Park Avenue Prince(10)

As the delivery guys brought up the rest of the paintings, I unwrapped each piece from their cardboard, bubble wrap and tissue paper trying to concentrate on something other than Sam Shaw. Eventually, all eight were lined up against the wall opposite the windows.

“So, are you planning to buy anything more?” I asked. I wanted to make sure I didn’t take up space earmarked for anything else.

“I don’t know,” he said as he stood next to me, so close I could feel the heat of his body. “Maybe. I need to find someone to help me. Like I said, I don’t know anything about art.”

“But you like these pieces,” I said, glancing at his sharp jaw as he fixed his stare on the paintings. “Art doesn’t have to be about what critics say is good. You can just have an emotional reaction rather than an intellectual one.”

“Passion over logic?” he asked.

I couldn’t stop my grin. “Is such a concept so alien to you, Mr. Shaw?”

“Call me Sam.” His tone was slightly curt. “You think I’m not passionate?”

The conversation seemed to have veered off course. I hadn’t meant the comment to be personal. I felt as though I was tumbling down a rabbit hole into unknown territory. “I don’t know you,” I replied, wondering if I’d created a dead end in this conversation.

A beat of silence passed between us.

“I think the combination of the two things is where I’m most effective,” he said. Again, it seemed like an unnecessarily personal revelation. But it drew me to him and I couldn’t be sure that he hadn’t designed it that way.

He turned to face me. “Is your reaction to art emotional or intellectual?” he asked.

“It can be either or both.”

“And this?” He swept his large tan hands toward the lined-up works.

“Both,” I said simply. I felt as if I was giving something away by admitting it, and it seemed he knew it.

“Ahhh,” he said. “Passion and logic.”

I didn’t respond and he didn’t ask any more.

“In your gut, which is your favorite?” I asked. I needed to get these pictures placed so I could get out of there. The way he got so personal so quickly made me feel uncomfortable. It wasn’t just his nearness, or his intense stare. It was as if he were trying to unmask me without me noticing. But I had noticed. And my uncomfortableness existed because I wasn’t sure that he’d like what he found when he looked underneath. And for some reason that mattered. I wanted him to like me, find me attractive.

“I like all of them.”

“Or you wouldn’t have bought them, right?” As soon as the words were out, I realized how sarcastic they sounded.

He chuckled and I relaxed. “I’m not sure about that. Like I said, I’m new at this art stuff. I really want to make sure I make good investments.”

“But you fired Nina.” I crossed my arms in front of me. I didn’t know what I was doing wondering about this man. I should focus on my job not his hard body or deep brown eyes. “She’s the best at finding great investment pieces.”

“I did.”

“And you don’t know whether what you bought here,” I said, tilting my head toward the unwrapped works, “is a good investment.”

He drew in a breath and shoved his hands in his pockets, turning away from me. “You’re right. I’m not following my own logic.”

Silence stretched between us. I needed to get better with clients if I was going to make this work. I was insulting him and he was taking it. I was testing him—trying to elicit a reaction from him I wouldn’t like so I could turn away from him.

His eyes flickered around my face and finally he said, “I’d like you to be my advisor. To replace Nina.”

It was the last thing I was expecting him to say. “I can’t,” I blurted.

He didn’t react. I wanted to apologize, to explain that the gallery was all-consuming and I was under a lot of pressure to turn a profit so I could make my loan payment. And I didn’t want to piss Nina off—she could ruin me if she told people I stole clients. No consultant would want anything to do with me. And him. I couldn’t spend more time with him. He took up too much of my energy, my thoughts.

“I think the nudes would be good in your dressing room,” I said, pretending he hadn’t just asked me to help him, and that I hadn’t so rudely refused.

“Won’t that make me look like a pervert?” he asked.

I laughed and my whole body relaxed. “I hadn’t thought of that. Well, can you show me around or are we hanging everything in here?”

Without a word, Mr. Shaw headed back into the hallway and opened the first door on the right. “That’s a study.” The room was empty other than for the taupe rug and blinds.

On the opposite side of the hallway, he opened another door. “This is the second guest bedroom.” Empty, again. Did anyone actually live here?

Another guest bedroom was the same as was the room he said would be used for storage. But of what?

He opened the final door nearest the entrance and held out his arm, inviting me inside. I glanced up at him as I stepped forward, but he was looking at the ground, almost as if he were bracing for my reaction.

It was a huge space. Silver-gray carpet covered the floor and under the window was a mattress—no frame—with plain, pale blue sheets and a stack of books next to it. I glanced at him but he wore a blank expression.