“Ladies and gentlemen,” the auctioneer says as a large painting is wheeled onto the stage, concealed under a canopy of black fabric. A hush settles over the hall and everyone strains in their seats to get a better look. “Here is tonight’s prize piece: The Judgment of Paris.” The painting is revealed, the dancing goddesses in all their fleshy glory, the dramatic lights and shadows intersecting, and it’s just as breathtaking as before.
The room inhales in a rush.
The auctioneer launches into the history of the painting and its creator. “Paul Rubens was a Flemish painter during the Baroque period, who developed his art later in life but had a distinctive style…” The pause gives me a chance to slip into St. Clair’s empty seat. The chair next to it is empty, too, his hot art consultant gone. My heart is pounding like when I first met him, except I haven’t just jogged ten blocks in heels.
“…never before has this famed painting been available for purchase anywhere in the world. Now, you may have the privilege of owning this incomparable work of art.” He picks up his gavel. “Shall we begin the bidding at one million dollars?”
Several dozen paddles dart into the air like someone asked a kindergarten class if they wanted cupcakes. “One point five million?”
The same sea of white plastic sails into the air. “Do I hear two million?” the auctioneer says and I don’t know what to do. My knuckles are as white as the plastic in my panicked death grip. St. Clair told me he didn’t care about the cost, that he just had to have it. But I can’t bid this much. Can I?
“Two million, do I hear two and a quarter?”
I look around. A half dozen paddles are still in the air, and it looks like Asshole Andrew Tate’s is one of them.
Was Charles serious? Was he playing some kind of game?
“How about two point five million? Two point five, folks, for this one of a kind masterpiece.” Two paddles. OhmyGod, can I really do this?
The auctioneer takes a breath and I feel like all my air has been stolen from my lungs. He says, “Two point seven five million dollars?”
Andrew’s paddle is the only one to rise this time and the auctioneer says, “Going once, going twice…”
I hold my breath and stick my paddle in the air.
“And we’re up to three million folks,” the auctioneer cheers. “Who will bid three million?”
Andrew’s paddle keeps waving, so I have no choice but to match and beat his bids. Higher and higher it goes, until we’re at four million…four point five…five million dollars.
I think I’m going to pass out.
“Five point eight!” Andrew stands, waving his paddle around like he’s signing semaphore. His face is red, and everyone in the room is whispering like crazy.
Holy shit, is this for real?
“Do I hear six?”
I hesitate. Charles said whatever it takes, but this is six million dollars we’re talking about here. Did he really think it would go this high?
“Going once…”
Andrew smirks at me and I remember how he didn’t even care about the art, that he just wanted more boobs.
“We’re at five point eight million, going twice…”
Last chance. I bolt to my feet. “Six million,” I announce, my voice shaking.
The room goes silent. Even the auctioneer looks surprised. But he composes himself with a brief nod and says, “Six million going once…”
Andrew looks down at his friend, eyebrows raised. “Six million going twice…” Andrew’s friend shakes his head and then Andrew shakes his head at the auctioneer.
“Sold! At six million dollars.” The auctioneer bangs his gavel and the room cheers. My heart is pounding in my ears and a wave of dizziness washes over me. I just outbid Andrew Tate on an original Rubens for six million freaking dollars. And Charles is nowhere to be seen.
Are you fucking kidding me?
I’m glad I’m wearing black so no one can see how sweaty and nervous I am. I want to sink into my seat, exhausted, but people are clapping and laughing. I can feel the question in the air: who is this girl?
“And that concludes our program for tonight—”
The auctioneer is drowned out by the cacophony of chatter in the room.
“Bennett!” One voice cuts through the din. I cringe. “Grace Bennett!”
Lydia is charging through the crowd toward me like a hurricane, furious.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” she hisses at me.
“This isn’t my paddle,” I stammer, my face flushing. “I—”
“This is not a game, young lady.” She’s fuming. “If you think you can just come in here and humiliate this company—”
“Did you get it?” St. Clair appears at my elbow.
Lydia stops. “What?”
I nod, then gulp. “Six million. Is that, umm, okay?”
I brace myself, but St. Clair breaks into a boyish grin and actually whoops. “Yes!” He laughs and picks me up suddenly, spinning me around. “I can’t believe you did it! I thought for sure Tate was going to beat me out on this one.”
“He nearly did,” I admit, my pulse racing in a giddy rush of relief. “But I jumped in at the last minute and he backed down.”
St. Clair laughs, setting me down. “God, I wish I’d been here to see his face.”
“You can now,” I grin, pointing across the room. Tate is charging for the exit, scowling.
“I need to take you to all my auctions,” Charles grins, still holding me close. “You’re my good luck charm.”
My head spins from his touch, his nearness, from the happiness in his eyes. “I just did what you told me to do.”
“What he told you to do?” Lydia says, realization dawning on her face. She turns to St. Clair. “You asked her to bid in your stead?”
“Yes, and she did splendidly.” He squeezes my hand, and I feel tingles rush up my arm. “Thank you.”
Lydia ignores me. “A prestigious acquisition, Mr. St. Clair,” she says, and a few other people gather around to congratulate him as well, pushing me out of the way and off to the side.
The white lilies in their vases have started to droop a little, and the chairs are no longer in straight rows. A burst of laughter erupts from the cluster of folks surrounding Charles, but he doesn’t look my way. I don’t want to linger here on the edge of the crowd, so I head back out to the lobby. This has been one of the longest shifts of my working life, and I’m ready to go home.
I’m walking across the marble floor toward the exit when someone taps my shoulder. “Running away from me again?” Charles says, his voice low, his British accent crisp. He slides his finger down my arm and lightly turns me to face him. “You have to let me thank you properly for tonight.”
I smile, thinking of the ways I wish his gorgeous body would thank me and hoping those thoughts don’t show on my face. Or maybe hoping they show a little. “What did you have in mind?”
“Dinner? Tomorrow night?”
I want to ask if this is a date, or if it’s really just a thank you, but I’m aware of a few people watching us, the handsome art collector and this awkward nobody girl in a no-name brand dress. “Sure,” I say. “Of course.”
He brushes a strand of dark hair off his forehead and beams. “Great. 8 pm. Hakkasan, Union Square.” I nod and he kisses my cheek, leaving an impression I can still feel when he pulls away. “See you then,” he says and then he’s gone while I am left here to catch my breath.
Did Mr. Hottie Charles St.Clair really just ask me out?
CHAPTER 5
The next morning, I wake up almost hung over by the blur of last night’s events. I bid six million dollars on a painting, got to see a genuine Rubens up close, showed my new boss what I’m made of (and miraculously didn’t get fired), and at the end of it all was asked out by the most handsome, charming man I’ve ever met. I can remember the burn of heat when his hands grasped mine, the crackle of energy between us—