She sipped her drink, her eyes fixed on the glass. “Depends on the lover, doesn’t it?”
“Indeed it does.”
Ari finally met his gaze, electricity crackling between them.
“We’re talking about what makes a serious collector,” she continued. “Collectors know the history, the creator, because they care enough to find out.” Now Ari turned to face him fully, her bare knees brushing against his thigh. “How much more pleasurable is a painting, or a song, or book for that matter when you know what inspired it? What kind of… I don’t know… struggles or pain served as the artist’s muse?”
“Pain as a muse?” he asked, raising his eyebrows. “And here I thought you were the rainbows-and-sunshine type.”
Ari touched his knee, her manicured hand resting lightly against the cool fabric of his suit pants. “Precisely what happens when you judge without truly knowing what lies beneath.”
She kept her hand there, unable—or maybe just unwilling—to remove it. It was a dangerous tease, one she couldn’t indulge in too much longer.
But damn, it was fun.
“To pain, then.” He touched his glass to hers again. “And beauty.”
“And the wisdom to know the difference,” she added.
He frowned in mock disappointment.
“Too far?” she asked.
“Sorry, love. Now you sound like a motivational speaker. A bad one, at that.”
“Shall I tell you about the summer I was a trilingual nanny for a wait-listed Ivy League preschooler instead?”
“Oh, you wicked little beast!” He nudged her lightly in the shoulder, his eyes wide in amused horror. “Dreadful. Utterly dreadful.”
Ari laughed, relishing the way he’d called her “love,” in the smile her laughter brought to his face in return. By the time he called for another round of drinks, she was feeling so good, so carefree, she almost forgot she was on the clock.
Almost.
Chapter Two
Jared Blackwell had come to the auction to acquire one new possession—the Hans Whitfield painting.
Now he wanted a second.
The hosts had just called for everyone to take a seat in the auction room, and Jared held out his arm for the woman, happy to escort her. Things had gone unexpectedly well at the bar; he was hoping they might spend the later part of the evening in each other’s company.
And out of their clothing.
She reached for him, but then hesitated, a silent war waging in her pretty hazel eyes.
“It’s all right, love,” he said. “I don’t bite. At least not until the second date.”
Whatever her reservations, they vanished in an instant. She flashed him a look so fierce and carnal, it left no doubt about their common interests.
“In that case,” she said, “I’m counting drinks at the bar as our first date.” She wrapped her hand around his arm and leaned in close, not bothering to play coy. “Which means that this is our second. Let’s hope you’re a man of your word.”
With her firm breasts pressed against his arm, it was all Jared could do to keep his dick in check.
If I didn’t want that painting so badly, I might just drag this woman into the nearest coat closet, tie her up and—
“Ready?” she asked, nodding toward the auction room.
In her captivating presence, Jared was powerless to resist—a state that agitated him greatly. He didn’t like the tables being turned. The last time he allowed a woman to get the upper hand, she’d damn near ruined his business, not to mention his heart.
Still. There was something about her, a physical magnetism Jared couldn’t ignore. She’d intrigued him from the moment she stepped into the foyer. She’d arrived with a group, yet didn’t linger, didn’t greet the hosts as the others had. Instead she’d gone straight to the auction room to look over the artwork, and then settled in at the bar alone, looking determined as hell.
He wondered what piece she was after today.
Hopefully not the Whitfield.
If Jared was going to do battle with her, he’d much rather have it unfold in the privacy of his bedroom.
As they settled into adjacent seats, the woman let her hand rest on his thigh, so casually and comfortably it was as though they were already lovers. Taking her cue, Jared put his arm around the back of her chair.
Perhaps that bedroom battle might be arranged after all…
With everyone finally seated, the auctioneer got down to business, starting with a small but richly colored painting of a Parisian sidewalk scene—A Moment’s Pause, the last known work of Johan Saccari. Jared didn’t recognize it.
“What do you think it’s worth?” he whispered to his companion. “Fifty thousand?”
“Hardly.” The woman leaned in close, a conspiratorial grin lighting her face. “Can you keep a secret?”
“Of course.”
“After Saccari’s death, his apprentice sold a dozen of his own paintings under his master’s name. When he was finally caught, he admitted that A Moment’s Pause was Saccari’s final painting, and its value skyrocketed. It was stolen from the Louvre in the thirties, and then again in the fifties. After they recovered it the second time, it was sold to a private collector for three million dollars.”
“No kidding?” Jared was impressed by her knowledge. The bidding had already gone up to $80,000 since he’d first mentioned it, and it was climbing steadily. “Think it’ll go for six figures tonight, then?”
“Probably,” the woman said. “But here’s the real secret: it’s worthless.”
“You just said it was Saccari’s last—”
“It’s a fake. You can tell by the flat texture, among other things. Saccari was known for mixing foreign matter into his paints—sand, glass, stones, even hair. And besides…” She gestured to the women in front of them—the ones who’d nearly cornered Jared earlier—and lowered her voice. “Anyone worth her trust fund should know that the real A Moment’s Pause is hanging over a fireplace in Spain, still with the family who purchased it from the Louvre.”
“Sold!” the auctioneer said. “Four hundred thousand dollars from bidder seven. Thank you.”
“Wow,” Jared said. “Poor bloke.”
“Well, you know what they say about suckers,” the woman whispered.
Jared smiled. “Bet bidder seven wishes he was sitting next to you.”
“Bidder seven wouldn’t stand a chance with me. He probably doesn’t bite until the fourth date.”
Heat flared in her eyes, sending another bolt of desire to his dick. But with a frightening realization, Jared’s blood went suddenly cold.
“The Whitfield painting,” he said. “Do you know it?”
“Of course. Are you interested?”
“I am if it’s really the Whitfield.”
“Oh, that one’s totally authentic. I was relieved to see it, actually. For years it’s been… unaccounted for.” Her face clouded, a tiny wrinkle appearing between her brows. It looked as though she had more to say on the matter, but when Jared pressed, she waved it off.
“Now that is an interesting piece,” she said, eyeing an ancient alabaster bust that just went up for bid. “Also authentic. It’s King Darius the first, carved in the late period Egyptian style. Egypt was part of the Achaemenid Empire by then. The piece was probably commissioned by one of the king’s local wives.”
The auctioneer opened the bidding at $8,000. “Eight, to the gentleman in front. Do I hear eight five?”
“Nine,” his woman called out. She was all business now, the playfulness gone from her voice.
Jared watched curiously as she and the first bidder vied for the bust. He hadn’t pegged her as an antiquities collector, but then, they hadn’t yet gotten into the finer points of their various passions.
A third and fourth bidder entered the game, his woman keeping pace through a volley of bids. The price climbed to $55,000 before she finally dropped out. In the end, it sold for $72,000.
With his a
rm still resting on the back of her chair, Jared caressed her bare shoulder, his fingers tracing delicate patterns on her skin. She was so smooth, so inviting, he could only imagine what the rest of her body felt like, what it looked like under that dress…
“I’m sorry, love,” he said. “I hope you aren’t too disappointed.”
“Nah.” She leaned into his touch, goose bumps raising on her arm. “It’s a great piece, but not a stellar example of late period Egyptian art by any means. Certainly not worth more than the fifty-five I was willing to pay.”
“Someone disagrees with you.”
“What did I tell you about suckers?”
“After all your talk of pretense,” Jared said, nudging her knee with his, “could it be that you’re an art snob?”
She pressed a hand to her chest, feigning offense.
“It’s all right,” he whispered. “I’m a bit of an art snob, too.”
“You don’t say?” She fingered the edge of his suit jacket, stroking the fine material. “Here I thought you were the type to have a trophy room full of dead animal heads.”
“Guilty,” he said. “To be fair, the live ones are a bit harder to mount.”
Her unabashed laughter attracted more than a few impatient glares, but Jared couldn’t get enough of it. She was even more gorgeous when she laughed—her entire body glowed with it. He wondered what else might light her up like that.
Maybe she’ll give me a chance to find out…
“Ooh,” she said, her eyes sparkling. “Looks like your painting is up. Good luck!”
Jared turned his attention to the auctioneer. The woman was right—show time.
Jared slid the bid card from his suit jacket and scanned the room. A handful of people leaned forward in their chairs, scrutinizing the painting with possible interest, but it was hard to gauge their commitment.
“We’ll start the bidding at ten thousand dollars,” the auctioneer said. It was an insulting opener for such a gorgeous piece, and just as Jared had predicted, several bid cards went up around him. He waited until the bidding reached $50,000 before making his first move.
“Fifty-five,” he said calmly. He was prepared to go as high as a million, but from the looks of things, it wouldn’t even get close to that.
“Sixty,” one of the women in front of him said, turning to offer a smug smile.
Jared couldn’t have been less concerned. He nodded politely, holding off on raising her bid. Another woman went to $70,000, volleying with the others until it reached $100,000. Jared raised it by ten.
“One hundred ten thousand,” the auctioneer said. “Do we have one twenty? One twenty, for Hans Whitfield’s Desolate Rains, Series Two?”
For a moment it seemed that no one else had any interest. A mild disappointment settled into Jared’s stomach—the painting had to be worth more than a paltry $110,000, and he was hoping for at least a little competition to keep things exciting.
“One ten, going once,” the auctioneer said. “Going twice—”
“One twenty,” the woman in front of him said.
Another bidder was right on her heels. “One fifty.”
It had come from the chair next to him.
“What?” His woman raised her eyebrows, offering Jared her best innocent-looking smile, the kind that was anything but. “I couldn’t let her get away with that.”
Heat raced through Jared’s veins. “You’re after my painting, love?”
“I’m after a lot of things,” she said. “Care to raise the stakes?”
From the front of the room, the auctioneer called for a higher bid. “One fifty, do we have one sixty?”
“Two hundred,” Jared said.
His woman squared her shoulders. “Two fifty.”
“Two seventy-five,” Jared said.
“Three.”
So she likes to play a little hardball, too.
He grinned, filing away the information for later. “Three fifty.”
Another bidder jumped in at $360,000, and then another offered $400,000, Jared’s pulse kicking up with each new bid.
This is more like it.
He leaned forward, eager to keep his head in the game. His mystery woman might feel differently about what made these events bearable, but Jared loved this part—the hunt, the strategy, figuring out when to jump in and when to ease up, knowing exactly when to deliver the final blow.
But by the time the bidding reached $600,000, the other bidders bowed out, leaving only Jared and his mystery woman.
“Six fifty,” she said.
Jared narrowed his eyes at her, trying to figure out her game. She’d seemed genuinely interested in the Egyptian piece, not in the Whitfield. This wasn’t a tag sale. You didn’t show up at an exclusive art auction to browse the shelves, pick up a bit of this-and-that for the summer cottage.
What are you playing at, darling?
“Six hundred fifty thousand,” the auctioneer said. “Do I hear six seventy-five?”
“Seven,” Jared said.
“Eight,” the woman countered.
“Nine.”
“Nine fifty.”
Jared’s heart banged in his chest. He had to do it. Had to beat her. “One million dollars.”
The entire room seemed to gasp simultaneously.
The woman held her bid card against her chest, nibbling her lower lip, contemplating her next move.
Jared leaned in close, whispering hotly in her ear. “Is that all you’ve got for me, love?”
“Hardly.” Her eyes blazed. She waved her card with renewed vigor. “A million five.”
“Two million dollars,” he said.
Everyone held a breath as they awaited her volley.
“Two million dollars for the Hans Whitfield,” the auctioneer said. “Do we have two million five? How about two four?” She scanned the room, waiting for another bid that never came. “Okay. Going once. Going twice. Sold, to bidder twelve for two million dollars.”
The room erupted in applause, and Jared closed his eyes, momentarily lost in the rush of victory, and even a hint of relief. By the time he regained his senses and turned to face her, his mystery woman was gone.
Chapter Three
Safely out of view, Ari leaned against the door in the penthouse’s sprawling master suite, blinking back tears of relief. Adrenaline coursed through her veins, her limbs trembling and hot.
Holy. Shit.
She couldn’t believe she’d taken it so far.
A million five? What was she thinking? Christ, Davidson would’ve had her executed if she’d called for a wire transfer like that. Her bids were primarily for show—all part of blending in, except on the rare occasion when Davidson actually wanted a piece for his personal collection. But something had overtaken her tonight, breaking through all the boundaries that were supposed to keep her safe and on point.
It was the man.
From his first words at the bar, he’d stirred something inside her, something that made her want to take risks. To play with fire.
Fitting, since Davidson would burn me at the stake if he found out about this.
Thankfully the Brit proved to be a fighter to the death, desperate to win that painting. Ari had to admire his grit. She’d only intended to tease him, to up the stakes in a game he obviously enjoyed. But then her competitive streak took over, driving her to keep pushing, pushing, pushing.
In the end, the man was on the hook for two million for a piece that was probably worth half that on the private market, tonight’s auction notwithstanding. He must’ve really wanted it.
Or maybe he just enjoyed sparring with me…
Ari closed her eyes as a shiver raced down her spine, imagining for the hundredth time what that man could do to her with a few hours to spare and a pair of handcuffs…
The sound of the security guard’s clunky footsteps in the hallway yanked her back to the task at hand. Instinctively she dropped to the floor, scooting behind the four-poster bed on the off chance he d
ecided to open the door.
He passed by quickly, leaving the room undisturbed.
There was no more time to linger. The effects of the alcohol were fading, Ari’s mind finally coming back into focus. It’d been months since her intel had netted anything worthwhile, and if she didn’t find something soon, Davidson was bound to question her loyalty—one risk she wasn’t interested in taking.
Coast clear and gloves on snug, Ari got to work. With clinical efficiency, she searched the suite’s massive oak dressers, vanity, night tables, bookcases, closets, bathroom drawers, and medicine cabinets, looking for any information that might help Davidson plan their next heist. She found a few pieces of jewelry, some antique knickknacks, plenty of prescription drugs, and finally—bingo—a printout of the family’s travel itinerary. They’d be house hunting in Greece for two weeks at the end of the month.
The opportunity was there, just as Davidson had hoped. But the other three bedrooms turned out to be as sparsely appointed as the living rooms, and Davidson wasn’t interested in a handful of jewels and some dusty figurines. Too late, Ari realized that the art and antiquities her crew had traced to this family—the only score Davidson cared about—were long gone, probably auctioned off in pieces over the last several months, each precious item sold to the highest bidder.
A flood of conflicting feelings washed over Ari’s heart: Relief for the family, that they wouldn’t have to endure a robbery. Disgust at herself, at her crew, for doing what they did. And of course, the dread that always preceded having to show up at Davidson’s empty-handed, yet again.
Ari exited the last bedroom and slipped into the study across the hall, more than ready to get the job done, bail on the auction, forget the sexy Brit, and go deliver the bad news to Davidson. In her mind, she was already fast-forwarding to the part of the evening where she’d get to sink into a hot bath with nothing but her naked body and a glass of merlot.
But the painting over the study’s fireplace stopped her cold.
Adrift by Heinrich Von Hausen, a ship tossed about on a black and stormy sea, destined to smash against the rocks, a hopeless and heartbreaking scene but for one ray of sun beaming down on the deck.
Bared to the Billionaire: The Complete Series Page 2
