Park Avenue Prince(30)

“I like thinking,” I said and grinned at him.

“What were you thinking about?” he asked as we set off toward the auction room.

“Just things,” I replied. “You know.” How could I tell him that I’d been thinking about him?

“I’m not sure I do, Grace Astor. Enlighten me.”

“Do you have a tattoo?” I asked.

His mouth twitched. “You’ve been thinking about whether or not I have a tattoo?”

As we entered the back of the auction room, a babble of voices interrupted us, thankfully. I’d given too much away.

“Here,” I said, pointing at two seats at the end of a row about halfway down the columns of chairs facing the stage.

We sat down, Sam on the outside, nearest the wall, me between him and a woman on my left. “So, we have to stick to our maximum bid on these pieces,” I said quietly, leaning toward him. You never knew who was listening. The room was full of collectors—people devising strategies to get the right art at the right price. “We don’t want to get carried away.”

“Yes, we wouldn’t want that. Would we?” he whispered back.

“I’m serious, Sam. The adrenaline will start to flow and a man like you is bound to feel tempted to outbid other people.”

“A man like me?” he asked. “A guy with tattoos?”

“Yes. I mean no.” He had me flustered as everything he said seemed so personal. “You don’t get to be as successful as you are without being competitive.”

He nodded but didn’t speak. His eyes scanned the room, taking it all in. There was lots of hushed chatter, almost as if we were in church.

I followed his line of sight as he watched people trail in. “So did you say you had a tattoo?” I asked. We should be focusing on the art. At least, I should be. But I wanted to know the answer to the question. I wanted to imagine what it looked like.

“Just one,” he replied. “I wouldn’t ask you to do something I hadn’t done myself.”

I couldn’t remember seeing a tattoo on his body. I took a sharp intake of breath as I remembered him over me, the scruff of his beard dragging across my cheek as he moved into me, whispering how good it felt.

“You okay?” he asked, reaching across my legs and pulling my knees toward him.

“What is it?” I asked as he released his hand. Better question, where was it?

A couple of people walked onto the stage and the room began to quiet. Sam craned his neck. “You’ll see it soon enough.”

Excuse me? I would see it soon enough? Did that mean he planned to show me? Where was it? What was it?

Next time?

We weren’t getting naked again. Except . . . Except I liked the way he touched me. I liked the way he never had to raise his voice to be heard. I liked the way he moved. Even the way he breathed seemed so . . . deliberate, so purposeful. Like everything for him had a meaning. Next time he was naked with me, I’d scour every inch of his body looking for his tattoo.

He nudged me, breaking my concentration. “Look,” he whispered, his eyes wide. “He has a little hammer and everything.” He squeezed my leg.

I stared at him, and a grin spread across my face. He was excited about this. And I liked the way I got to share it with him.

The lots passed quickly and soon the Lautrec prints were up.

“I like the colors,” Sam said as he stared at the prints being put on the stands on the stage.

I really loved these, and I was pleased he did. They were almost cartoon-like—big primary colors and strong lines. They were fun. “Do you want to bid?” I asked.

He shook his head. “That’s why I’m paying you.”

I didn’t tell him I’d never done it before, but he was right. It was my job.

The room fell silent in the seconds before the bidding started. The auctioneer introduced the prints, telling us a little of the provenance and the composition—nothing that wasn’t in the catalog—and then before I had a chance to catch my breath, the bidding began. A bidder on the phone was against someone closer to the front. My plan was to wait until one of the first bidders had dropped out and then raise my paddle. But before we even got a chance to start, and within just a few seconds, our maximum bid had been reached.

“Sorry,” I whispered as the bidding continued.

“Don’t be,” he replied. “This is fun. Reminds me of the old days selling stuff in the street, there’s just more money involved. And people are wearing nicer clothes.”

“The street?” I asked. “When did you ever . . .”

“And, believe me, the people smell a lot nicer.”

Had his parents made him work through college or something?

Our next lot, a Degas lithograph of a nude that would go with the others he’d bought from me, was up next. The bidding started high at forty thousand dollars. We’d agreed to seventy-five for this piece. I’d encouraged Sam to be conservative with our limits, but maybe I’d been too conservative. At sixty the bidding slowed down and I gripped the paddle, ready to jump in. I could feel Sam’s eyes on me, but I couldn’t look at him now. At sixty-five I saw my opportunity and raised the paddle. The auctioneer acknowledged my bid with a pointed finger “Seventy-five?” he asked the bidder in front who’d been in since the start. With a nod, and as if we hadn’t bid at all, we were outbid and it was over. Jesus.