The Art of Stealing Hearts (4 page)

“Don’t
be. I get it,” he
says, and it sounds like he means it too.

We turn back to the
painting. He’s
standing right beside me, and I can feel the heat of his body down
the length of mine, the brush of his sleeve soft against my bare arm.

“Just think,”
he says,
stepping closer so that his shoulder touches mine. “This
canvas has brushstrokes that are thousands of years old. Unlike this
new tie, which I had to buy yesterday since some klutz spilled coffee
all over mine.”

Busted! I smack him
on the bicep. His hard, defined bicep under his expensive suit. “You
do remember me!”

“How could I
forget my first run-by coffee-ing?”
He grins.
“You
killed my favorite tie.”

“You said you
didn’t
like that one!”

“Men lie to
pretty girls all the time.”

I blush. God, is
there any way to keep my body from advertising my attraction? “I
said I’d
buy you a new one. Though I like the blue in this one.”

“Because it
brings out my eyes?” he
teases.

“Is that the
line you want to hear?” I
scoff, faking an eye-roll, even though my heart is racing. “Or
is it just what you’d
say to some hot girl you just met?”

“So we’re
back to you admitting I’m
hot.”

I give a casual
shrug. “I
didn’t
even notice the color of your eyes.”

“So we’re
back to you being a horrible liar.”

I laugh out loud and
the cluster of fancy art folks turns to stare. I check the room for
Stanford or Lydia. All clear. For now. Phew.

“So you got
the job, I take it?” the
mysterious hot collector says.

“Well, sort
of.” I
pause, remembering why I was sent in here. “In
fact, I should probably get back to work before my boss…”

He lifts his tie.
“I’ll
let you spill something on this one if you stay.”

I laugh again,
quieter this time, and he gives me a full strength smile, like Adonis
himself flashing his pearly whites. I’m
about to say something flirty—God
I hope I’m
not fawning—when
I hear my name from the least sexy voice ever.

“Grace?”
It’s
Lydia, walking toward us in what would be a stomp if she weren’t
wearing totteringly high heels. “What
the hell are you doing back here?”

“Stanford sent
me to get more chairs,” I
stammer.

Lydia gives me a
patronizing smile. “I
don’t
see any chairs in your arms.”

She turns her back
to me. “Mr.
St. Clair, I’m
so sorry, I hope she wasn’t
a bother. These new hires, well.”
Lydia places
a hand on his shoulder, and now she’s
the one who’s
fawning. “We
know how busy you are and we wouldn’t
want to keep you with trivial matters like…this.”
She flutters
her hand in my general direction.

“Oh no,”
he says. “It
was my fault. I asked her a question about
The
Judgment of Paris
here. She was very knowledgeable. I’d
say you hired well.”

For a moment Lydia
just blinks, grasping for words. “Well.
Wonderful. That’ll
be all, Grace.” She
turns Mr. St. Clair toward the doors that lead back to the main hall
and I start to go since I’ve
so obviously been dismissed, but Mr. St. Clair says, “So
nice to meet you, Grace…?”

“Bennett,”
I say,
smiling despite Lydia’s
evil eye.

“Charles,”
he says and
offers his hand. I put my hand in his—smooth,
warm, and just the right amount of pressure in his grip—and
smother a smirk at Lydia’s
wide-eyed surprise as he kisses the tops of my fingers. My whole body
shivers and I hope he can’t
see the effect he’s
having on me.
Oh
please, weak knees, do not fail me in front of my boss.

“I’ll
see you around, I’d
imagine,” he
says, letting go of my hand.

“See you,”
I manage.

Lydia glares at me.
“The
chairs won’t
carry themselves.”

Charles—such
a perfectly regal name—winks
at me as Lydia steers him away and I try to remember how to move, to
get my blood flowing back to my limbs and away from other, deeper
places.

Stanford rushes
toward me looking panicked. “Where
have you been?!”

“Just admiring
the view,” I
say watching Charles’ sculpted
ass as he walks away, the way the muscles of his back narrow into his
waist.

What does swooning
feel like exactly? Because I’m
feeling pretty light-headed right now.

“Chairs! Now!”
Stanford says
and literally pushes me back to reality.

Guess the swooning
will have to wait.

By eight, the white
chairs are lined up in perfect rows in the main hall, the lobby is
set with small tables and a bar, and classical music is playing
softly as people begin to arrive, right on time. Fashionably early is
the new fashionably late, I guess. Of course, what do I know? Just
that it’s
8:01 and the place is already jumping.

I carry a tray of
canapés—prosciutto
wrapped figs with goat cheese that are so delicious I’ve
snuck three into my mouth in the last ten minutes—through
the glamorous society crowd, men in suits and women in cocktail
dresses with designer clutches. I haven’t
eaten since lunch and the food smells heavenly, all of it, and it
doesn’t
help that none of the tiny-waisted women are eating and the men are
more interested in their scotch.

“Canapé?”

“I really
shouldn’t,”
a
large-bellied older man in an expensive suit says to me as he grabs
the last fig. “Don’t
tell my wife,” he
winks. His hand grazes my ass as I walk away, but I force myself to
keep moving. If Lydia wasn’t
impressed by me talking to Charles earlier, she definitely won’t
want me kicking her prize clients in the balls.

I swing through the
back area to switch out my empty tray and see Lydia guiding Chelsea
around the room. The new intern is dressed to the nines in a shimmery
black dress and heels with a string of actual pearls around her neck,
smiling confidently as Lydia introduces her to the glitterati of the
Bay Area arts scene.

Chelsea will be set
for life with these connections, as if she didn’t
have enough already, while I’m
invisible tonight with my server’s
apron on. But, I suppose if I can’t
join them, at least I can watch, like window shopping with my mom in
Union Square at Christmas. It was so pretty, and fun just to look and
see what amazing things existed in the world, even if we couldn’t
have them. I make sure to keep my smile on as I circle the room.

“Champagne?”
I offer
glasses to a couple discussing a piece that will be on display later.
They each take glasses without looking at me. “I
hear it is expected to fetch at least a million,”
the woman
says.

“We won’t
go that high,” the
man says, sipping his drink. “I’m
out at eight fifty.”

The woman pouts.
“But
you didn’t
let me buy that bracelet the other day…”

A million
dollars…eight
hundred and fifty thousand…I
can’t
believe they’re
talking so casually about such huge amounts of money.

I sneak a peek at
the auction brochure for tonight that someone left on a table in the
lobby, and holy freaking crapola. There isn’t
a painting here listed for less than a three hundred thousand dollar
starting bid. Starting! Some of Europe’s
finest Renaissance artist’s
works are here tonight, some of them never before available for
purchase, and I’ll
get to see them in person. Maybe not up close if I’m
serving drinks, but still, I get to be in the presence of genius, of
history, of beauty. For the first time tonight, I’m
actually glad the caterer messed up!

I make another round
with the champagne, keeping an eye out for Charles. I can’t
help replaying our flirty banter in my head –
and the way
he kissed my hand like I was royalty, and not just a lowly clerk.

I finally see him
across the room, and my hopes fall. He’s
chatting with a gorgeous woman in a black Versace pantsuit, her hair
pulled back into a traditional bun with a jeweled band wrapped around
the base. Classy. Damn, I hope that’s
not his girlfriend. But how could he not have a girlfriend? Handsome,
charming, rich…he
probably has several girlfriends, come to think of it.

“Ladies and
gentlemen,” a
man I don’t
recognize speaks up, and the chatter hushes. “If
you would follow me please, we’re
ready to begin.”

I follow them toward
the main hall, still thinking about the lots on display tonight and
what it would be like to have a paddle and money to spend. What would
it be like to be able to actually buy a masterpiece, a piece of
artistic legacy, just because I loved it? The Rubens wasn’t
listed in the brochure, but that’s
what I would buy if I had several million dollars. How amazing would
it be to have that hanging in my apartment?

It would go
perfectly with my thrift-store patchwork quilt and Ikea coffee table.

“There better
be some dope nudes!”

A guy is walking in
front of me, wearing sneakers and a hoodie. I recognize him as Andrew
Tate, a tech billionaire who has a reputation for being a total ass.

“Be careful
what you wish for,” his
friend says. “Lots
of dicks in these European paintings and sculptures. I, for one, can
do with less dick.”

“That’s
what she said!” Andrew
guffaws at his own joke as he and his friend take their seats.
“Seriously
though,” Andrew
says. “There
are never enough breasts on display at these things. Show me the
boobs and I’ll
show you the money.”

“You need to
save that money for the surprise lot at the end. The rumor is that
it’s
a true masterpiece, something unique and incredible.”

“Masterpiece,
schmasterpiece. Art is just money. How much it is worth?”

“Not as much
as it will be worth a year from now once people have seen it.”

“Well that’s
even better than boobs,” Andrew
says.

I have to stop
myself from kicking him. Guys like him don’t
appreciate art as anything more than an investment. I bet he shows up
at these things just to outbid all his friends, and then sticks the
painting in a basement somewhere until his accountant tells him to
sell. It’s
a crime.

“Welcome,
everyone, to Carringer’s.”
The
auctioneer introduces himself and then continues on. “This
is an auction house with a storied history, and tonight, we’ll
add to that great legacy with our latest works.”

A small painting is
wheeled up onto the stage, and is also magnified on a screen above
the stage so everyone can have a closer look. “Anthony
van Dyck.
Portrait
of a Young Maiden
.
Shall we start the bidding at one hundred thousand dollars?”

I stand at the back
of the auction hall, my empty tray hanging at my side, but I can feel
the huge upswing in energy in the room even from here. People whisper
to each other and lean forward in their seats. A paddle goes up. The
tension rises.

“One hundred
thousand. Do I hear one fifty?”
Another
paddle. “Two
hundred?” There
is a brief lull, but then another round white plastic paddle with the
Carringer’s
logo and a bright red number shoots up into air like a rocket. It’s
so exciting!

“Two hundred
thousand. Do I hear two fifty?” This
goes on for a while until the bid reaches eight hundred thousand
dollars. I can’t
even imagine what I could do with that amount of money.

“Eight hundred
thousand going once…going
twice…sold!
To number 217.” The
painting is rolled away and another canvas arrives on stage, unveiled
with a dramatic gesture. I watch the room this time, not the art
stage. It’s
like a whole show out there, everybody vying for their spot. People
who had tuned out during the last round suddenly perk up—you
can tell each person is here for something specific. The bids climb
and climb, paddles shooting into the air until the final bid stops at
half a million. It goes on like this, some lots creating heated
bidding wars and others going to one person without contest.

The auctioneer’s
voice controls the room. “Do
I hear one million?” One
million!

I’m
totally swept up in the drama. It’s
amazing. Bidders clearly have different tactics, too. Some wait until
the other bidders have exhausted themselves and swoop in at the last
minute. Others fight tooth and nail, upping bit by bit in the tens of
thousands and glaring at each other all the while.

“One point one
million? Anyone?”

Andrew, who I’ve
named Asshole Andrew in my head, hasn’t
bid on anything yet, but I can tell he likes to win no matter what.
He will be an emotional bidder, like many of the women who sigh and
pout when they lose.

“One point
three million going once…”

My gaze goes to St.
Clair, seated near the front with his beautiful friend. He’s
a measured bidder. He bids half-heartedly on a few of the Baroque
options, always whispering with his stunning sidekick between paddle
raises, but he never seems to really want any of the pieces enough to
go after them. It’s
like he’s
waiting for the Rubens, like that’s
his singular interest.

“Sold! For one
point three million dollars to number 105,”
the
auctioneer says in his measured cadence. “Wonderful.
Now, ladies and gentlemen, we are going to take a short intermission.
Please enjoy the cocktails and hors d’oeuvres
and we’ll
see you back here in twenty minutes.”

Immediately the
noise level amplifies and the classical music starts up again. People
talk and laugh as they filter back into the lobby and I rush to pick
up my next tray. White wine. “Chenin
Blanc, 2001, Napa Valley,” the
caterer says, shooing me out the door.

The next fifteen
minutes are a blur of repeating the wine order and trying to keep
said wine from spilling all over my silver tray. I keep an eye out
for St. Clair—maybe
that’s
why I keep almost spilling—but
don’t
see him or his sexy girlfriend/art consultant. Which is she, I
wonder…?