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?