave me when you told me no…you know I thought about going back and telling Rene I would take the sketch…”
Madison and Annette looked at each other. “I’m glad you didn’t,” Annette said.
“I’m not used to anyone second-guessing my decisions,” Clifford admitted. “No is not my favorite word.”
“It should be,” Madison said. “That no saved you twelve million.”
“He was asking me for ten,” Clifford protested. “And I probably would have gotten him down to nine.”
Annette burst out laughing. “Saving that three million wouldn’t have made you any happier when it turned out to be a phony.”
Madison laughed. “You don’t know Clifford very well, do you?” She shook her head. “If Wilbur Ross pays $50 for a pound of dog shit, Clifford will find someone to sell him dog shit for 25.”
Clifford blushed. “I’m not that bad,” he protested.
“Yes you are,” Madison said. “But this time, thanks to somebody’s wonderful plan…”
“Yes, yes, you were right.” Clifford looked at Annette and smiled. “Bringing you on board was one of the best decisions we ever made. We should go out and celebrate.”
“Now?” Annette looked at her watch. “It’s eleven o’clock in the morning.”
Clifford waved his hand. “That doesn’t matter. Madison, why don’t you book us a table for three?”
“Where did you want to go?” Madison had her phone out already.
“Tom’s place would be fine,” Clifford said. “Say in an hour or two?”
“All right,” Madison replied. Her eyebrow furrowed as she looked at her phone. “But it looks like it’s going to be the two of you. My Mama’s telling me I need to get my butt over there.” She sighed and looked at Clifford. “I swear; I can’t tell which one of you is a bigger pain in my ass.”
“Oh, definitely me.” Clifford said. “I’m sure of that.”
“If you say so.” Madison turned to Annette. “If you’ve got anything scheduled for the rest of the day, you’ll need to cancel. The food at Per Se is amazing, but it takes forever to get through a meal.”
“You’re going to love it here,” Clifford said, leading Annette to the big blue door in front of Per Se. “Tom is an absolute genius in the kitchen. In a twenty-course meal, you’ll never see the same ingredient twice.”
“Twenty courses!” Annette exclaimed. “I’m not sure I can eat that much.”
“Don’t worry,” Clifford said. “I had Madison tell him I’d want something a little simpler. And plenty of champagne.” He bent down and gave Annette a quick kiss – just enough to start her heart racing. “After all, we have your triumph to celebrate.”
“Our triumph,” Annette said. “After all, you should be congratulated for listening to me.” She mock-punched Clifford in the arm. “Especially considering how much you didn’t want to.”
The food at Per Se looked like tiny jewels, Annette thought. She was facing a plate full of small cubes. One was vivid orange, another brilliantly red.
“The red is beets,” Clifford said. “They taste much better than they have any right to.” He ate one off of his own plate, encouraging her to do the same.
Annette tried one, following it quickly with a gulp of champagne. “They’re not bad,” she said diplomatically.
Clifford laughed. “You don’t have to eat anything you don’t want to,” he said. “This is your celebration. You really saved me from making another mistake.”
“What gets me is that it’s the same painter creating these forgeries,” Annette said. “It has to be.”
Clifford shrugged. “I really didn’t see the similarity between the two pieces, even after you pointed it out.”
“It’s right there, like the nose on your face,” Annette said. The champagne was delicious, and no matter how much of it she had, her glass never seemed to get empty. “I don’t know how you didn’t see it.”
“Well, to be fair,” Clifford countered, “I don’t really see the nose on my face unless I’m looking in the mirror.”
“I can see my nose,” Annette proclaimed. She crossed her eyes just enough to look at her nose. “It’s right there.”
Clifford smiled. “And what a beautiful nose it is.”
“What’s this stuff?” Annette said, poking at the next plate presented to her. “Not more beets, I hope.”
“This is a Salmon Tartare, Madame.” The waiter said, stiffly.
Clifford waved him off. “It’s fish, darling. Very yummy.”
Annette took a bite. “Oh, this is good,” she said. “There’s only one thing that could make this better.”
“And what’s that?” Clifford asked, indulgently.
“If it were chocolates. Chocolate is always better than fish.” She hiccupped. “Oh, Clifford. I think I’m a little drunk.”
“A little, yes.” He smiled. “But you deserve it. You saved the day.”
Annette got to her feet. “This is all wonderful stuff. But I think I’ve had enough.” A waiter refilled her champagne glass. She drank a third of it in a swallow. “Except for champagne. There is never enough champagne.”
“Let me take you home,” Clifford moved closer, steadying Annette on her feet.
“Will we have more champagne?” she asked.
Clifford guided her toward the door. “You can have anything you want,” he growled softly in Annette’s ear. Their bodies were pressed so tightly together that Annette could feel Clifford’s heartbeat in her chest. His pulse was racing almost as fast as her own.
She tipped h
er head up for another kiss. Clifford’s lips tasted of champagne. The sidewalk was uncertain beneath her feet; Annette wobbled on her heels. “All right,” she said. “But I’ve got to warn you, my place is a disaster…”
Clifford laughed gently. “We’ll go to my place then.”
She nodded and fell against him, breathing in his scent. Clifford squeezed her tightly, letting one hand slide over her ass. With his free hand, he pulled his phone out of his pocket.
“What’re you doing?” Annette asked.
“Telling Alex to come pick us up,” Clifford replied. “I’m in no shape to drive.” He kissed Annette again. “Especially when there are much better ways to occupy my time.”
Annette blushed. The idea of the driver watching the view in the rear view mirror as Clifford touched her body was unexpectedly exciting; she could feel her nipples stiffening against her blouse.
“All right.” Her hand brushed against the front of Clifford’s trousers. His desire was evident. “But how in the world will we spend our time until he arrives?”
Clifford took half a step backward, introducing a little distance between their bodies. “With a little discretion.” He kissed her nose. “Don’t worry. You won’t have to wait long to get what you want.”
Alex arrived driving the black town car, pulling to the curb directly in front of Clifford and Annette. Clifford opened the back door, ushering Annette inside. She slid across the leather seats, heels dragging over the carpeted floor.
Clifford joined her, shutting the door behind him. Annette expected him to speak to Alex, but he didn’t, not a word. All of the billionaire’s attention was focused on her.
“You are so beautiful,” he said, slipping a hand under Annette’s and letting his fingers curl gently over the back of her neck. The contact made her moan; when he squeezed, she bit her lower lip.
“That’s nice,” he said. Clifford put his other hand on Annette’s knee, sliding slowly upward under her blue skirt. “I can’t wait to feel your body.”
Annette looked up briefly at the rear view mirror to see if Alex was watching. Clifford caught the flash of her eyes. He smiled and moved to beginning unbuttoning Annette’s blouse.
“Stop,” she whispered. “What are you doing?”
Romance: The Campus Player: A College Romance Page 34