The Takeover (The Miles High Club #2)(88)

They are handsome and similar to Tristan: dark hair and tall and built—the family resemblance is strong. Dressed in jeans and sports jackets, they look as much like fashion models as their brother does.

“Hey.” Tristan laughs as we get to them.

They both spin toward us, and their eyes light up. “Tris.” They both laugh as they all shake hands.

“This is Claire.” Tristan smiles proudly. “This is Elliot and Christopher, my two younger brothers.”

“Hi,” I breathe . . . oh God, this is hell.

Their eyes widen as they stare at me, and then, as if remembering their manners, they smile. “Hello, Claire.” Elliot shakes my hand first. “Lovely to meet you.” He’s businesslike and emits a dominant power—quite daunting, actually.

“Hi.”

Christopher smiles and leans in and kisses me on the cheek. “Hi, Claire. I’ve heard a lot about you. So lovely to finally get to meet you.” Christopher is much more relaxed, it seems, and he looks like Tristan. He’s my favorite—I can already tell.

“So . . .” Christopher smiles as he looks between us, making small talk. “What have you two been doing all weekend?”

From my peripheral vision, I can see Elliot looking me up and down as he stands back and sips his champagne. What is he thinking?

God, I just want the earth to swallow me up.

“Oh, you know.” Tristan smiles as he puts his arm around me. “Bit of this and a bit of that.”

Christopher laughs. That’s code for sex.

And he’s right; we’ve been at it like rabbits all weekend. It’s a wonder I can walk.

Tristan holds his champagne glass up toward the painting we are standing in front of. “So this is Harriet Boucher?”

Elliot’s eyes light up as he stares at the huge canvas in front of us. “This is her.” He smiles at it in awe. “Spectacular, isn’t it?”

Tristan scrunches up his nose, unimpressed. “Meh, it’s okay.”

Christopher laughs. “I could take it or leave it, to be honest too.”

Tristan and Christopher begin to chat between themselves.

Elliot’s eyes come to me. “What do you think, Claire?”

“Beauty is in the eye of the beholder,” I reply.

He smiles softly as his eyes go back to admiring the painting. “Yes, it is.”

“Tristan says that you love this artist?” I ask, trying to make conversation.

“I do.” He gives me a lopsided smile. “Not love her as such, but I admire her work. She is by far my favorite artist.”

“Why?”

He frowns, puzzled by my question. “I guess . . . hmm.” He thinks for a moment. “Her paintings speak to me. I can’t explain it.”

I smile softly as I stand beside him and stare at the canvas. “How romantic.”

His eyes come to me. “Really?”

“If I were an artist, all I would want in life is for my paintings to speak to someone.”

He smiles and turns his attention back to the painting. “I suppose.”

“So you know her?” I ask.

“No, I’ve never seen her. I go to every auction, but she never attends. She’s elderly, from what I know.”

“And you have a few of her paintings?” I ask.

“I’ve bought five at auctions, although there are thirty in circulation. It is my aim to own all of them at some stage. They never come up for sale.”

“Are they all in storage?”

“No, her paintings are in my homes. They are personal to me.”

I smile as I watch him. He’s not intense like I first thought; he’s deep.

A man in a suit comes out with a roll-out little table thingy. “We are about to begin the auction for Harriet Boucher,” he calls.

The people in the room all turn and make their way over to where we stand. The crowd gathers in a semicircle around the painting.

Tristan puts his hand on the small of my back and smiles as he watches.

A woman comes and stands opposite us in the crowd. She’s honey blonde and innocent looking. She has a ballerina look about her. Perfect posture and innately feminine.

Elliot’s and her eyes meet across the crowd, and they stare at each other. I smile as I watch them; I can feel the electricity as it bounces between them.

Elliot leans into Tristan. “Black dress, red lips. Who the fuck is she?” he whispers.

“Never seen her before,” Tristan whispers back.

Elliot turns to Christopher and whispers the same thing to him.

Christopher looks over at her and frowns. “No idea.”

I smile as I listen to them. Tristan moves behind me and puts his arm around my waist as he pulls me close. He kisses my temple. “Do you want another drink?” he whispers.

“No, thanks.” I smile. I’m too busy watching Elliot and this girl mentally fuck each other across the room.

The auctioneer begins. “The second auction for tonight is the painting Serendipity by Harriet Boucher.”

I look at the painting. It’s an abstract in greens and blues, and it almost looks like rays of light shining down from heaven. It really is magical. I can see why Elliot loves it.

“Do we have an opening bid?” the auctioneer asks.