by Bay, Louise
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 spa
ce. “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. “And 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.
“You might be able to tell from my lack of . . . I’m not a big collector of things.”
So his furniture wasn’t on order or about to be delivered. This was it?
“But you bought this art,” I said. “And you asked me to be your consultant, which suggests you want to collect more.”
“But buying art makes financial sense. Hopefully.”
I sighed. Typical. “I thought you liked these,” I said, sweeping my arm in the direction of my secret collection.
“You’re right. I do, but I presumed that they’d make money. I mean, I’ve heard of Degas. I’m guessing that’s a good sign. And you told me I wouldn’t lose money. I trust you.”
He trusted me? Why? “It was a lot of money to drop on a gamble.”
He didn’t reply, but I could tell he was thinking about what I’d said as if he were only just considering his purchase.
“No need to be concerned. You made a good investment.” I didn’t want him to regret what he’d done, no matter the motivation. I wanted anyone who bought anything from my gallery to love and appreciate it. “And bonus,” I said with as much sarcasm as I could muster, “they’re actually beautiful pieces as well.”
A veil lifted and thoughts of his investment passed. “Not as beautiful as you.”
I rolled my eyes despite the fact that I wanted to believe he meant it. “But you don’t want to collect me.”
“No,” he replied. “I want to fuck you, make you wild, make you scream down these walls that have you so tightly wound.”
It was a more honest response than I’d expected. I had assumed we would continue our dance for a few more songs yet. He’d step forward, I’d step back. But he’d just upped the stakes—stopped the music. And I wasn’t quite ready.
“What walls?” I said, glancing around the almost-bare apartment, not understanding his last comment.
“You know Gordon, you know the west elevator opens on the twentieth floor.” He stuffed his hands into his pockets. “Maybe you lived here. Maybe your relatives have a place in the building. You’re a Park Avenue princess.”
It was Harper’s nickname for me, but coming from her it felt affectionate and silly. From him, the name was like a hair shirt that didn’t fit—a punishment made worse, uncomfortable and unnecessary. “I grew up in this building. My parents still live here.” I tipped back my whiskey and took the bottle from where he’d placed it on the windowsill and poured without offering him any.
“Not too much, Princess, I need you lucid.”
“For the fucking?” I asked, the alcohol making me brave. His analysis of me had meant to provoke and shock but I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.
His lips curled up into a small smile. It was one I’d not seen before—slightly shy mixed with a dash of wicked.
He nodded. “Yeah, for the fucking.” He
didn’t take his eyes from me as if he might miss something if he did.
“Does being that direct usually work for you? You know, with women?” I wasn’t trying to provoke. I was genuinely interested. I couldn’t remember a man being so blunt about wanting me before. Generally, it was me who made the decision that I wanted someone. Had there ever been a time when a man had asked me on a date? Most of my boyfriends couldn’t afford dinner.
I’d never considered it before but Sam’s aggressive pursuit of me brought my actions into sharp focus. I’d always given men all the power.
“So, just so I’m clear,” I said, “what happens after the fucking?”
Sam’s smile turned from wicked to amused. “After?”
I eyed my glass, wanting the illusion of bravery that it gave me but holding back from taking another sip because I also wanted to be lucid.
For the fucking.
I wanted to find out what it was like to be pursued. To be under a man as big, as confident, as in control as Sam Shaw.
“Nothing. I don’t do anything other than fuck.”
Oh. So, it was just sex that was on offer. My only other one-night stand had been in college. I couldn’t remember if the sex had been good, and that probably meant it hadn’t been. Certainly not memorable, in any event. Something about Sam Shaw told me a night with him would never be forgotten.
“I’m not so tightly wound, you know,” I said. “I live in Brooklyn.” He didn’t have me pegged.
He let out an almighty guffaw.
Heat whispered across my cheeks. I suppose it sounded silly, as if I were trying to make out that because I lived in Brooklyn, I wasn’t the Park Avenue princess he thought I was.
“I’m not sure you ever grow out of where you grow up,” he replied, his voice soft as he stroked the small of my back as if in apology.
I placed my hand on his chest, not knowing if I should push him away or pull him closer.
Chapter Seven
Sam
“So, Grace Astor,” I said, taking her whiskey glass and placing it on the windowsill next to the bottle. I wanted to kiss her. Touch her. Fuck her.
