Beauty & Her Billionaire Boss

by Barbara Wallace

  “Bernard.”

  “I’ll give him a call tomorrow.” Maybe his father kept records from those days.

  “Good luck. Bernard is not the easiest person to reach. He tends to ignore people who aren’t serious collectors. Even his gallery is open by appointment only.”

  Great. How was she going to get an appointment? Make a pest of herself until he called back?

  Or... An idea struck her. “He returns your phone calls, doesn’t he?”

  “Of course. We’ve done business for years. Are you asking me to call Bernard for you?”

  “Would you? It might make him more willing to talk with me. Then, if the painting gets discovered, you can take partial credit.”

  Frederic laughed.

  “What?” Piper had heard him laugh before, but never with such a teasing tone. In spite of his sunglasses, the smile lit up his face. She liked how he threw his head back, too, as if tossing the laugh toward the sky. “You don’t want credit?”

  “On the contrary, recognition is always welcome.”

  “Then what’s so funny?”

  “Nothing.”

  Something amused him. Was it her? If so, why didn’t she feel a knot in her stomach, the way she usually did when people laughed at her? Instead, she had a warm squishy feeling running all through her.

  “Will you call Bernard?”

  “Yes, I will. As soon as I get back to the university.”

  “Thank you! You’re awesome.” She was so glad she asked him along today. Finally a good day in Paris. She threw her arms around his neck and hugged him.

  It didn’t dawn on her what she had done until she felt the corner of his belt buckle against her rib cage. With heat shooting to her toes, she released her grip, and prayed her face wasn’t as flushed as it felt.

  “Um...thank you,” she stammered.

  “My pleasure,” he replied. Piper thought she saw a hint of a smile as he spoke, but double-checking meant looking into his face. Considering her skin was on fire, staring at the cell phone he was now dialing seemed a safer bet. “As enjoyable as this afternoon has been,” she heard him say, “I have a faculty meeting I need to attend. Should I have Michel drop you off at the house?”

  Meaning sit with him in the backseat of his car? “That’s all right, I’ll take the Métro.” Another safe bet. “I want to stop at the farmers’ market, anyway.”

  “Suit yourself. I’ll let you know what Bernard says.”

  Piper watched as he headed to the same café where their afternoon started, moving with his usual careful, deliberate grace. Clearly, her hug affected only one of them. But then, did she really expect otherwise?

  CHAPTER THREE

  WHEN SHE RETURNED from class the following day, Frederic was waiting in the main salon. “We’ve got a meeting with Bernard in half an hour,” he said. “The car is on the way.”

  “We?” she repeated, making sure she heard correctly. This was the first they’d spoken since she rushed off last night, and considering her overreaction to his hug, there was a good chance she misheard. “You’re coming?”

  “I have to. I’m invested in the search now. Plus, Bernard has a painting he thinks I might be interested in.”

  “Oh.” So she hadn’t heard wrong. Her stomach gave a tiny bounce at the discovery. “I’ll go get ready.”

  She rushed through the kitchen, unbuttoning her jacket as she went. Frederic worked fast. Sure, he said he would call yesterday, but she fully expected to be dropped in priority when he got to his meeting. He did say he was invested, she reminded herself. Still, the idea that her errand stayed atop his to-do list left her strangely flattered.

  Yesterday’s yellow dress was on the back of her chair. Her one good summer outfit. She’d foolishly assumed she’d be shopping in Paris.

  Better than jeans and a T-shirt, she reminded herself while slipping the dress over her head. The skirt was wrinkled from yesterday, but serviceable. Only Frederic would know she was wearing the same outfit. Assuming he even paid attention to what she wore. Grabbing her sandals, she hurried back to the salon.

  “That was fast,” Frederic remarked when he saw her. He, she noticed, looked as crisp and perfect as ever in his linen blazer.

  “You said to hurry.”

  “I’m not used to people understanding what that means. You forget, I spend my day with university students. They have a different view of time.”

  He opened the front door and gestured for her to step outside. “Shall we?”

  Like many of Paris’s art galleries, the Galerie Gaspard Theroux was in the Marais, the historic district, near the Place des Vosges. Piper stepped into the sunshine with a silent sigh of relief.

  “I have to admit,” Piper said as she stepped out of the cab, “I like this section of the city much better.” The business district was beautiful but modern. But here... This was the Paris she dreamed about. “The statues in the middle of the street and the cobblestones...it’s all so...”

  “Romantic?”

  His drily spoken answer made her blush. “I know, typical American, right?”

  “Yes, but also no. This is my favorite part of the city, too. As impressive as skyscrapers are, you cannot top classic French design. Did you know this square is one of the first examples of urban planning? Henri IV was ahead of his time.” He swept his arm wide in an animated arc. “It was also one of the few times all the building fronts were designed the same way. See the arcades lining the perimeter?”

  He went on, talking about the different sections of the building, architectural and historical details Piper wished she could appreciate. She was far more entertained by the expression on his face. His enthusiasm was obvious, despite the sunglasses masking his eyes. The way he spoke was reverent. So much lighter than his usual tone, which was so serious it bordered on short, she could have listened to him go on forever. Good thing Chef Despelteau didn’t have such a voice. She’d be so distracted by the way the words dripped off his tongue she’d never get any recipe right.

  “For an art history expert, you sure know a lot about architecture,” she teased.

  There was no mistaking the pink spots peering out beneath the rims of his aviators. “In my opinion, architecture is its own form of art,” he told her. “The gargoyles of Notre Dame, for example. Or Louis the thirteenth’s statue in the park. I appreciate the effort that goes into creating beauty. When I think of this section of the city, especially, and the disasters and wars it has survived, I cannot help but be impressed.

  “Come,” he said, taking her elbow, “Bernard’s gallery is on the western side.” Taking her by the elbow, he led her toward the shaded walkway on the far end of the plaza.

  Art galleries and antiques stores lined the sidewalk beneath the arch. As they walked, Piper tried to appreciate the various pieces in the windows, but she was too distracted by the lingering sensation on her elbow. Twice she needed to check, even though Frederic released her seconds after touching her.

  “Bernard’s gallery is number thirty-three,” Frederic said. “He often keeps the door locked. We might have to ring the bell.”

  “A locked store and visits by appointment. You’re right, he is selective about his customers.”

  “He can afford to be.”

  “Must be nice. Hopefully I make the cut.”

  “You will,” Frederic said with a smile. “You are with me.”

  Piper spotted the gallery before he did. A quick tug showed the door to be unlocked. As Frederic opened it wide, a bell tinkled overhead.

  “Bonjour!” Bernard Theroux appeared from the back of the gallery. He was a tall, slender man with a wispy gray mustache and thinning gray hair that he wore combed back. The moment he saw Frederic, his porcelain features broke into a grin and he began speaking in rapid French, far too fast for
Piper to keep up.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, switching to perfect English. “I was lecturing someone about being a stranger.”

  “And I was explaining how busy work has been.”

  “I can vouch for that,” Piper remarked. “He’s hardly ever home.” The comment made her sound like a disgruntled wife. “I mean, he works a lot.” That didn’t sound much better.

  Thankfully, the gallery owner was more interested in dragging Frederic toward one of the paintings. “Like I told you on the phone, you are going to love this piece. He’s a new artist out of Prague—I discovered him on my last trip. Wait until you see what he does with shadow.”

  “I’m sure it’s spectacular,” Frederic said. “But before I look at anything, Piper had some questions she wanted to ask. About a friend of your father’s.”

  Although his sigh said he’d rather talk about the painter from Prague, Bernard turned to Piper. “Of course. Although like I told Frederic, my father had a lot of painter friends over the years. If it was before I was born, I doubt I can help you.”

  “He wasn’t only a friend—he was possibly a client,” Piper replied. “His sister thinks your father sold one or two of his paintings.”

  She reached into her purse for her cell phone. Patience had emailed her a snapshot that featured one of the paintings. “I’m hoping that a record of the sale still exists. The artist’s name was Nigel Rougeau. The painting would have looked like this one.”

  She held out her phone so he could see the image. Instantly, Bernard’s eyes became saucers.

  “Dear God, I don’t believe it. This is the painting you’re looking for? This nude?”

  “Yes?” Although she suddenly wasn’t sure she should say so. The gleam in Bernard’s eyes made her nervous. “Why?”

  “I grew up looking at that woman.”

  “You—you did?”

  “Yes, she hung in our dining room.”

  No way. Piper couldn’t believe her good luck. She’d been prepared to strike out, and here the man was saying he’d seen the painting. “Does your father still have the painting?”

  Bernard shook his head. “I’m afraid not. I sold most of the collection when we closed down his house. To pay his expenses. The nude was sold with the others.”

  She should have known the search wouldn’t end easily. Still, there was hope. “You wouldn’t know the name of the man who bought it, would you?” she asked.

  “I keep records for every painting,” Bernard replied with a sniff.

  “Could we get the name?” Frederic asked. Piper started. She had assumed he was studying the painting, and so his deep voice caught her off guard.

  “Yes, but it will take me a few minutes to pull up the record on the computer.”

  “Thank you,” Piper said, speaking as much to Frederic as to Bernard. “I truly appreciate the help.”

  “I’ll be back with the information as soon as I can. In the meantime, you now have plenty of time to study the Biskup. It’s called Zoufalstvi.” His smile was smug as he gestured toward the painting. “I know you’re going to be as impressed with his style as I am.”

  Piper walked up to the painting. It was contemporary art, a mash-up of black, white and red, which she assumed had some kind of meaning. She understood the price well enough. She paid less for the entire year of culinary school.

  “What do you think?” she asked, looking over her shoulder.

  Frederic stood where she left him, taking in the painting from a distance. “Interesting,” was all he said.

  “Your friend isn’t really expecting you to buy it today, is he?”

  “Oh, he is. Bernard never jokes when it comes to artwork. If he says the painting is a good investment, then I’m sure it is.”

  “And you would what? Just write a check if you liked it?”

  “If I liked it.”

  She shook her head. The idea of writing a check for an amount that took her months upon months to save—and that was with pinching every single penny—boggled her mind. Here Frederic talked about dropping that amount like he was buying a new shirt. “Do you like it?” she had to ask.

  “Do you?” he asked back.

  “Honest opinion?” He nodded. “I’m not sure what I’m looking at. It all looks like a bunch of colors to me.”

  She squinted, trying to make sense of the image. In a way, it was similar to the other paintings in Frederic’s house. They too were modern, but warmer and with brighter colors. This painting was definitely not warm. It did conjure up emotion, a weirdly familiar feeling in the pit of her stomach, but she wouldn’t call the sensation pleasant. Nor would she want to feel it every day.

  “It’s a very sad-looking painting,” she said.

  “I should hope so.” Footsteps sounded on the wood floor, and suddenly Frederic was at her elbow. “Zoufalstvi is Czech for desperation.”

  No wonder it left her feeling empty. “I don’t see why anyone would want to buy such a depressing picture. But then, I’m not much of an artist.”

  “Really? I thought chefs considered cooking an art form.”

  “Great cooking, sure. All the best chefs are artists.” As Chef Despelteau reminded them so often. “But I was talking about art art. You know, paintings and stuff.” She turned her attention to a different piece. “Growing up, the fanciest thing on our walls was a framed poster of Monet’s Water Lilies. I’m going to go out on a limb and say Bernard doesn’t sell posters.”

  “No, he does not.”

  “Too bad.” They stood quietly in front of the painting. This second one had prettier colors, but the image wasn’t nearly as powerful to look at.

  That was it, Piper realized suddenly. Why the Biskup painting seemed so familiar. The image reminded her of Frederic. He, too, was forceful and compelling. Where did the sadness come in, though? Her boss could hardly be described as sad.

  He was solitary, though. For all his activity, the man was alone much of the time. If there were family and friends in his life, they certainly didn’t visit the house.

  “I hope you don’t buy the painting,” she said aloud.

  He turned at that moment and looked into her face, his eyes grayer than usual. “Why not?”

  “Because I—” What was she supposed to say? Because it made her think sad thoughts about him? Like she told herself yesterday, she was pushing her thoughts onto him. Solitary didn’t mean lonely. For all she knew, Frederic was simply a man who liked his privacy.

  Her answer didn’t matter anyway, because the moment she met his eyes, any explanation she might have come up with disappeared. All this time, she’d thought his eyes were gray, but they were really far softer. Like feathers or a fluffy cloud of smoke. She could almost feel the haze in the air, surrounding her like a warm plume.

  A shock of hair had fallen over one eyebrow, knocked loose when he took his sunglasses off. The dark strands begged to be brushed aside.

  “Piper?” she heard him ask.

  Oh, good Lord, she was staring at him with her jaw half open like an idiot.

  “What I meant,” she said, tucking imaginary hair behind her ear, “was that I don’t like the idea you might have to buy something on my account.”

  “You’re afraid I won’t know how to say no?”

  “Of—of course you can. Say no, that is. I just don’t want...”

  “Don’t worry,” he said, saving her from making a bigger fool of herself than she already had. “I stopped acquiring pieces a while ago. Bernard forgets I no longer have the eye for detail I once had.”

  Piper’s heart gave a little twist at the wistful shadow that flickered over his features. Bernard wasn’t the only one who’d forgotten. The man was so capable and self-assured. Who wouldn’t forget?

  “I’ll take that as a compliment,” Frede
ric said with a chuckle.

  Meaning she’d spoken her thoughts aloud. The floor could swallow her up any time now.

  “So, what do you think? Do you not love the expressive way he plays light on shadow?” Bernard came around the corner, saving her. “I am predicting this artist will be very popular. Already, several serious collectors have put him on their watch lists. This would be your chance to acquire a piece before his popularity drives the price up.”

  “Don’t you mean while you still have him on a string?” Frederic replied. The teasing retort caught Piper by surprise. “Bernard only pushes this hard when he’s personally involved,” he explained to her. “Isn’t that right, Bernard?”

  The gallery owner’s cheeks turned crimson. “I do predict big things for him. You know I only push if they have talent.”

  “Yes, I know. Did you find the address?”

  “I did.” He turned to Piper. “The painting is called Ana Reclining. I’m ashamed that I didn’t remember. It was purchased by a man named John Allen. Whether or not he still owns the piece, I do not know.”

  Piper took the slip of paper. This was fantastic. They had a real live name. Wait until she told Patience. “Gloucestershire,” she read. “England?”

  “Northwest of London,” Frederic replied.

  There was no way of knowing if the address and phone were current, either. Still, it was a start. A very good start.

  “Two days ago, we didn’t know if a painting even existed,” she remarked when she and Frederic stepped outside. “And now here I am with a name. I feel like Piper Rush, art detective.”

  “It’s always exciting when a lost work is discovered. Did you know they once discovered a seventeenth-century Le Brun hanging in a suite at the Ritz-Carlton?”

  “I wouldn’t put this painting on the same level. But Ana’s nephew will be excited.” She had no idea who Le Brun was, but seventeenth-century sounded important. “Lucky for him that Bernard’s father decided to keep one of the paintings for himself.”

  “Indeed.” Although they were standing in the shade, he lowered his sunglasses in place anyway. As the dark lenses slid over his features, Piper felt a flutter in her stomach. Relief that she’d been saved from whatever that strange sensation was when she looked into his eyes before. As it was, the moment had left her with this restless, jumbly sensation, as if her insides drank too much caffeine.