Beauty & Her Billionaire Boss

by Barbara Wallace

  Thinking of her boss made her insides sag. He was nowhere to be found when she woke up this morning. That didn’t surprise her, he was nowhere to be found most of the time, but Piper sort of hoped that after last night, the routine might have changed. She still couldn’t shake the image of him staring out his salon window. Looking so solitary and distant. So alone.

  There’s a word for what you’re doing, you know. Projecting or connecting, something like that. Whatever the word, she needed to stop. Just because she was in another sad mood didn’t mean her boss was too.

  Her feet hurt, protesting having to wear sandals after months of wearing sturdy shoes. She looked around for a café where she could give them a break. There was one on the corner with a maroon-and-white awning that wasn’t overly crowded. Helping herself to one of the empty rattan chairs that lined the sidewalk, she had just pulled out her cell phone when she heard a familiar-sounding voice ordering an espresso.

  No way. She looked to her left. Even with aviator sunglasses covering his face, she recognized Frederic’s profile instantly.

  He was alone. At least the chair across from him was empty, and judging from the way his long legs were stretched out to claim the table’s real estate, he wasn’t expecting a guest to arrive anytime soon. Piper’s eyes traveled their length, from his wingtips to the muscular thighs that disappeared beneath the tablecloth. In contrast to last night, today he looked the picture of ease.

  Must be nice to feel so confident instead of having to fake it all the time. And to be that good-looking. Patience was always saying that being beautiful wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. Piper wouldn’t know. She was never someone people thought of as beautiful. When the guys in high school made fun of Patience’s job, they did so with a glaze of lust in their eyes. No one’s eyes ever glazed for Piper.

  Just then, as though sensing her stare, Frederic turned in her direction. Piper started to shrink back into the shadows, then caught herself and waved instead. He didn’t wave back.

  She was about to take offense when she realized she wasn’t in his field of vision. Smoothing her skirt, she walked toward his table.

  “Bonjour, monsieur,” she greeted with a smile.

  * * *

  The sound of an American accent jarred Frederic from his thoughts. He knew of only one person who spoke French with an accent like that. Blinking out of his fog, he found a whirl of yellow and red in his line of sight. Lifting his eyes, he saw a familiar brunette head. “Piper? Where did you come from?”

  “Two tables over. I waved, but you weren’t paying attention.”

  She was being polite. They both knew he didn’t wave because she wasn’t sitting in his field of view.

  “Lost in thought,” he replied, continuing the pretense.

  “I’m not bothering you, am I?” Piper’s question brought him back.

  “Not at all. I’m killing time after an appointment is all.” Yet another pointless meeting with his ophthalmologist. He went every few months simply to hear that his eyes were still diseased.

  “And you?”

  “Killing time before an appointment, actually.”

  Sitting back in his chair, Frederic found himself wishing he’d been paying attention when she approached. Whenever he saw Piper at the apartment, she wore either her chef’s jacket or that awful maid uniform that was the antithesis of every French maid fantasy ever written. This sundress, however... The bright colors definitely suited her better. Plus, there was an expanse of flesh around her shoulders he didn’t normally get to enjoy.

  “Are you meeting a classmate?” he asked. A date would certainly explain the dress. Why he was suddenly intrigued by her social life, Frederic wasn’t sure, except that the memory of her crying by the kitchen counter refused to leave him. He found it odd, an attractive American—and she was attractive as that expanse of skin attested—spending her evenings in Paris alone.

  “I’m supposed to meet with someone at the Rose d’Arms,” she said. “It’s a retirement home a block or so from here.”

  “Looking for a surrogate grandmother?”

  “Hardly,” she said with a laugh. A very pleasant-sounding laugh, too. Like bells. “I’m doing a favor for my sister.”

  “At a retirement home?”

  “It’s a long story. I won’t bore you with the details. I really just stopped by to say hello. I’ll let you get back to whatever it was you were...”

  “Please. Stay. We can kill time together.”

  “Are you sure?”

  There was hesitancy in her voice. Frederic couldn’t blame her. Eight months of hardly talking, and now here they were on their third conversation in two days. “I wouldn’t have offered if I wasn’t sure,” he told her. “There is no reason for the two of us to sit at separate tables when we are both by ourselves. Besides, you have me intrigued.”

  The café had arranged the tables as so many cafés in the city did, with the seats side by side so that patrons could enjoy the view. As Piper slipped into the seat beside his, Frederic was struck by an aroma of vanilla and spices that made his mouth water. “Did you bake today?” he asked.

  “No. I skipped class. Why?”

  “No reason.” Who knew a person could smell delicious? “Tell me this long story of yours.”

  Piper took a deep breath. “Apparently, Ana, my sister’s boss, lived with an artist here in Paris in the seventies and posed for a bunch of paintings. Her great-nephew, Stuart, is hoping to surprise her with one as a gift, so Patience asked me if I would talk to the artist’s sister to see if any of his paintings survived.”

  “Doesn’t your sister realize there are easier ways to track down an artist’s work? If he is well-known...”

  “This is where it gets complicated.”

  She paused while the waitress brought his espresso and she placed her order.

  “Complicated how?”

  “The artist died in an accident a long time ago. According to Ana, he would have been huge—like Picasso huge—but then Theodore Duchenko went and bought up...”

  “Wait...” Frederic needed to go back a step. “Did you say Theodore Duchenko?”

  Piper nodded. “That’s right. Patience works for his sister, Ana Duchenko.”

  Unbelievable. Duchenko Silver was world renowned. Frederic knew curators who gushed over adding a piece of the famed Russian silver to their collections. As for the late Theodore Duchenko, the man had been considered one of the most ruthless tycoons of the twentieth century. “You’re saying that you’re trying to track down a portrait of Ana Duchenko.”

  “Not just a portrait. A nude,” Piper replied. “Nigel painted a bunch, and they were supposedly pretty racy, which is why...”

  “Duchenko wanted them destroyed,” he finished for her. “This is astounding. The Duchenko name, it is...well, let us say that if a portrait still exists, the significance in terms of pop culture alone would be immeasurable.”

  “I don’t think Stuart cares if the painting has any kind of value—he just wants to give his aunt back a piece of her history. The way my sister tells it, Ana truly loved the man.”

  The waitress returned with her café au lait. “It’s all very tragic, really,” Piper said, taking a sip.

  Tragic but exciting. Frederic found his curiosity piqued in a way he hadn’t felt in years. Not since his university days. “There is nothing like the thrill of discovering a new artist,” he told her. “The euphoria, it hits you like a...” The sexual metaphor was too crude to share with a woman. He settled for saying “There are few pleasures like it. I envy you.”

  “The whole thing is probably a long shot.”

  “Perhaps,” he said, reaching for his drink. It quite probably was, in fact. “But long shot or not, the chase is always exciting.”

  “Want to come with me?”


  Frederic set his cup down with a clink so he could focus his gaze on her. “Pardon?”

  “You just said you envied my going on the hunt. Besides, I don’t know anything about art. What if there’s a giant painting of Ana hanging on this woman’s wall? How will I know if it’s worth Stuart’s money?”

  And she thought he was the best person to evaluate? “You just said the painting wasn’t about value.”

  “It isn’t.” There was silence as she shifted in her chair. When she spoke again, Frederic heard a change in her voice. It became lower, with less spark. “Never mind. It was only a suggestion.”

  “No, I’d love to join you.” Unsettled by the sadness he thought he heard in her voice, he spoke without thinking.

  The smile worked its way back into her voice. “Awesome! I’ll finish my coffee and we’ll go.”

  A visit to a retirement home, Frederic said to himself as he sipped his espresso. To meet with an old woman. No harm in that.

  Why, then, did he feel as if he was getting involved in something more?

  * * *

  There wasn’t, of course, an undiscovered painting hanging in Marie’s apartment. Only a very tall, pinched-looking woman wearing a velvet tracksuit. She greeted the two of them with a wide smile. “A professor. How exciting,” she gushed, squeezing his hand. “Please come in.”

  “I knew you’d be a hit,” Piper murmured as she stepped inside.

  Frederic grinned in response. His insides were feeling the thrill of the hunt.

  While he still wasn’t entirely sure why Piper had asked him to come along, he’d decided to embrace the opportunity. Who knew when another chance would cross his path? Or, for that matter, come with such an attractive package. Piper was far enough into the room that he could finally see her figure. She had curves a sculpture would love. Soft and supple. The kind meant to be traced by a person’s hands.

  That’s it. He was getting rid of the maid’s uniform.

  “What period do you study, Professor?” Marie was asking. The older woman was already limping across the sitting room en route to the bookcase.

  “Medieval. Pre-Romanesque mostly.”

  “Nigel would have called you stuck in the past, but then he prided himself on being antiestablishment. We all did back then. Please, have a seat.”

  She gestured to a sofa barely large enough to deserve the label. Feeling overly large, he perched on the edge of the seat and wondered how a woman Marie’s height could ever sit comfortably. The cushion dipped and Piper sat beside him. Vanilla and spice teased his nostrils again. It was like walking into the most pleasant bakery on earth every time the woman sat down.

  “He had such promise, my brother. My mother used to brag he knew how to paint before he could walk. An exaggeration, I’m sure. Come to think of it, though, I can’t remember a time when he wasn’t drawing or painting or something.”

  Reaching up, she pulled out what looked like a large plastic binder and opened it up. “This is him here,” she said. “Five years old and he’d already won his first competition.”

  She set the album on Frederic’s lap. The old photo was too small and blurry for him to focus much on, but he leaned forward and pretended all the same. Piper leaned in as well, her left knee knocking against his as she shifted angles. Frederic sucked in his breath at the awareness shooting up his thigh. Even with two layers of material, he felt every bump and bone pressed against him.

  “Impressive,” he murmured. Although he wasn’t sure if he meant Nigel’s childhood art or Piper’s knee.

  “He could have done so much,” Marie said. “We all told him to stop riding that motorbike, but he was stubborn.” A crack worked its way into the end of her voice. “I’m sorry,” she said, pressing a fist to her lips. “It’s been a long time since I’ve talked about Nigel at all.”

  “We’re sorry if we’re bringing up bad memories,” Piper remarked.

  “That’s all right. They aren’t all bad. In some ways, I think Nigel wanted to die young. He once told me that art only reached the masses once you were gone.”

  “I could name a few living painters who might disagree,” Frederic replied.

  Her resulting smile was watery, but strong. “I never said his theory made sense. In the end, it didn’t matter anyway, because his work never reached anyone.”

  Because Theodore Duchenko ordered it destroyed.

  “That is why we’re here,” Piper said. “My sister works for Ana Duchenko.”

  Every ounce of humor disappeared from Marie’s face. “That family destroyed my brother,” she said, stiffening. “I was only a child, but I remember how my parents cursed Theodore Duchenko and the rest of them.”

  To her credit, Piper didn’t stiffen in return. He always thought how a person reacted when challenged said a lot about them. His housekeeper, it appeared, knew how to stand tall. “From what I hear, Theodore Duchenko deserved cursing,” she said. “What he did was awful.”

  “It was an outrage. Ruining my brother’s life, decimating his art all because he was afraid his family would be embarrassed.” The rest of her rant disappeared in a soft mutter.

  “For what it’s worth, Ana never spoke to her brother again because of what he did.”

  Marie stopped muttering. “She didn’t?”

  “No. My sister says Ana blames her brother for Nigel’s death as much as you do. She never married, either.”

  “Because of Nigel?”

  “She loved your brother very much.”

  This was the part of the story that made Frederic uncomfortable. Love stealing a young heiress’s future. The idea of a life stolen out from under you struck a little too close to home.

  Marie was back at the bookcase, a long purple silhouette whose head was cut off in darkness. “I only met her once,” she was saying. “Nigel brought her to Sunday dinner and told us all she was his muse. My parents were not happy. I remember my father whispering that Ana ‘looked expensive.’” Frederic could picture the scene. Nigel, their starving artist son, walking in with his wealthy seventeen-year-old lover.

  “I know that Theodore tried to destroy all of Nigel’s paintings.” Piper’s knee brushed Frederic’s again as she shifted in her seat. His entire leg felt the contact this time. “We’re hoping, though, he might have missed one or two.”

  “If one existed, don’t you think my family would have kept it?”

  “Perhaps there was a sale he made before Theodore arrived in France,” Frederic suggested. “Or a gift he gave to a friend.”

  Marie shook her head. “I have no idea. The only paintings left of Nigel’s that we have are a couple small landscapes he did for my mother while he was in art school.”

  “It’s all right,” Piper replied. “We figured it was a long shot.”

  Perhaps, thought Frederic, but she had clearly hoped. Her disappointment was palpable.

  Whenever one of his students felt let down, he made a point of reminding them life was full of disappointments.

  Right now with Piper, all he wanted was to squeeze her hand. Reassure rather than remind. It was definitely not like him.

  Marie was still talking. “To be honest, even if a portrait of Ana did survive, I’m not sure my parents would have kept it. They didn’t want anything to do with the Duchenkos.”

  “No,” Piper said. “I don’t suppose they would.”

  “My brother did have a friend who might know. He owned an art gallery in the Marais. A very successful one, I believe. His name was Gaspard.”

  Frederic looked up. “You don’t mean Gaspard Theroux?”

  “Yes, that’s him.”

  “You know him?” Piper asked.

  “Galerie Gaspard Theroux is one of the most respected galleries in Paris.”

  “Gaspard and Nigel were very close. I
f he is still alive, he might know whether any of Nigel’s early Ana studies sold.”

  * * *

  “I’ll tell you one thing,” Frederic said as they were walking across the square a short while later. “If Gaspard represented Nigel’s work, he must have been very talented. The gallery is known for discovering the best rising talent in Europe. I’ve bought a couple pieces from Gaspard’s son, Bernard. He doesn’t have quite the same eye as his father, but he does well.”

  Piper didn’t care how good an eye the guy had. All she cared about was that her search hadn’t reached a dead end. It took her by surprise just how disappointed she was when Marie first said the paintings were gone. The repeated stories of Ana and Nigel’s love affair had gotten to her.

  She turned so she could get a better view of the man walking beside her. Inviting Frederic to join her was a total impulse. He sounded so animated when he was talking about Nigel’s work being a significant discovery. Plus, she liked the idea of his company in case Marie wasn’t as friendly as she had sounded on the phone. There wasn’t a woman of any age who wouldn’t like seeing a man who looked like Frederic on her doorstep.

  Now as it turned out, he turned out to be an invaluable resource. “I don’t suppose you know if Gaspard Theroux is still alive, do you?”

  “He is, but he has had health problems the past few years. His mind...” Frederic gestured with his hands as to say he didn’t know.

  That’s what Piper was afraid of. She combed her fingers through her hair with a sigh. At least she had a place to start. “Maybe his son knows something. What did you say his name was?”