Park Avenue Prince(25)

“I’m not. If I was I would have replaced the Post-its.” I didn’t want him to think he’d gotten under my skin. “Anyway, it’s too late to see the paintings before the auction next week—the viewing closes this afternoon.”

“Then we’ll go after lunch.”

Did this man not have a business to run? “What if I’m busy this afternoon?”

He narrowed his eyes. “Do what you gotta do, Grace Astor.”

Almost everything he said could be interpreted a number of different ways.

“Do you always want more from people?”

He paused and glanced away from me. “Not always.”

What more did he want from me?

“Okay, I can take you this afternoon . . . on one condition. If you get more then I get more.” His lack of furniture had bothered me ever since I’d walked into his apartment. And perhaps more so after his half-explanation. Not being sentimental wasn’t a reason a rich man didn’t have a bed—or a decent couch.

He finished his mouthful of food and placed his napkin on the table. “Name it.”

“After the showing, we go and buy you a couch.”

He chuckled. “That’s the more you want?”

Was there something else on offer? Did I want there to be? I nodded.

“Deal.”





Chapter Nine

Sam





As I watched Grace wander around the auction preview, I wanted to pull her aside, untuck the shirt from her stuffy, Upper East Side skirt, and slide my hands over her breasts until she was begging me to f*ck her. Here. In this room. In front of everyone.

When we’d f*cked on my apartment floor, she’d opened up to me and now, here she was, doing it again in a different way. Just by existing.

I couldn’t get enough. Her wide eyes, the way she became mesmerized by everything she saw, the way she leaned in to me, whispering secrets about the paintings. “Look at his boot–it seems black, but if you look closer, the paint is green and white,” she said, turning to me, checking that I was listening, wanting me to be as excited about the art as she was.

I smiled and nodded. As impressive as the preview was, she outshone everything in the room. Without thinking, I smoothed a strand of hair behind her ear. The rise and fall of her chest stilted, as if she held her breath. “You’re even more beautiful like this—passionate, excited,” I said.

The seduction was meant to be over; I was supposed to be done. I always was after the sex. But since she’d left my apartment, there’d been a niggling feeling that I hadn’t quite had my fill of her. Was it because I hadn’t dragged out my orgasm with her? I’d come a dozen times since by my own hand, but I still wasn’t sated.

So who was seducing who?

She smiled and looked down at her catalog, and we continued as if I didn’t want to f*ck her right there. When we reached the end of the exhibition she tipped her head to the side, indicating we should move away from the crowd. “Do you know which you like best?” she whispered. “We should narrow it down to two or three and then place limits on them all.” Flicking through the catalog, she dug into her purse and pulled out a pencil. “You should prepare yourself for not getting anything at all.”

I’d made a mental note of the paintings she flagged as green and paid attention as they appeared on our way around. There were three I liked in particular. “I like these two,” I said, pointing at a set of two prints by Toulouse Lautrec in bold colors. They were more masculine than the work I’d bought from her gallery—more straightforward.

“Yes!” she said excitedly and then, as if checking herself, she refocused. “For your bedroom,” she whispered. The prints were valued in the low five figures, so I was impressed she’d flagged them. She worked on commission and could have gone for the most expensive items. “I think if we can get them for the right price, it would be a good buy. What else?”

I pointed at another picture, marked green. A black background with a vivid bowl of flowers. It was kind of old-fashioned, but something about the darkness and the way the color seemed to break through appealed to me.

“The Brueghel. God, yes. It’s so you.”

I stuffed my hands in my pockets. It was? “It’s me?” I asked. No one other than Angie made that sort of comment to me. No one knew me well enough to.

Her cheeks colored and she shrugged. “Yeah. You know. Dark and stern. But then you get closer and . . .”

I wanted her to finish her sentence. Then what?

“It will look good in that apartment,” she said, paging through the brochure.

Finally, we decided on another nude. Apparently, she liked them as much as I did. Had anyone ever drawn Grace naked? Or taken photographs of her? A dull pang hit me in the gut. I didn’t like the idea of anyone looking at her without clothes. Even more, I hated I felt that way at all.

“Come on, Saks next,” she said, leading me out the exit. “How come you don’t have a driver?” she asked. “You’re like richer than the pope or something.” She flagged a cab, but I pulled her away, putting myself between her and the curb.

“Why should I have a driver? Manhattan’s full of them.” As if to prove my point, a yellow cab drew up, spraying the morning’s rain on my trouser legs.