The Pawn (Endgame #1)(46)
I gasp when I see it, only the top right corner of oil on canvas.
As we get closer I read the placard standing at the velvet rope. A painting by Jean-Leon Gerome of Pygmalion and Galatea, on loan from the Met for opening night only. I forget for a moment that I despise Gabriel Miller and his public ownership of me.
“Can we go in?”
Amusement dances in his eyes. “I thought you might refuse to come with me for intermission.”
Because I thought he wanted to do something dirty. Not this. “Please.”
He nods at the attendant, who unhooks the chain on the velvet rope. As we enter, the crowd clears out almost immediately. I’m not sure why we’re allowed to look at the painting almost exclusively, even for a moment, but I’m not going to question it.
There’s security on either side of the painting, no doubt required by the museum. But they’re standing at a distance, outside the ropes. Right beside the painting is a woman in chino slacks and a white button-down shirt. It’s a somewhat casual dress for the opening night, but it’s clear from her stance, her hands in her pockets, that she isn’t a guest. She’s here to speak about the painting, but she isn’t a docent.
“Hello,” she says kindly. “Please let me know if you have any questions.”
I want her to tell me everything. “Can you tell me about the provenance?”
Her eyes light up as she describes the creation of the painting by Gerome—a series of paintings, actually, each viewing Pygmalion and his statue embracing from a different angle. It was purchased from the artist in 1892 by a dealer who then sold it to a private entity in the United States, where it remained until 1905.
“Why did he make so many paintings?” I hadn’t known about the paintings, actually. I only knew about his sculptures.
“He believed it was a hackneyed subject, Pygmalion and Galatea. He wanted to revive them, to find something new about them. All of the paintings focus on the moment when she comes to life.”
“So he was painting his sculpture?”
She smiles. “You know he sculpted her too?”
I flush, because a year ago I would have mentioned that I’m majoring in ancient mythology. Now I’m just a girl who used to read a lot of books. “Mythology’s an interest of mine.”
From her pants pocket she produces a business card. “Mine as well. If you’d like to chat about it, you can always shoot me an e-mail.”
My eyes widen as I read the card. Professor of Classics at the state university. “Wow.”
Her shrug is somehow not modest at all, which is endearing. “My focus is more on the ancient history represented in the painting, rather than nineteenth century European art.”
I feel unbearably hungry for any knowledge she can give me. I went from a waterfall of intellectual stimulation in college to a veritable desert in a large empty house. “What are you working on now?”
“I just got back from Cyprus actually. Studying the moss in Nicosia for clues about diet and disease in ancient times. We’re still working through the samples in the lab.”
“You’re my new favorite person,” I say, clutching the card like it’s a lifeline. “I’m going to write you. And look you up and read every paper you’ve ever written.”
She laughs. “I have a few stacks of journals in my office I could give you if you’re interested.”
“I’d sell my soul for them,” I say, fairly seriously. I try not to think about the fact that I’ve already sold my soul—or at least, my body—for one million dollars. Or the fact that the buyer is standing two feet behind me, watching the entire exchange.
Is he silently laughing at me, like the men at the auction? As if all my curiosity, my accomplishments are a big joke for the men around me?
And I can’t even argue the point, because I’m the one on the platform. I’m the one for sale.
The professor launches into a story about her coworker’s unfortunate encounter with a wild goat during their last trip, and I’m distracted from my own disgrace.
Chapter Twenty-Five
As we’re heading up the stairs, I realize he’s taking a different path to the box. Except we’re not heading toward the box anymore.
“Gabriel?”
He pushes open a door to a dark room and turns to face me. “After you?”
My eyes are wide as I take in the strange shapes of shadows inside. Props. This is some kind of storage room for theater equipment. We aren’t supposed to be in here. And there’s only one reason Gabriel Miller would want to take me somewhere private.
There’s a tremble reserved only for him, only for sex. I know it’s going to happen between us. A thousand different positions, a million different ways. And all of that before he even takes my virginity, strictly speaking. Knowing it’s inevitable doesn’t take away the fear. How much will it hurt? How much will he make it hurt, on purpose, to humiliate me?
“Inside, little virgin.”
He has infinite patience even though intermission only lasts for fifteen minutes. How many did we spend at the painting? Five minutes? Ten? He doesn’t look rushed, though. He looks like a man assured of his power, a king standing at the back of the board while his subjugates fight the war.