Park Avenue Prince(5)

“Gracie,” Steve’s voice boomed out behind me and caught Mr. Shaw’s attention.

I tried not to let the uncomfortableness I felt show. “Let me introduce you to the artist,” I said.

Steve’s arms went around my waist and I squirmed. “Hey, Gracie.”

“Steve, please meet Mr. Shaw and Nina Grecco.” As subtly as I could, I pushed against his chest, trying to break free from his grasp. He ignored me, holding me tightly. “I was just going to tell them about this piece.” I pointed to Nina’s left. “Do you want to give us some more background?” I smiled and caught Mr. Shaw’s eye. He looked between us as if he were trying to figure out what was going on.

Steve began to talk about his inspiration for the collection while I tried to wriggle free from his clutches.

“Ms. Astor, would you please show me around your gallery?” Mr. Shaw asked, interrupting Steve in full flow. I smiled. Intentional or not, I couldn’t have been more grateful for his rescue.

“Do you want me to come?” Nina asked.

“We’ll manage just fine,” Mr. Shaw replied before I said anything. “Lead the way.” Steve released me and I headed to the back of the gallery, Mr. Shaw following.

I stopped as the crowd thinned out and turned to him. “This space at the back has a mixture of artists,” I said, and Mr. Shaw shoved his hands into his pockets and nodded. “What kind of art do you like?” I asked taking an opportunity to look at him more closely. Instead of being able to decide whether or not he was handsome, I was struck by his expression—the way he was looking at me. It was almost the way a person might look at a painting—first to get an overall impression and then more closely at what the painting was trying to say.

Our eyes unlocked as he looked around.

A frown formed on his face. “I have no idea.”

While he was otherwise occupied, I looked at him closely but I couldn’t place him. The wealthy in New York was a pretty small number. Everything from the watch hanging heavily on his wrist to his soft leather shoes told me this guy clearly had money—he was an Upper East Sider. But I’d never met him before. I would have remembered. He was tall, well over Steve’s six feet. Broad shouldered, Mr. Shaw filled out his suit very nicely. The slight curl of his hair in his otherwise perfect fa?ade suggested something a little wild about him. The sound of someone’s deep belly laugh made me realize I was staring at him and I turned away.

Mr. Shaw began to walk farther away from the exhibition, toward my secret space, and I followed him as he poked his head around the wall. “Is this part of it too?” he asked.

“Part of the gallery? Yes. But the work behind the partition doesn’t really fit with the rest of the pieces. I just like them.”

He glanced at me and then turned his attention back to my hidden works. I followed his gaze. “This is a La Touche. An impressionist oil painting. And this”—I pointed at the Degas—“is an original lithograph, signed by Degas, who, as you probably know, was famous for painting ballerinas. He was a contemporary of La Touche.”

“And these?” He nodded to the pair of photographs.

“These are recent and not particularly valuable, but the photographer was homeless for a period of time, and I think you can see it in his work. He takes pictures of New York through the eyes of someone who’s slept on the street. He sees the contrast between the beauty and the harshness this city offers.”

He refocused on me, his eyes narrowing slightly just before he spoke. “And you like them because of his story, or because of the photographs themselves?” he asked.

I thought about it for a moment. “Both.” I shrugged. “The photographs stand on their own—they’re both pretty and gritty at the same time.” I glanced at Mr. Shaw, who was still inspecting me. “But I think knowing the artist’s story adds something to them. He knows this city like most of us don’t and I think you can tell.”

I lifted my head a little, not wanting to be found lacking under his inspection.

Silence pulsed between us. Did he like what he saw?

“As I said, these are kinda passion projects for me. They’re not necessarily meant for people to buy. The rest of the gallery is more contemporary.”

“They’re not for sale?” he asked, his tone a little confused.

“Well, yes they are.” Of course it was great if people liked them, I just didn’t expect people who liked the work in the front of the gallery to like this stuff. “I guess it’s not the main focus of the gallery.”

He looked at me again and it was as if his stares had built up into something more—into something tangible and I had to stifle a shiver.

Something in his non-response was intriguing, almost as if he were keeping something back—maybe there was a little Batman underneath the Wall Street fa?ade.

“You don’t like the rest of the work in the gallery?” he asked, looking over my head. “Just this little section here?”

“Of course I like all the things in the gallery. Steve’s very talented and the pieces back here are all very collectable.” Had I talked myself out of a sale?

“But you’re not passionate about them.” His eyes were on my mouth as he spoke, and I swept my finger over my lips, almost feeling the burn of his gaze.