Park Avenue Prince(17)

Sam chuckled and I kept my gaze on the painting as I listened to him retrieve the bottle from the kitchen.

My heart gathered pace as he came closer, his hand going to my back as he topped up my glass.

“Are you trying to get me drunk?” I asked.

“I think you’re wanting to get a little buzzed,” he said. “And I get the impression that’s not a regular occurrence for you.”

“You can tell if I’m a regular drunk just by looking at me?” I asked, glancing up at him.

“Not just by looking at you.”

What did that mean? What else was he basing that information on?

“But you are looking at me.” I turned back to the picture, not making an effort to move away from his hand on my lower back. I liked that we were connected.

“Of course I am. I told you, you’re beautiful.”

“And like all rich men, you collect beautiful things. Paintings, real estate, women.”

Sam removed his hand and chuckled. “Come and see where I think your man got it wrong,” he said, heading to his office.

I followed him.

As I turned into the doorway, he nodded toward the wall. “Here,” he said. “I’m not sure if you didn’t want it there or if it’s just off.” He folded his arms and stared at three nudes lined up next to each other.

He was right. They looked off. The one on the left was slightly bigger and the background paper a little darker than the other two. It would look better in the middle. I checked the wall for the pencil marks, but they had been put exactly where I’d instructed. “I agree. This one”—I circled my hand at the picture in the middle—“needs to be swapped out with the one on the left.” I took two off their brackets and placed them on the floor, leaning them against the wall. “Let’s see if we need to change the fixture or if we can just swap them.”

“I think this works,” I said, moving them around. I stood back, mirroring Sam by folding my arms. “What do you think?” I glanced across at him, his eyelashes curling toward the ceiling, his five o’clock shadow giving his smooth suit a rugged look. Maybe the whiskey was underlining this buzz between us.

“I’m not trying to collect you,” he said.

I’d thought we left this conversation in the living room.

“You might be able to tell from my lack of . . . I’m not a big collector of things.”

So his furniture wasn’t on order or about to be delivered. This was it?

“But you bought this art,” I said. “And you asked me to be your consultant, which suggests you want to collect more.”

“But buying art makes financial sense. Hopefully.”

I sighed. Typical. “I thought you liked these,” I said, sweeping my arm in the direction of my secret collection.

“You’re right. I do, but I presumed that they’d make money. I mean, I’ve heard of Degas. I’m guessing that’s a good sign. And you told me I wouldn’t lose money. I trust you.”

He trusted me? Why? “It was a lot of money to drop on a gamble.”

He didn’t reply, but I could tell he was thinking about what I’d said as if he were only just considering his purchase.

“No need to be concerned. You made a good investment.” I didn’t want him to regret what he’d done, no matter the motivation. I wanted anyone who bought anything from my gallery to love and appreciate it. “And bonus,” I said with as much sarcasm as I could muster, “they’re actually beautiful pieces as well.”

A veil lifted and thoughts of his investment passed. “Not as beautiful as you.”

I rolled my eyes despite the fact that I wanted to believe he meant it. “But you don’t want to collect me.”

“No,” he replied. “I want to f*ck you, make you wild, make you scream down these walls that have you so tightly wound.”

It was a more honest response than I’d expected. I had assumed we would continue our dance for a few more songs yet. He’d step forward, I’d step back. But he’d just upped the stakes—stopped the music. And I wasn’t quite ready.

“What walls?” I said, glancing around the almost-bare apartment, not understanding his last comment.

“You know Gordon, you know the west elevator opens on the twentieth floor.” He stuffed his hands into his pockets. “Maybe you lived here. Maybe your relatives have a place in the building. You’re a Park Avenue princess.”

It was Harper’s nickname for me, but coming from her it felt affectionate and silly. From him, the name was like a hair shirt that didn’t fit—a punishment made worse, uncomfortable and unnecessary. “I grew up in this building. My parents still live here.” I tipped back my whiskey and took the bottle from where he’d placed it on the windowsill and poured without offering him any.

“Not too much, Princess, I need you lucid.”

“For the f*cking?” I asked, the alcohol making me brave. His analysis of me had meant to provoke and shock but I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

His lips curled up into a small smile. It was one I’d not seen before—slightly shy mixed with a dash of wicked.

He nodded. “Yeah, for the f*cking.” He didn’t take his eyes from me as if he might miss something if he did.