Park Avenue Prince(9)

“Good. If you hand me that one,” I said, pointing to the Degas, all packaged in paper and bubble wrap, “and you take one each, that’d be great. I don’t want you bringing up more than one at a time, okay?”

We walked into the service entrance to the building, and Victor, the security guard, held the door open for us.

“Thanks, Victor.”

“No problem, Miss Astor. I just saw your mother come through the lobby.”

I hadn’t told my parents I’d be in the building today. My father would be at work and I avoided one on ones with my mother as much as possible. “I’m actually here to deliver these paintings to Mr. Shaw.”

“Oh, the new guy.” Victor nodded. “Okay, well you know this place as well as I do. If you need anything, let me know.”

I smiled at him and made my way to one of the service lifts.

As we arrived at Mr. Shaw’s apartment, the door was already propped open with a box. Was he just moving in? Victor said he was new, but anyone who’d not been in the building at least twenty years was new to Victor.

“Hello?” I called from the threshold.

“Come in.” Mr. Shaw’s voice boomed from the other end of the corridor. I turned briefly to the two men behind me and stepped inside. The hallway looked devoid of any signs of life. There was nothing on the walls. No console tables or rugs or furniture of any kind. Perhaps he was just moving in. I walked toward the light, unsure where we’d find Mr. Shaw.

As I reached the doors to the living space, I found him facing the New York cityscape, the sleeves of his white dress shirt rolled up, his hands stuffed in his pockets. Okay, Scarlett and Harper had been right, he was handsome—in an obvious sort of way. He might not be my type, but I still knew a good-looking man when I saw one. And the way he’d studied me at the gallery was . . . perhaps I’d been imagining it but it was almost like a physical touch—like his focus had mass. Watching him look out onto the rooftops, he was tall and broad and his ass was a little tighter than I remembered. I liked the way the ends of his curls shimmered in the light. I’d thought he might be flirting with me when he’d come to the gallery but I hadn’t been sure. He spun and I gasped, worried that somehow he’d know I’d been breaking him down piece by piece, as if he were a painting I was passing judgement on.

“Grace,” he said as he walked toward me, his heavy gaze coating me until I looked away as if I’d been staring directly at the sun.

I turned toward the two delivery men. “Just put those down and bring the rest up, one at a time.”

As they walked out, I turned to Mr. Shaw, who was still staring at me. I took a step back. There was an intensity in his attention that was unnerving and uncomfortable. But at the same time it felt good. It felt like I wanted to stand in his way a little longer.

Should I have one of the men stay?

“I thought Nina might be here,” I said, glancing around. If Nina had been involved, she wouldn’t have had Mr. Shaw buy such a mixture of artwork. But I wanted to know why, if he was focused on keeping his money safe, he’d made these purchases without her. The room was completely empty of furniture apart from a beaten-up leather chesterfield set opposite the windows. There were no rugs, no TV. Not even a potted plant.

“I fired Nina.”

Wow. Nina was the most sought after in the business. I doubt she’d ever been fired before. “I’m sorry to hear that.” I put down the small print, concentrating on keeping my expression neutral.

“Don’t be. She told me what I wanted to hear. I prefer people who tell me the truth.” He revealed his values and where he put his energy with every sentence he spoke.

“She’s very sought after.” Although he’d satisfied my curiosity, and he’d given me more detail than he needed to, I still wanted to know more. But not about Nina, about him. “She doesn’t often accept new clients.”

“You think I made a mistake?” Did he really care what I thought about him firing Nina?

“No.” I shrugged. “I mean, I have no idea. You can choose who you work with.”

“Exactly,” he said, holding my gaze and I felt it slip over me, like warm water.

I shivered.

“Are you nervous?”

“No.” I rubbed my arms as if I were cold.

He grinned and nodded. “I see,” he said. He knew I was lying.

I frowned. I wasn’t sure I wanted to know what he saw. “Where did you want these?” I had to focus.

“Aren’t you here to tell me that?”

“You have no preference? Bedrooms, living space?” Why buy paintings if he didn’t even have a table to put his coffee cup on?

He offered no explanation for the emptiness.

“Not really. You have free range.”

“Okay, well I’ll get them unwrapped and then we can decide together. You’ll know the light better than me.”

I bent down and began to unwrap the Degas I’d brought up. I hated to see my secret collection of paintings go—particularly the La Touche—but I was a business-owner now. These works weren’t for my enjoyment, and though Mr. Shaw clearly wasn’t a connoisseur, I liked that in a way. There was something about the art that had drawn him in. Maybe Grace Astor Fine Art had triggered a passion for art in Mr. Shaw—perhaps I would be touching people with my gallery and not just making money.