The Art of Stealing Hearts

by Stella London

  As I trudge across the marble floor, I consider just how different this reality is from my dream of my first day on the job. I thought I’d be consulting over priceless art, but instead, I’m hoisting furniture and serving canapés. Still, I’m excited by the thought of the auction tonight. I’ve never been to one before. Maybe I’ll get a chance to watch, see first-hand how it all works.

  The security doors are open at the back of the auction room, leading to the secure space where they store the pieces waiting to be revealed for bidding, an area normally reserved for VIPs and high level staff. I see the rolling pallet with stacks of white chairs piled on top, but before I can get there, I hear the soft murmur of hushed voices and the click of several cameras. A massive canvas sits on its wheeled frame, surrounded by a few photographers and reporters with small notebooks.

  It pulls me in like a magnet and as I get closer I can tell it’s a Rubens, the Flemish Baroque painter, one of the most sought after artists of the seventeenth century. Holy crap! A real-life masterpiece. The Judgment of Paris, a scene of naked goddesses parading themselves in front of two gods in the woods, dancing, showing off their beauty in a contest of the fairest, captivatingly rendered in deep light and shadow.

  “Amazing, isn’t it?” a silky voice says in my ear and I nearly jump out of my skin. I turn to find the sexy British guy from yesterday, standing there looking just as gorgeous as I remember. He smiles and it’s like his dimples wink at me.

  Don’t swoon.

  “A true masterpiece,” I say, hoping that he doesn’t take my rapidly reddening cheeks to mean I’m referring to him as a masterpiece, even if I maybe meant him, too.

  “A classic.” He sighs, content. Then he looks at me. “This must be old hat for you by now. Seeing such beautiful art up close all the time.”

  I smile. “It never gets old,” I say. “Art is meant to be seen a million different ways.”

  He looks surprised, then he nods at me, appreciative. “I feel exactly the same way.” Does he remember me? Or was I just a temporary distraction on his way to the office yesterday, the flavor of the day for his morning entertainment?

  “This is from one of my favorite eras.”

  “You like the drama of Baroque, do you?” he says, squinting at me playfully. “Are you a drama queen?” Seriously, is he flirting with me because he remembers our exchange, or is this just his MO for interacting with women?

  “You know your art,” I say, impressed.

  “I better,” he says. “I spend a lot of money on it.”

  So he’s a collector. I gaze at the painting again, the women seeming to dance right off the canvas, moving with the deep green shadows in heavy brushstrokes. “I love the deep shadows and shimmering details, like they could walk right out of the painting and just…” I let my voice trail off as I realize I’m rambling. “Sorry,” I say. “I just get excited.”

  “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.

  CHAPTER 4

  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 a
nd 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…?

  “This isn’t a chardonnay, is it?” a woman in a deep V neck gown asks me just as all the lights flash.

  “No ma’am.” She sniffs at her glass and looks skeptical, but I want to rush back to the auction. The Rubens is last; I want to see it one more time. And see Charles in action—what he’ll do to get what he wants. “It’s a very good year for this vineyard,” I bluff. “Better than the 2008.”

  “Very well,” She takes the glass and disappears into the sea of society folks heading back to their seats for the second half. I’m following them in when Stanford suddenly seizes my arm. Can’t he ever just say my name instead of grabbing me?

  “Not you,” he says. He pulls me into the lobby as the last of the bidders make it into the main auction hall and the doors close. “You are helping with clean up out here.” He hands me a broom.

  “But can’t I wait until af—” I don’t even get the words out. He’s already gone.

  “Fine,” I say to his back. “I’ll sweep this floor spotless.” I start to sweep as the auctioneer’s voice echoes through the doors. I can’t hear what he’s saying, but I can just imagine the scene inside. As the minutes tick past, I wonder about all those works of art I don’t even get to see on the screen above the stage. Have they gotten to the Rubens yet?

  Suddenly, the doors swing open. St Clair hurries out, his phone pressed to his ear. “Yes, yes, okay, give me a minute.” He sees me staring at him. His blue eyes light up. “Grace!”

  “Hi,” I say, like an idiot.

  “I need a huge favor,” he says, pressing his paddle into my hands. “I need you to bid for me.”

  “What?”

  “Lot 52. It’s coming up, but I have to take this call.” He holds up his phone. “Emergency in the Japan office. I have to talk them through it, but I can’t lose this bid.”

  “I’m not sure I can…” Can someone else bid? Even as a proxy?