Catherine’s two-year-old Prada knockoff was ready to be replaced. The zipper stuck, the seams had split and though she hated to replace it, because it was like an old friend, knockoffs weren’t their finely crafted relatives. “Against my better judgment, I’ll agree.”
Her mother grinned. “Terrific. Now let’s pick up the pace!”
Catherine wiped the sweat from her eyes. Joy.
THAT AFTERNOON, after a quick stop at her apartment for a rejuvenating shower and change of clothes, Catherine went to the top floor at Montefiore’s to see her grandfather about the audit.
She had procrastinated, deferred, quibbled and debated until she had no choice.
“I’m here to see my grandfather,” she told Myra, his secretary. The woman was tough, and had been guarding her grandfather’s desk since Catherine had been born.
“He’s on the phone. Why don’t you wait, dear?” Myra suggested, peering over her glasses at Catherine.
Meanwhile Catherine double-checked everything in the Italian neoclassical giltwood mirror, circa 1780, that hung across from Myra’s desk. Okay, she’d been trying to dress a little nicer. Even Sybil had said she was looking better. And yes, she might be wearing a little more makeup than normal, but that was solely designed to cover the extra circles under her eyes. This whole price-fixing accusation was killing her nerves. Obviously it was the price-fixing accusation. What else could it be?
After Myra waved her through, Catherine heard the quiet bubbling of the samovar. Ah, her grandfather was brewing tea. Catherine managed a smile.
“How’re you doing?” he asked, handing her a cup.
“Fine,” she said, pulling at her skirt, realizing what she was doing and stopping.
“Are you going to the auction and reception tonight?” he asked.
The reception preceded the Italian Renaissance art auction. This year Montefiore had a floor full of items to sell, eleventh-through fourteenth-century, mostly oils, some sculpture in bronze and marble and a few tapestries that they’d bought off a dealer in Florence. High dollar, great PR, lots of who’s who that needed to be coddled and schmoozed. “I wasn’t sure,” she started, but saw the look in his eyes. “Yes. I’ll be there.”
“Good,” he said, looking pleased with her. “I need you there.”
“Mom will be there. You don’t need me.”
“You’d be surprised,” he told her, dropping four sugars in his cup, the spoon gently stirring against the sides.
He didn’t say a word, but was watching her, waiting to see what she was going to do. Charles Montefiore was like that, observant, curious.
“How’s the audit going?” she asked, taking the bull by the horns and hoping it wasn’t going to gore her to death.
“Not as I’d hoped,” he said, and got up, shutting the door.
Catherine stared at the closed door.
“What’s wrong?”
“The system’s saying that our commission structure has moved lockstep with Chadwick’s.”
It’d only been one week. How much could Daniel know in one week? This was preliminary. “There’s a mistake.”
“I’ve looked over the statements myself. Damned computers, should have learned how to use them years ago when your mother tried to teach me.”
“There’s someone else doing this,” Catherine stated loyally.
“I think the statements are wrong,” he said.
And Catherine frowned. Her grandfather didn’t “think” anything. He knew. He decided. He moved forward. There was no room for uncertainty. A client could smell uncertainty a mile away, that’s what he had always told her.
“I want to help,” said Catherine, no uncertainty in her voice at all.
“You’re a sweetheart to offer, but I don’t think—”
“Stop. I’m going to help.”
“You’re sure?” he asked, his voice cautious.
“Yes.”
“You’re not good with numbers.”
“I know the commission structure. I may not be as good as Foster with the accounting system, but I know what it should look like. And then there’re the old invoices…”
“The ones in storage?”
“Well, yeah,” she answered. “I mean, you have to verify the numbers against something, right?”
“You’re really sure about this?” he repeated, with that same piercing look he’d given her when he told her the Gainsborough was a fake.
Catherine’s feet shuffled under the chair. “I’ll dig out the boxes tomorrow and have them sent to Foster. He can double-check them. You know, in case I make a mistake.” She closed her eyes for a second. No room for uncertainty. “Do you want me to do this?”
“What do you think?” he asked, his voice carrying across the room.
“I’m asking you, Grandfather. Do you think I can do this?”
“Maybe.”
She stared at him. “That’s not good enough,” she said sharply.
“I do think you can.”
She nodded once. “And now that I think about it, I don’t even have to go to storage. There are digital images of all the invoices. I can use those. I don’t know what’s going on yet, but we’ll figure it out.”
“You think you can?”
This time she looked him straight in the eye. “Yeah. I can.”
10
DANIEL HADN’T PLANNED on attending the Italian Renaissance art reception that night, but Charles Montefiore had insisted. He wanted Daniel to understand the full scope of the business, the financial, the social and the artistic, all coming together under one mighty umbrella that was over eighty years old. The old man was proud of the business that his family had created. If it wasn’t for the incriminating e-mails between the two auction-house heads, Daniel would have thought that pride was well-deserved.
As Daniel walked into the Montefiore’s reception hall, it was as if he were stepping into a museum. Everywhere he looked there was a painting, or a sculpture, or something that boggled the eyes. A peasant woman with a child, cloaked in a bright scarlet tunic. A soldier on horseback, resplendent in silver armor. A lush green landscape with a river that looked so real he could hear the steady burble as it swirled around the rocks. A dark bronze statue of two embracing lovers that towered almost to the roof.
Waiters wandered the marble floor with black tuxedos and slicked-back hair. The grand dames of society held their chins nose-bleed high as they strolled the hall in evening dresses and expensive gems to match. Daniel looked at his own suit, and decided it would have to do.
After a few seconds his eyes adjusted to the visual feast. His senses overloaded, still he knew the exact moment when she entered the hall. He had steeled himself for it, but even so, the punch to his gut had a lot more kick than he expected. All the control he’d been so proud of was gone. The blood was heading straight down to his groin.
She looked gorgeous. Her dress was classic black with a deep neckline exposing glowing, familiar skin that he dreamed of touching. Her hair was pulled back neatly in a barrette, looking about as fragilely controlled as Daniel felt. Catherine’s innate sensuality threw everything inside him off balance. She seemed to hide it from everyone, but Daniel knew. He’d seen, caressed, tasted. When Catherine had lain underneath him, brown eyes wild, that soft, red mouth open and slack…
Daniel cleared his head, shaking it off.
Not the time. Not the place.
While he was weaving elaborate fantasies, she didn’t even look in his direction, not once, and he knew that was on purpose. She’d made her decision. She was being smart and careful. Daniel understood smart and careful. In fact, he even approved of smart and careful. Yet he took his left hand and tucked it behind his back.
He didn’t wander around, but stood quietly in the corner. He meant to watch the proceedings, but he ended up watching her, until Charles Montefiore came toward him. Not good to leer at the client’s granddaughter.
“You’re enjoying yourself?”
“The
re’s a lot of art. I don’t know much about it, but it’s pretty.”
“I’ll have Catherine sit with you at the auction. She can explain how things work.”
“Catherine?” he asked, because he wasn’t supposed to know who she was.
“My granddaughter. Over there,” he said, and then waved her over. “Recently she’s taken an active interest in the price-fixing business.”
She had?
“Catherine, I want to formally introduce you to Daniel O’Sullivan. He’s doing the audit for us.”
She held out her hand. Daniel took it for a moment, and then reluctantly released it. “It’s a pleasure,” he said.
“Catherine is going to help you with the audit. It seems she has some concerns.”
Daniel’s eyes flew to hers, wondering where this had come from, but she was watching him coolly, and he wondered if her grandfather had put her up to this. He didn’t think she’d work with him willingly. Would she?
The old man wrapped an arm around her. “Can you sit with him at the auction tonight? Daniel’s new to all this.”
Daniel shook his head. “Oh, not necessary at all, sir,” he told her grandfather. “I’m sure I can follow it without taking someone’s time.”
“I’m sure you can, but I’ve got my own interests to protect here. I trust Catherine to explain it well. Will you do this?” he asked her.
Catherine’s mouth tightened, but she nodded. “Of course.”
Charles Montefiore gave his granddaughter a squeeze and then excused himself. “Take good care of him,” he told her, and then walked away, leaving Catherine standing awkwardly with Daniel.
“Why did you decide to work on the audit?”
Catherine shrugged. “My grandfather needs me now. I don’t think he knows how much he needs me, but he does. He doesn’t have a lot of faith in me, and he should. He needs someone to fight and defend him. I thought Mother would do it, but she’s too focused on the art to see the big picture. I can do this.”
“Yeah, you can.”
She turned on him then, calm and composed. “You aren’t nervous, are you?”
This was new from her—this cool sophistication that shouldn’t be so…arousing. He didn’t think she realized it, but here, she was in her element. Here, she was all Montefiore.
“We’ll deal with the situation,” he said neatly, his control firmly back in place.
“Come on. If we sit in the balcony, you can ask me whatever you need to know.”
He followed her out of the hall, then up the red carpeted staircase, noticing the paintings and the catalogs on the wall, trying desperately not to watch her silk-covered ass, the curves made for a man’s hands. It wasn’t easy not to look, and eventually he gave up trying. “It’s really impressive,” he said, because he needed to say something, but his voice sounded like sandpaper, and he cleared his throat.
“Thank you.” She turned her head, caught him looking and promptly blushed.
“Sorry,” he apologized, because he felt as if he’d been rude.
“Up here,” she said, leading him into a small balcony area with a wooden railing, elaborately carved, polished to a sheen.
“This looks like a theater,” he said as she led him down the row, settling in a plush velvet seat.
“An auction is theater. The atmosphere is all part of the show.”
There were a few employees in the top rows, standing around and chatting. He’d noticed the employees were all in evening clothes. The women in cocktail dresses or long gowns, the men in darks suits or tuxes. Everyone looking very, very sharp. “The employees stay up here?”
“Not always. Sometimes we’re on the floor. It depends.”
“Are the auctions always this formal?”
“The big ones are. The smaller ones are for mostly local dealers and collectors.” She leaned forward, her dress gaping an inch to expose honey-colored skin and the shadowy vee of her breasts. Instantly his cock jumped. Dear God. This wasn’t like the tidy blouse and skirt she usually wore. This was not good. Heavenly, seductively, ball-bustingly not good.
Daniel adjusted his jacket, concentrating on the intricate carvings in the railing, until he noticed the wooden nymphettes were nude. Okay, not a good time.
Catherine stared straight ahead, not looking at him, not looking at his oh-too-obvious hard-on, not looking at anything.
“I’m sorry,” he said again, apologizing for disrupting her peace, apologizing for getting the world’s stiffest cock every time he spent a millisecond in her presence, and in general, apologizing for whatever she thought he’d done.
Time to change the station, Daniel. He took a long, cleansing breath, tearing his eyes away from cavorting nymphs with full, lush, bountiful…Stop!
“When you have an auction, it’s from several suppliers?” he asked her, casually, easily, not thinking about her lush, bountiful breasts at all.
“Usually. Sometimes it’s an estate. Those are the ones that get courted. Grandfather has been courting the Drexels for years. Chadwick, Montefiore and Smithwick-Whyte’s all have.”
“And the commission structure comes into play to secure it?” Oh, that sounded intelligent. Professional, even. Daniel managed a half smile, still ignoring her breasts.
“It’s a negotiating point. As well as the estimated proceeds, where the auction is placed on the calendar, the publicity given an auction. It’s all part of the game.”
Two women came down the row, seating themselves next to Catherine, and he saw her flinch. One didn’t wait for introductions. “Hello. Sybil Aston. Damn glad to meet you.”
The other girl held up a hand, not nearly as forward. “Brittany.”
He waved back. “Daniel.”
Sybil whispered something in Catherine’s ear and Catherine’s hand tightened on her thigh. He didn’t need to look at her thighs. He really didn’t. But they were covered in black slinky fabric, completely opaque, he couldn’t see a thing. His memory knew. His cock jumped again. Discreetly, Daniel folded his hands over his lap.
Thankfully, Charles Montefiore appeared at the podium. He introduced the auctioneer for the evening, a well-fed gentleman with a crisp British accent, and the first item was brought out. A sculpture of a man and woman passionately embracing. Daniel bit back his groan. This was not fair on so many levels.
Catherine looked at him strangely, and he needed to regain his focus. “The accounting system shows all the transactions matching Chadwick’s,” he said, leaning into her, only partially because he didn’t want to disturb anyone else.
“The system is wrong,” she said coldly.
Okay, that was better. Unless he tilted his head a couple of degrees, he wasn’t staring down her dress anymore. “You think someone put in the wrong data?’ he asked, noticing her perfume. It wasn’t the same scent she had used at the beach. This was stronger, heavier, muskier.
And…he was back to sex again.
“Look at the invoices and see for yourself,” she said, crossing her legs, her hands tightly folded in front of her. Body language indicated there was no sex on her mind. No, all the desperate tension currently unrolling in Daniel’s body was a solo effort.
“Foster says the only invoices left are the digital copies,” he said, leaning closer still but it was the perfume’s fault, not his.
“He’s wrong. The originals are in storage,” she said, and he saw her roll her shoulders, her chest rising, nipples perked against her dress. Catherine rubbed her arms.
Maybe not so solo.
“Cold?” he asked politely. “You can have my jacket.”
“I’m fine.”
“Can you show me the originals?” he whispered, stealing a furtive whiff of her neck.
Her eyes closed, and her hands glided over her thighs, stroking. Daniel ground his teeth together, until he heard them scrape. “I’ll talk to Foster. The boxes are in the archives across the river. He can get them.”
“You don’t need to talk to Foster. You’re supposed
to be helping me. You show me,” he said, his lips feathering against her ear. She had marvelous ears. Soft and downy, with tiny diamond studs. She didn’t need the dress. Just those tiny diamond studs. And maybe heels.
“I won’t,” she answered, her voice cutting through his momentary fantasy.
“Why don’t you do it anyway?” he asked, and he curled his hand around the armrest because he wanted to touch her so desperately, and this wasn’t the time to touch her.
“Is this business or personal for you?” she asked, staring at his hand.
He looked at her squarely. “Both. I trust you. Most people lie to an auditor. You learn to pick who you work with.” It was the truth. He trusted her more than he’d trusted anyone in a long time, and he knew she’d never lie to him. And then there was the fact that he seemingly liked Charles Montefiore, and then there was the last bit. The one that had his body completely fossilized.
She met his eyes and didn’t blink. “We’ll get them.”
“Thank you.”
“I haven’t changed my mind about you,” she murmured in his ear, and Daniel closed his eyes. He was supposed to work like this? Oh, yeah, that was his job. Still, if he could have her again, the excruciating pain would have been more than worth it. Seven years of celibacy took a hard, hard, nail-chewingly hard toll on a man. He hadn’t realized it until now.
Daniel exhaled, clearing her scent from his mind. “Okay. That’s your decision. We can start on Monday.”
“Can you work tomorrow afternoon?” she asked.
He could work tomorrow afternoon. He could work tonight. In fact, he could work right now. “Anxious?”
“I want him cleared,” she said, and he could read the doubt in her eyes, the worry in her face. Such a soft touch. Hopefully, her grandfather would be cleared, but Daniel wasn’t so sure.
He reached out and touched her hand. “I know.”
“SO, WHAT WERE YOU whispering about?” teased Sybil after the auction was over, and Daniel was safely gone.
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