Park Avenue Prince(15)

And I certainly didn’t want to be near a man I wanted to kiss. It was the last thing I needed. I didn’t trust my lips, my body, my heart at the moment. Especially with someone as spoiled as Sam Shaw.

My cell chimed on my desk. It was Steve’s new agent, who he’d signed with a couple of days after the opening. I’d never come across her before, which didn’t bode well—a bad agent could be worse than no agent at all—but it didn’t have anything to do with me anymore.

“Hi, Victoria,” I answered.

“Grace, I’m glad I caught you. I wanted to let you know we don’t need you to do any more work on Steve’s historic pieces,” she said, her voice as breezy as if she’d called to tell me my dry cleaning was ready to be collected.

My brain started to whir. “What do you mean ‘work’?”

“Just that we’ve decided to go in a different direction, and we won’t need you to sell any of them.”

My body tensed. “That wasn’t the deal I made with Steve. He said I could sell his older stuff at the standard commission rate.”

“Do you have a copy of the contract you could send me?” She knew full well I had nothing in writing. The guy had been my boyfriend. I’d trusted him.

“Steve gave me his word. Is he there? Can I speak to him?”

“He’s not here, and I’m sorry, but that’s not the way he remembers things. Grace, I’m not trying to be an * here, but I need to act in my client’s best interests. He needs to be with a bigger gallery.”

Jesus, he wouldn’t have even met this agent if it hadn’t been for my gallery. It just wasn’t fair.

“I’m not going to take away your commission for his sold pieces,” she continued. “I believe there are four works that are yet to sell, and I’ve arranged for those to be collected this afternoon. You understand, don’t you?”

I got that I was being f*cked over loud and clear. The commission from the older work would have meant I could relax a little—not have to worry about rent next quarter. I’d thought I was on my way when in fact Steve’s exhibition had been a false start. My ex-boyfriend was a moral wasteland. But I’d learn and get everything in writing next time.

I really wanted to tell her to go f*ck herself, but I didn’t have the energy.

“You better get your guys here fast.”

Victoria laughed as if I couldn’t be serious. “They should be there any moment.” As if by magic, the bell over the door tinkled and two men carrying tissue paper and bubble wrap entered.

I hung up the phone.

“You have four paintings for us to collect?” the taller guy bellowed from across the room. “If you just point to them we’ll pack them up and be on our way.”

I pushed the breath out of my lungs, trying to calm myself, but as I leaned against the desk, the room rolled as if I was on a boat. I closed my eyes. I needed to keep it together until I’d gotten rid of these paintings, then lose it and drink a bottle of wine by myself.

I opened my eyes, fisted my hands and marched over to the first of Steve’s paintings that hadn’t sold. I yanked it off the wall and passed it to the little guy. “Here’s the first one.”

He just managed to catch it, pressing his no doubt sweaty palms across the splashes of color. The second painting was bigger, but I pulled it from its fixtures and set it down on the floor. “And this.”

My anger increased with every moment. I wanted Steve out of my gallery, out of my life, and I never wanted to be taken in by someone so selfish and egotistical again.

“And you can take these as well,” I said, handing over the last two paintings.

I took a deep, resigned breath. “Leave. You can wrap them up in the truck.”

The men looked at me, and then at each other, clearly not understanding my anger, but thankfully they didn’t argue. I followed them as they left, locking the door and pulling down the cream shade with a snap.

I turned and rested against the blind, tracing my eyebrows with my index fingers, trying to flatten out the scowl I knew I was wearing. What was I going to do? I’d been counting on the sales from Steve’s old work to allow me to buy some more inventory. I couldn’t just find another artist to exhibit on short notice. Now I had nothing of his to sell; his paintings were just taking up space. I needed to get them shipped out and make room for things I was actually going to make money from.

I’d been so excited to open my own gallery, so proud to put on my first exhibition. Now everything I touched seemed to turn sour.

Someone knocking on the glass interrupted my pity party. Steve couldn’t possibly want anything else from me; they’d taken anything of any value already.

I unlocked the door, and found Sam Shaw towering above me.

I caught a whiff of his citrusy scent. It wasn’t the heavy cologne lots of Wall Street types used. It was lighter, subtle, more like a body wash. I liked it more than I wanted to and despite my bad mood, my nipples puckered under my blouse. I rolled my eyes. “Oh, it’s you,” I said.

“It’s nice to see you, too.” The corner of the left side of his mouth turned up slightly higher than the right as he smirked at me. “I thought I’d come a little early in case you closed up to avoid me. Looks like your plan failed.”

“It wasn’t you I was avoiding.” I turned and headed back to my desk. I wanted to kick off my shoes and get drunk, not go to Mr. Shaw’s to rearrange art.