“Well, look at you, giggling like a little school girl! That tough exterior is just a disguise, isn’t it?”
“More like my armor. But don’t be fooled, I have a tough core, too.”
“Perhaps, but I have a feeling there’s much more to you…feisty one.”
In a matter of minutes this man-creature had chipped away at my titanium shell. These things just don’t happen…not to me. “Can we, uh, get back to the docu-drama known as Blake and Blair? My God, it’s preppy perfection! Not even my epidemically sarcastic tongue could spew a more aptly named pairing. I can see the monogrammed doilies now.”
“Ridiculous isn’t it? Together we sound like some obnoxious yacht club couple wearing pink sweaters tied around our necks.”
“I can see it. Pink’s a good color for you. Very bubblegum cutesy.”
“Bloody hell. So thrilled I crafted a ‘cutesy’ mental image of myself in that sharp brain of yours. Jesus.” I giggled once more. Truth: he could be doused in pink nail polish and still be sexy. “But, in all honesty, Blair’s not so bad.”
“Riiiiight. She couldn’t possibly be that bad. 'Course she looks like she craps perfectly symmetrical ice cubes, but other than that…”
Was it awful that I took pride in making this man laugh? By the sincere heartiness of his laughter, I had the impression he didn’t laugh too often. Blair appeared to have the humor of a fraternity house toilet.
“Since you seem to know all about these people, tell me, if I married Blair, what would my future look like?”
“The future of Blake and Blair looks bleak. See what I did there?”
A tiny smirk curled one side of his mouth. “I don’t think there’s any way I could miss it. Go on, then. Describe my hypothetical future.”
“There are three problems with your future wife.”
“Amaze me,” he said, crossing his arms, soaking me into his eyes.
“First, she’s as bland as her dress, so you can cross ‘fun personality’ off your list. Second, she’s a frigid bitch just waiting to blossom, post-nuptials.”
Eyebrows raised, Blake asked, “And third?”
The auctioneer had taken to the stage to gather partygoers and ready them for the start of the auction.
Moving to within an inch of his body, the heat between us palpable, I whispered, “Third…sleeping with her is like reading a newspaper—dull, predictable, old-fashioned, and lacking imagination.” I turned away, leaving his face fixed with a mixture of shock, awe, and intense desire.
“Hey, feisty one,” he called. “I didn’t catch your name.”
Slowly peering over my shoulder, I said, “That’s because I didn’t pitch it. Good evening, Mr. Traverz.”
As soon as I was a safe distance away from Blake Traverz, Blair swooped in, draping her long, lanky arms around his neck, clearly marking her territory. I’m surprised she didn’t lift her leg and pee on him. I shook my head and enjoyed a laugh.
One of the servers carrying a tray of auction paddles approached me. “Will you be bidding tonight, Miss?”
The moment had finally arrived: the competition for the Manx was about to begin, and I’d done my homework. Thanks to my crafty research skills, I knew the ins and outs of the Traverz Estate and had the antiquated security scheme memorized; my copy of the auction catalogue was worn and wrinkly. I knew every item, their worth, and when each was scheduled to go up on the block. My strategy to reach the statue room was set. I was ready.
“Yes, I think I will be,” I replied, selecting a paddle. “Eighty-eight. My lucky number.”
While the ‘upper crusters’ vied for positions with the best views of the many rare art finds, I cemented myself in the very back of the pack, for only one item interested me: a little clay jug. It was nothing special. In fact, compared to the other items, it was worth next to nothing…which was precisely why I intended to buy it. You see, scoring an item granted the winning bidder instant access to the main house, and that was where I needed to be if I was going to have a shot at gaining access to the statue room.
The bonus to staying for the auction and standing in the back was simple: it provided the perfect place for identifying my competition. “Come on, come on, someone be stupid. Make your move,” I muttered under my breath, keenly eyeing the shadowy sides of the garden leading to the main house. Just as I suspected, while everyone’s attention was drawn to the stage with all the pretty little items lining up for their big moment, two individuals stealthily left the garden and entered the Traverz estate. One was a woman who blended nicely with the rest of the party’s peaches; the other was a lanky, wholly unimpressive man. “That’s right. Make the obvious move.” Idiots.
Despite the Traverz family having no lasers, no individual room alarms, or even video surveillance—why they wouldn’t have these things was beyond me—they did have guards. With no logical explanation for being inside the mighty manor—apart from needing to use the bathroom, which was weak—two of my competitors will have little chance of accessing the statue room.
So, that’s two down, one to go. “Where are you One-to-go?”
“Now, for your bidding pleasure, we have a primitive slate gray jug. It was commonly used by mystics in the late 19th Century for ridding structures of evil spirits. Let’s start the bidding at two-hundred dollars. Do I hear two? Anyone?”
As expected, no one here wanted an evil-spirit-catching jug in their homes—after all, they might find themselves sucked into it.
Just as I was about to raise my paddle, a mousey man in the back left corner shouted, “Two-hundred.”
Bam! I’d found my ‘one to go’. I smiled cunningly at the man. Game on.
“Two to the gentleman in the back corner,” said the auctioneer. “Can I get two-fifty?”
“Two-fifty,” I called, brandishing my eighty-eight paddle.
“Three!” yelled ‘One-to-Go.’
“Four-fifty,” I said.
By this time, some of the guests started second-guessing their condemnation of the little jug.
“Five hundred!”
“Five-seventy-five!”
“Six!”
Dammit! The bidding was going crazy…and all because Mr. One-to-Go just had to be as smart as me and have the same plan. The nerve.
“Seven!”
“Seven-fifty!”
“Do I hear eight? Eight-hundred dollars. Anyone? Seven-fifty going once…going twice…”
“Eight-hundred big ones!” I shouted.
“We have eight-hundred to the vocal little lady in the back!” One-to-Go glared at me. Don’t you dare outbid me, creep! I’d already exceeded my budget; rent was going to be a stretch next month. If only my smarmy landlord would have a thing for me, I could flirt my way out of paying the rent on time. Unfortunately, I just wasn’t that lucky.
“Nine-hundred!”
Oh, I sincerely loathe you, One-to-Go.
The auctioneer turned to me, raising his eyebrows. “Do we have nine-fifty from our vocal little lady?”
Biting my lip, I shook my head.
“Very well, we have nine-hundred going once…”
Somebody bid. Don’t let One-to-Go get inside before me.
“Going twice…”
Bid. Anybody. You have deep enough pockets!
“SOLD to the persistent gentleman in the back!” chirped the auctioneer, slamming his little gavel down on the podium.
Oh, hell yes, of course. The jerk was going to get inside before me. I was going to have to either find another cheapish item to attempt to win, or I’d have to craft a backup plan, something I stupidly didn’t do ahead of time. Clearly, I was not as clever as I liked to believe. Dammit.
“Pardon me.” A hand gently touched my shoulder.
Flipping my head around, I found none other than Blake Traverz smiling down at me; his hand still rested upon my shoulder. It wasn’t until I dropped my gaze to his hand that he finally removed it, slowly dragging his fingers down the top of my arm as he did. I
wasn’t sure if it was deliberate or not. Either way, I damn well enjoyed the tingles.
Turning completely around to face Blake, I crossed my arms and said, “What can I do for you, Mr. Traverz?”
“That’s a loaded question...” he said huskily. “You seemed to like that little gray jug.”
“I did. It, uh, reminded me of this snowflake container my dad had when I was little. I used to think Christmas elves traveled down from the North Pole on December snowflakes. I’d take the container out during a December snowfall and try to catch one.” Dear God. What the hell was with the sudden verbal vomiting? Okay, I understand that my heart has been a lonely little bastard, but that was no reason to self-destruct my trusty armor.
Blake’s smile was something I hadn’t seen on a man since my dad: genuine, warm, and caring. “I knew there was more to you, feisty one. Also explains the necklace. Beautiful piece, by the way.”
I mindlessly caressed the old silver snowflake pendant, the last thing my father gave me before…
“Thank you. It’s actually a locket from the early 1800s. My neck never leaves home without it.”
“You keep any pictures inside it?”
“It was sealed shut ages ago. I’ve never wanted to risk damaging it.” And I didn’t have any pictures to put in there anyway. Returning his smile, I said, “Was there something you wanted?”
“I happen to have a piece that isn’t up for grabs tonight, but I would be willing to make it part of the auction, only you’d be the sole bidder and, of course, all money goes to cancer research.”
“Why are you doing this?”
“You have balls.”
“I really don’t.”
“Metaphorical.”
“Oh, well, those balls I do have.”
“I admire it, and I don’t say that too often. No one has ever talked to me quite the way you have tonight…so…I’d hate for you to go home empty-handed.” From behind his back, he revealed a white, Art Nouveau-era vase with extraordinary gold accents and an elaborate mermaid handle.
Damn twinge of guilt. Little did he know…I had no intention of going home empty-handed. “Although I really appreciate your gesture, there’s no way I could ever afford an 1870 Machstellssner. Pieces like this one, in this condition, would run anywhere from eight to ten thousand bucks.”
“Impressive. You know your art.”
I couldn’t get enough of someone complimenting my art knowledge. It was the one thing I prided myself on. Well, that and my ability to keep my heart from getting all fluttery and screwing up my life.
“Thanks. So, what’d you want from me, uh, price-wise, I mean.” I hoped to God I wasn’t blushing.
“Since you were willing to slap down eight-hundred on a three-hundred dollar item…how 'bout we meet in the middle, say four-hundred?”
“You’re insane!”
“Very possibly. Then again, it might be my way of trying to change your views on some of the tuxedo-wearers…or one in particular.” His body was so close to mine—his scent, the heat coming off of him…everything stirred within my body, waking me up from such a long, cold slumber. “So, do we have a deal?”
After a moment, I caved. I’d be utterly foolish not to accept his offer, right? “Deal.” I took the Machstellssner from his hands. He then whipped out some rolled up papers from inside his jacket.
Handing me the requisite paperwork, he said, “For completing the sale. Just head on inside and the gentlemen at the table will walk you through the rest.”
“Thank you, Mr. Traverz.”
“Blake, please.”
“Blake.”
“Now, do I get a name?”
I held up the paperwork, a small sarcastic smirk pulling at the corner of my mouth. “Considering some paperwork is involved in bringing this little beauty home, I’m guessing you’ll have my name on file soon enough, won’t you?”
Smiling broadly, Blake ran a hand through his hair. As I sauntered into the manor, I heard him say with a chuckle, “Little ball-buster.”
“And then some,” I muttered to myself.
I felt bad about stealing from him, but I had a job to do; I had to survive somehow in this world, and Blake Traverz and I walked in two very different circles.
Just inside the terrace doors was a glass-top oak table manned by no less than five men. Given their attire—suits, not tuxedos—I’d bet money the group of men included a lawyer, accountant, antiques dealer, tax specialist, and maybe a local police officer in plain clothes. A small line of auction winners stood, waiting to fill out paperwork and collect their treasures as more high bidders slowly trickled through the doors. Several maids were stationed around the hallway, no doubt to serve partygoers’ needs and to clean up any sporadic messes.
Once it was my turn to flash some cash and fill out forms, I smirked and scribbled down the name Charlotte Canteberry. Ah, the beauty of paying with cash: Blake and his army of suits couldn’t trace anything back to me, and I knew he was smart enough to recognize a fake name. The thought of his amused expression upon reading my bull-crap paperwork entertained me to no end. Completing the process, I thanked the suits and turned to leave.
Having memorized the manor’s blueprints, I knew the statue room was located down the same hall as a bathroom—the perfect excuse to meander down a quiet hall containing a room full of riches. Yeah, I know I said the bathroom excuse was weak, but utilizing said excuse while already in the manor for a legitimate reason was a far cry from using it to gain entrance in the first place.
Approaching one of the maids, I sweetly asked, “Could you tell me where I might find the nearest ladies’ room?”
“The nearest is just down this hall, fifth door on your right, Miss,” replied the maid, pointing over her shoulder.
“Thank you.” I turned down the marble hall and walked the distance, passing the bathroom in the process.
Soon, the double doors of the statue room came into view. Surprisingly, I didn’t see any guards. Peculiar. Upon approaching the doors, I saw that one was ajar. Dammit. My competition beat me here. I hoped they couldn’t find the egg or were caught prior to locating it, which would explain the absence of guards. Slipping through the crack, I entered the statue room; it was the size of a grand dining hall, complete with everything from life size sculptures to the tiniest, most brilliant works of art. My eyes acted like telescopes, scoping the room for the egg. In short order, I saw it: 1888 Royal Geoloda Jeweled Egg.
Barely four inches tall, the spectacular egg stood on an ornate gold stand supported by leaf-shaped feet. Emeralds and pink diamonds suspended golden vines around the egg; a blue sapphire doubled as a means of opening the egg, wherein a diamond and gold flower bouquet hid.
I slowly wrapped my fingers around the egg; holding something so exceptionally rare shook me to my core. This was too easy. And how the hell did I get to this egg before my competition? Slipping the egg in my purse, I looked around the room—I could perform a musical in here if I wanted to. I just could not fathom how anyone would leave this room unattended while a horde of people traipsed around outside.
“Rich people. Sometimes they can be so stupid.”
Carefully leaving the statue room, I eased back down the hallway and passed the maid and table, where the line had grown substantially longer since I’d filled out my paperwork. Exiting the manor with nary a glance in my direction, I reentered the garden. Blake was on stage, urging the crowd to spend more money; he really was quite animated. Staying in the shadows, I finally reached the edge of the garden and glanced behind me, taking one last look at the man who was farther out of my reach than a star in the sky. I sighed, nodded resignedly, and headed for the long succession of limousines, one of which was hired by the Manx to drive me. Finding my driver, I hopped in the limo and we took off for home.
To go from the Traverz Estate to my matchbox, mouse-happy apartment above a bakery in New York City was a shock to the senses. Oddly enough, I wouldn’t trade it; I loved my apartment.
It was the first place I could call mine, and, despite the rent-control, I worked like a damn gladiator to afford to stay here.
Once I flipped on the lights and kicked off my heels, I spotted a familiar black envelope sitting on the kitchen counter. I opened it and removed the contents:
Congratulations. You have succeeded. 11 p.m. tomorrow night, a car will be awaiting you. Please do not ask questions. Do as instructed.
Tomorrow, we will meet.
~Manx.
I walked the minute five paces to my bed and flopped on my back, note in hand. Running my fingers over his signature, I smiled. I was going to meet the Manx, all thanks to an egg. I removed the Geoloda egg to examine it more closely.
“Lighter than I would have imagined.”
I couldn’t help but laugh. Honestly, who would ever believe my hands would hold one of these little beauties? This was a once in a lifetime opportunity and I had no intention of wasting it: I wanted to admire its intricacy, the gems…which were oddly flawless for something this old…hmm…
“No!” I shouted, sitting straight up, my back tight, stomach churning. “No, no, no, no, no! Son of a bitch!”
It was a fake.
My competition duped me.
Chapter Two
I spent the majority of the next day beating myself up for being so damn dense. How could I not check the authenticity of the egg before leaving Traverz Hall? Not that it would have mattered, really; either way, a fail was a fail. The idea that my competition might have switched the eggs never even crossed my mind. Rookie oversight. I couldn’t help but wonder why I even received a congratulatory invite. Wouldn’t the Manx have known the other guy had the real one? Doesn’t he know practically everything? Ugh. My brain confused every other part of me.
In a matter of hours, I must face the Manx and admit my ignorance, naivety, and all-around dumbass-ness. These were characteristics I’d always known I possessed, but tried not to show to others. Although sometimes you just can’t help it; stupidity had a tendency to ooze out, kind of like snot.
Watercolor Hearts Page 2
