Mason laughed softly. “As it so happens, I have two tickets. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but that gallery is a couples event.”
“A what now?”
“A couples event. As in, you need a broad to get you in the door. Or a gentleman. I hear Madison doesn’t discriminate.”
“Fuck,” I muttered. “Okay, that’s fine. I can get a girl. E-mail me the passes when you can.” I paused. “Thanks, Mason. I owe you one.”
“Speak nothing of it,” Mason said. Then his voice dropped. “Chelsea is lovely. I’m repaying the favor.” The line disconnected.
I smiled. I always could count on Mason. But now the problem was where to find a girl last minute. I could call up a past fling and she’d be thrilled to hear from me again, but I wasn’t in the mood to get any one of my previous conquests’ hopes up. It seemed unnecessarily cruel and also probably distracting while I tried to talk to Bertram. I considered just hiring one. Good escort agencies aren’t cheap, but then again I didn’t really care much about money these days. On the other hand, I really disliked paying for women. That was the last resort of a desperate man. Which I was certainly not.
Then it occurred to me that there was a girl who, in a way, was a combination of the two options — a past fling as eager not to restart it as I was with the bonus of already being on my payroll.
My lips tightened into a smile at the thought of calling Beck and telling her that she was needed — at Love, Lust, and Legs — A Symphony of Sex and Sin. Don’t worry, it’s a work thing.
A laugh escaped me. It was decided then. But first I needed to make another call. I doubted the girl from Kentucky had anything to wear and I’d be happy to provide.
* * *
The cloudy day had turned to rain by the time my driver, Roy, pulled the limo up in front of the address Beck had given me. It pounded on the windows as I waited for her to appear from the dingy doors which led to what I assumed was an even dingier lobby. If the place even had a lobby. There most definitely wasn’t a doorman.
I hadn’t given her much time to prepare. I’d only called two hours ago, from the Tempest, shortly after I’d hung up with Mason. The conversation had been quick:
“I need you dressed and ready for a work function in two hours.”
A pause.
“What’s the address?”
“I’ll pick you up.”
“What’s the dress code?”
“I’ve sent something.”
Short, formal, spoken flatly and professionally, but I could tell she hadn’t wanted to come. I didn’t blame her. Who wanted to spend a Saturday evening with their boss?
Someone who wanted to stay employed.
I adjusted the cuff of my charcoal gray suit. It was bespoke, made specifically for me and cost more than most people’s rent for the year. It was worth it though. The suit breathed light and cool even in the muggy damp of the summer storm, and hopefully would as well in what I suspected would be a steamy interior at the art gallery. Perspiration was a sign of exhaustion and nerves, of weakness. Able needed to see me at my most confident, otherwise this night was going to be a waste of time I absolutely did not have.
I checked my Rolex. It was seven fifty-nine. If Beck was even a minute late for this pick up, she was fired. I didn’t have time for incompetence at any time in my life, but especially not now.
Eight o’clock. I tapped on the divider. Roy lowered it.
“Looks like she won’t be coming,” I said. “Let’s go.” Damn. Now I had to find a girl last minute and a new assistant. Maybe I’d just call her into my office tomorrow and give her one more chance—
The limo door was yanked open and Beck did a swan dive into the seat, impressive considering the three-inch heels she was wearing. I instinctively jumped back as she flew through the door, worried for a moment that I was about to be attacked by an insane person. Instead, I got a pointedly annoyed look from Beck as she sat upright and attempted to smooth out her dress and straighten her hair.
“What the hell was that?” I asked.
“I just spent two hours getting ready,” she replied. “I’m not going to ruin it all in the rain.”
Duh. I wanted to smack my forehead. I’d been so preoccupied thinking about Able that I hadn’t considered sending Roy out with an umbrella to wait by the door for her. But I wasn’t going to admit that I’d made a mistake.
“Why didn’t you bring an umbrella?” I asked.
She shrugged. “I don’t have one. And besides,” she paused to examine her reflection in the glossy mirror of the darkened windows, “I don’t think the damage is that bad.” She glanced at the seat that had been her landing pad and brushed some of the loose droplets away. “Sorry I got your limo wet.”
I waved away the concern. I could have a fifteen-person orgy in here and the company I rented from wouldn’t blink an eye as long as I kept giving them money. A little water was the least of my concerns — and theirs.
Roy started the limo and pulled away from the sidewalk, into the evening traffic. I watched Beck try to find somewhere to rest her eyes. They darted from the mini-bar to the window, glanced across my face, and then focused on a spot of black seat leather. It didn’t take an overly attuned individual to notice that she was uncomfortable and trying not to show it.
I, on the other hand, felt an overpowering sense of calm with her riding in the limo beside me. I couldn’t quite explain the feeling, but any lingering nerves about the meeting with Able had been driven from my mind. Maybe because to fear is to suspect failure and I knew that I would not make a fool of myself in front of Beck. I wouldn’t allow it and that gave me comfort.
“You look nice,” I said to break the silence.
She glanced over at me sharply like she thought I was messing with her. That couldn’t be further from the truth. Though I knew, firmly, that my assistant was off limits, I couldn’t help but take a moment to admire how she looked in the dress I’d picked out for her. The red dress hugged her curves and cut perfectly just above her knees. My eyes traveled further down, past the line of her dress and down her long, tanned legs to the black, red-soled heels on her feet.
I mentally slapped my eyes back up to her face. Now was not the time to be in lust with my assistant. If she was going to be a distraction than she’d have to go and I didn’t want that. Not because I liked her or anything. Because she’d be difficult to replace. Thankfully she’d looked away, back out the window, in time to not notice me checking her out.
“Thank you for sending the dress and the shoes,” she said. “I can bring them back on Monday.” She chose each word carefully, as if a wrong word would offend me.
“Don’t bother,” I said. The dress and Louboutins were hardly an expense.
“I will,” she insisted. There was a hard edge in her voice, and her blue eyes met mine, staring me down as if daring me to contradict her.
Her unwillingness to accept my gift bugged me. It was a good dress, expensive and well made. Had she ever owned designer clothes in her life? I doubted it. She was acting like there were hidden strings attached to it and that couldn’t be further from the truth. I wasn’t breaking my bank to buy my high school crush a piece of jewelery. I was a highly successful businessman trying to show a little generosity. And what was I getting in return?
Ingratitude.
“Fine,” I said stiffly. “But keep in mind that these events come up frequently in my life and you’ll often be expected to be by my side. I’ve given you a pass this time as you’ve recently been hired, but in the future I expect you to not embarrass me. You can’t show up to a gallery opening in what you were wearing the other night. That might have flown in a honky tonk in Georgia, but New York is a different story.”
She flushed and her eyes flashed daggers. “First of all, I’m from Kentucky, and secondly I was gifted that dress by someone from New York.”
“Well, she obviously doesn’t have very good taste,” I remarked.
“She’s on your des
ign team,” Beck stated. “And you didn’t seem to have a problem with it the other night,” she added.
For a moment, she looked just as surprised as me at the double hitter she’d just let fly, but she quickly recovered back to defensive. I, on the other hand, was so taken aback that I let out a laugh.
“What’s so funny?” she asked, suspicious.
I couldn’t help myself. A smile loosened my face. It felt good to laugh with so much riding on this conversation with Able. I shook my head and tried to smother my grin. Beck might have been country, but she had a New York fire in her too. I could respect that.
“Nothing,” I said. “Keep the dress or don’t. It’s up to you. But that’s not what’s important anyway. Tonight is a big night for the company and I appreciate you canceling plans to be here.”
Beck looked a little taken aback at the turn in conversation, but she knew better than to question it. “Of course,” she said. “Where exactly are we going? Did you say a gallery opening?”
“Something like that.”
Almost as soon as the words left my mouth, the limo came to a halt. Roy got out and opened the door for us. The rain had halted temporarily though the clouds suggested more. I looked up at the address as I exited and saw a low-rise, postwar building with tall, floor-to-ceiling windows making up its top two floors. Lights flickered behind dark glass and I saw silhouettes moving about. That had to be the gallery and I indicated it to Beck.
“That’s where we’re going,” I said.
“What are we doing here?”
“We’re looking for someone.”
I led her across the sidewalk and opened an unmarked door, holding it for her to enter. In a narrow hallway, a grave-faced man stood behind a counter, dressed in a formal uniform.
“We’re here for the exhibition,” I said.
“Tickets?” he asked.
I reached into my pocket and pulled out the pieces of paper Mason had sent to my office earlier that evening. One was an odd shape, not instantly recognizable until you noticed that the other was cut in the shape of a cock and balls. Then it was clear that the first was supposed to be a uterus. I saw Beck’s eyes widen out of the corner of my eye as she honed in on them, and I stifled a smirk.
The serious ticket-taker took them without a second glance. “You may proceed,” he said. “The gallery is on the top floor.”
I nodded my thanks and continued down the hall toward the elevator, a speechless Beck in my wake. She stayed quiet in the time that it took for the elevator to arrive and it wasn’t until we were standing inside, jetting upward to God-knows-what that she spoke.
“This is a sex thing, isn’t it?” she asked.
I glanced at her. “I believe it’s art,” I said as seriously as I could.
She rolled her eyes. “You know what I mean.”
I huffed a small laugh. “I believe the exhibition name is Love, Lust, and Legs: A Symphony of Sex and Sin.”
Her jaw dropped in a mix of shock and disgust. “Are you serious?” she asked.
“I’m always serious,” I said.
“Why in the world would you take me to a sex exhibition?” she demanded. “Isn’t it already awkward enough working together?”
“I don’t find it awkward,” I stated. “And I brought you because I needed a partner last minute. Don’t worry. I’m sure it’s not going to be—”
The doors slid open and I fell silent as we came face-to-face with a eight-foot-tall plaster giant, hands on his hips, generous erection extending a welcoming hand.
Her eyes burned a hole into the side of my head. “Do you want to finish that sentence?”
I tightened my mouth and dragged my eyes away from the grinning statue to meet hers. “No, I would not. But we’re going in. Too much is riding on this.” I extended an arm to her and after a moment of hesitation, she took it.
“I better be getting overtime for this,” she muttered.
The gallery was dark, the walls and carpet black with zero overhead light. Instead the displays — paintings and statues — were lit on all sides. The contrast made each exhibit pop in the darkness, unfortunately drawing the eye directly to each one. Thankfully, the gallery wasn’t overly crowded and we could walk down the center of the aisle without worrying about bumping into any of the impressively lifelike replications.
After the initial shock, Beck recovered nicely. She walked beside me confidently, straight-backed and seemingly unperturbed by the smorgasbord of sex surrounding us.
“Who are we looking for?” she asked as we twisted and turned our way through the exhibit.
“His name is Able Bertram,” I said. “He’s on my board of directors and the deciding vote in halting a project I’m working on. I’d like to run into him and convince him that it’s a good idea to back me.”
Beck nodded. “What’s his issue with your idea?”
“I want to buy and flip a building that’s bringing down the price of a larger project I wanted to start this summer. The general consensus of the opposing side is that, with all the money we’ve already sunk into the first project on top of the other sites we have around the city, an additional property is too much of a strain on our finances. That’s the excuse, but I’m starting to think Tom — he’s the head of the board — just wants to make me look bad. Force me to sell the Astor, net a loss, and pressure me into an early retirement so he can put someone easier to deal with as the CEO.”
She smiled. “Are you not easy to deal with?”
“Not for people who need everyone to be a follower. Which is what Able is, a follower. We’re here to convince him that he’s following the wrong man.”
Beck pulled slightly at my arm, not deliberately, just a twitch of hesitation as she noticed a painting more abstract than the rest. I stopped and nodded at it.
“It’s okay,” she said quickly. “We’re looking for your guy.”
“We’re also blending in,” I said. “I don’t want him to know I followed him here.”
We moved closer, out of the pathway and I looked up at it, trying to decipher the lines and shapes. I’d never been one for art — too abstract, too emotional. Give me hard facts and numbers any day. But Beck looked at it like it was the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen. The painting seemed to absorb her, pulling her away from me, away from the gallery and all the people flowing behind us, away from all care and worry and centering her in its swirling message. What was it saying to her? What did it mean? How did it block out the marching row of humanoid penises waving top hats and canes directly to our left?
Some questions just can’t be voiced.
“Do you like art?” I asked instead. The words escaped me, interrupting her trance, and I wished I could pull them back in. I wished I had a few more seconds of watching her shining eyes, of tracing the curve of her delicate chin.
She didn’t seem to mind the question though. “I love art,” she said, still staring up at the painting. “I wanted to be an artist in high school. Then I started college for design. It was a more ‘realistic’ career path, but I loved it too.”
Thinking back to her resume, I vaguely remembered a half-finished degree. “Where did you go to college?”
“The University of Kentucky, but—” The light in her eyes faded as she recalled something.
“Sorry,” I muttered stiffly. “I don’t mean to pry.” Why was I apologizing? I hadn’t apologized in years. But I felt like I’d just stepped into waters I had no business intruding upon.
“No, it’s okay,” she said. She looked down, breaking away from the art. “My Dad got sick toward the end of my sophomore year. I dropped out to take care of him. I always intended to go back, but I got engaged and, well, Troy never wanted me to leave Gainesville. He said he’d take care of us both. Which—” She huffed a laugh. “Yeah right.”
“Deadbeat?” I asked.
“Yeah but with the family money to back it up,” she said. “He was—” She stopped talking and looked up at me sharply, as if
just realizing what she was doing. “Sorry,” she said. “You don’t want to hear about this.”
I was surprised to find that I did. Behind that pretty face, Beck had a tough side, more than just fiery words but actual grit.
“Don’t worry about it,” I said. “We should move on though. I don’t want to miss Able.”
She nodded and we continued to move about the gallery. I examined the faces I passed, but mostly I looked for shape. Able was a large man, both tall and round, and he cast a distinctive shadow.
An awkward silence descended on the two of us. We hadn’t been exactly chatty before, but now, after talking at the painting, the ice had been broken. The problem was that neither of us seemed to know what to say.
Finally, I asked, “Who’s your favorite artist?”
She didn’t hesitate. “Mason Reads,” she said.
Mason? My Mason? Something not unlike jealousy arose in my gut, but I sucked it back. Why should I care if Beck was an admirer of his work? Hell, she probably loved Twain’s books and movies too.
“The tickets to this exhibit?” I said. “I got them from Mason Reads. We’re old friends.”
She rounded on me, eyes wide. “Are you serious?” she asked.
I was just about to remind her that I was always serious when I spotted a protruding stomach poking around a sculpture of a tree growing breasts like fruit.
“There he is,” I said under my breath.
Able Bertram had once been a triathlete; at least, that’s what I’d been told. Any evidence of a competitor’s physique had long since disappeared under a healthy layer of blubber. The fact that he used to train indicated that, at one point, he cared about something, but those days had long since past. Bertram had been in the business world for fifty years and hadn’t made a firm decision since the eighties. After stumbling his way into nepotistic success by marrying the daughter of a prominent businessman, he amassed a fortune and spent more time going to events than he ever did in the boardroom.
Would I be able to change his mind? I guess we would soon see.
Able saw me almost as soon as the words left my mouth. He raised a hand in greeting and then excused himself from his conversation and came tromping over. Beck stepped away from me as he got closer. I glanced at her, wondering why, but before I had a chance to ask, Able was upon us.
The Boss (Billionaires of Club Tempest #1) Page 7