Trillion(33)

“Back to your happiness …” I ask.

“Do you mind?” She points to the fifth one on the middle shelf, deflecting my question once more.

“Not at all.”

She flips the antique pages, one by one, tracing her fingers over the older-than-dirt paragraphs, taking her time, as if she’s lost in wonderment. Her eyes trace the words as she chews the inside of her lip.

I’d give anything to know what she’s thinking.

But I remind myself I’m getting there …

“Tell me about your last boyfriend.” I take a sip. “What was he like?”

Sophie closes the book and slides it back into place, keeping her back to me. “He was horrible.”

Interesting …

Turning around, she adds, “And that’s all I’m going to say.”

The last woman I dated would happily unleash a dumpster truck of verbal garbage about her exes if prompted. The one before used to “accidentally” send sexy pictures to her ex, claiming she’d confused “Trey” for “Trent” in her drunken haze. In the past, I only asked about previous involvements because I wanted to see if I could spot a pattern … if they tended to seek out a certain kind of man or if they tended to view their exes as inherently evil, if they refused to accept partial blame for the demise of the relationship. That sort of thing. It usually told me everything I needed to know—and often times told me it was time to walk away.

But Sophie’s dating history is a glaring question mark.

“Horrible. Wow. I’m sorry to hear that,” I say, infusing my tone with sympathy in hopes that she’ll keep the dialogue going.

“Tell me about your last girlfriend,” she flips the script.

“Ah. That would be Raquel. We lasted not quite two years. Fought like cats and dogs. Had no business being together,” I say, leaving out the part about it being mostly about sex. “After a while, she realized I loved work more than her, and I realized she loved coke more than me. We went our separate ways, and I haven’t heard from her since.”

“Do you ever wonder what she’s up to now?”

“Never.” And it’s the truth. Someone told me once she was making her rounds in Hollywood, bouncing from C-list actor to C-list actor. I told them she could be fucking a limp-dicked gnome for all I care. “Do you ever think about your ex?”

“Never on purpose.”

“What does that mean?”

“He’s in the news sometimes …”

“Would I know him?”

“You know a lot of people,” she says, lips angling up at the side as if she finds that fact amusing. “So probably.”

“What’s his name?” I ask.

“What’s it matter?” She answers my question with a question. Typical. “It’s in the past.”

“Is it though? Seems like he did a number on you.” I toss back the rest of my bourbon. “I’d say that hurt is alive and well—some could argue it’s in this very room.”

“You mentioned you had some Renoirs? And a couple Monets? I’d love to see them.” Her voice sparkles with admiration. Once more, she’s flipped a switch.

She really has a knack for this—turning her emotions on and off, swapping one for another.

I’ve never seen anything like it.

I make a mental note to see if Broderick’s uncovered any of her dating history yet. With enough digging, we should be able to find something … especially if her boyfriend was in the public eye.

There have got to be photos.

A paper trail.

A gossip monger in the know.

If it’s out there, Broderick will find it.

“This way.” Apparently we’re shelving this conversation—for now.

I lead her from the study to the locked art galleria on the main floor. Many of the pieces are priceless, and, given that they’re family heirlooms, I haven’t wanted to part with them or take a chance on loaning them out to a museum.

Most people are unaware, but many of the “pieces” in museums are dupes. The real ones are hidden away in humidity-controlled chambers—if they weren’t stolen and quietly replaced. Black market art is a dirty little secret amongst the wealthiest art collectors.

“I took an art history class in college,” she says, studying an eight by ten Monet painting in a gilded frame—a gift from some French ambassador’s wife to my mother thirty years ago. “I’ve seen some of these before. In textbooks and slides. But up close …”

She drifts to the next painting—a Pellegrini, before stopping to gape at a Picasso sketch … my childhood favorite.

“I’ll be completely honest, sometimes I forget this room exists,” I say.

“Is that supposed to be endearing?” She laughs through her nose. “Because it’s not.”

“Just being honest,” I say. “That’s what we do …”

“All right.” She moves to the next one.

“If you agree to my offer, Sophie, I promise I’ll always be forthright with you,” I say. “About everything.”

“I’ve heard that line before …”

“What makes you think it’s a line?”