Chapter 18 #2
“He was obnoxious to you.” John crossed his arms. “I wanted to punch him, but you told me not to, so now I’m just pissed that you had to be around that for years.”
She never needed a man to caveman-defend her, but it was endearing.
She hooked her hands on his forearm. “That’s sweet of you, and thank you for your self-restraint. But we have a job to do. Are you good?”
John’s jaw muscle bulged. “Long as I stay away from your ex, I’ll get there.”
Good enough.
After the gallery host scanned their auction tickets, they entered. Anyone in here, from the man in the tux to the woman in the glossy blue fringe dress, could be the buyer.
As for the donor…nope, she didn’t see him here, either.
She and Torrey had sold Smoking Hon ten years ago to an exiled Croatian pseudo-prince with ties to the House of Savoy.
Dad had racked up medical bills after breaking his arm rebuilding their deck, and they’d needed quick cash.
A painting they’d sold for ten thousand dollars might fetch millions this evening. Insane.
But that’s how the art industry worked.
John collected two fizzing flutes of champagne from a waitress, then handed one to her. “Here’s to blending.”
They clinked their glasses and drank.
“Barbajuan?” a passing waiter asked.
Vivian plucked a pastry fritter filled with spinach and cheese from the tray.
After finishing the barbajuan, John said, “Damn. Should’ve taken two of those.”
She sipped her champagne. “More canapés on your six.”
This waiter offered mini tomates à la monégasque—stuffed cherry tomatoes. After gulping two, John grabbed three skewers of mini beef cubes and sweet-and-sour baby onions from another passing waiter.
“Is this giving swanky influencer?” He held the skewers between his knuckles, Wolverine-style, then snapped a picture.
“Nope. And it’s different from Jason’s typical aesthetic.”
“I’m pivoting from obnoxious ass to flippant ass.” He handed her a skewer, then drained his champagne. He plucked another flute from a passing tray. “Upholding my nepo baby influencer image is more of a challenge than I thought it would be.”
“The drink’s a prop,” she murmured. “Take it easy.”
“Distinguished guests, may I have your attention?” A woman stood at a lectern in front of a collection of white folding chairs. “We’ll begin the auction in two minutes. Please be seated.”
John plucked another champagne from a waitress’s tray. “One more for the road.”
The seats in the back provided a full view of the attendees and, if she swiveled her chair, the doors. As she tucked the fluid yellow silk underneath her, Jean-Michel and Lola entered the room, followed by a man who looked like an Anne Rice vampire, as well as…holy shit. Winegrad?
She flattened her lips.
She’d told MacColl not to send Mr. Solves-Everything-with-Fists.
The L-Pill necklace’s pendant was smooth under her worrying caress. This wasn’t the first time MacColl had disregarded her advice. Unless…
Maybe Winegrad wasn’t here on MacColl’s orders. That would be a more concerning reality.
Dammit, she needed more info.
The auctioneer tapped the microphone. “Bienvenue, benvegnüu, welcome to the Casino d’Or’s tenth auction benefitting the Prince Georges Foundation! We would also like to thank the artists and our generous donors.”
Polite applause followed each name the willowy woman listed.
“Now, it’s time to open your wallets and bid generously.”
With a spotlight shining on the first piece, the auctioneer provided a detailed narrative. Collectors liked to learn a piece’s backstory. Any morsel of information, gossip or legend that stoked the imagination potentially increased their willingness to bid.
Vivian cut her gaze to Jean-Michel, Lola and the Mystery Vampire, but they showed no interest in anything on the auction block. John busied himself with snapping photos.
Soon the willowy auctioneer gaveled a win.
Amina’s painting was next.
“This piece by Amina Hassan is entitled Women’s Work,” the auctioneer said. “It was donated by our very own Lola Vorlicek.”
As the auctioneer continued to introduce the piece, Vivian let out a relieved breath. The bio changes she’d emailed to the event organizer—and to Lisa, on whom she relied to relentlessly follow up—had made their way to this evening’s script.
“Let’s start the bidding at one thousand euros.”
A sea of hands rose, which warmed Vivian’s heart. As the number climbed with each round, hands dropped. Next to her, John shot his arm in the air to confirm a bid.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m a nepo baby.” He snapped a selfie. “I’ve got cash to burn for a good cause. You said it should go for fifteen, and I’m bumping it up there.”
“Do I have fifteen thousand euros?” the auctioneer asked.
All but John and the blue fringe lady dropped out.
Her heart rate kicked up. “I don’t like the way you’re embracing this identity.”
He raised his hand again. “I bet you do.”
The auctioneer scanned the crowd. “Fifteen thousand two hundred?”
John held her hand. She held her breath. Vivian could pay if he won, but she’d have to wire money from Vivian Flint to Lisa, who would wire it to Jane since she was friends with both identities. But it would be an unanticipated administrative pain in the ass.
The blue fringe lady raised her hand.
They were off the hook. Bonus—Amina’s profile would rise overnight.
“I was hoping that lady won,” John said. “I image-searched her. She’s Simone Crovetto, the head of a lifestyle brand called Pied-à-Terre. Should be good for Amina.”
“What would you have done if you’d won?”
“Hocked a kidney to pay for it.”
Vivian shrugged. “I mean, why else do we have two?”
“Next,” the auctioneer said, “we have Rocksy’s Smoking Hon.
Originally sold ten years ago, this stenciled and painted plywood had been used to board up a row house in Baltimore’s Penn North neighborhood.
The donor wishes to remain anonymous. I assure you we’ve inspected this piece, and no self-destruct devices have been located.
Bidding wars will be the only theatrics tonight.
Let’s begin with a conservative five million euros? ”
Vivian gulped as a dozen hands went up.
She wished she’d kept more of Rocksy’s early pieces.
She fixed her attention on Jean-Michel, whose ear was pressed to his phone. As the prices spun up in a whirlwind, his hand remained in the air. His vulpine smile meant he was about to get exactly what he wanted.
Jean-Michel shouted, “Twenty-one million euros for my bidder on the phone!”
The crowd silenced itself.
That was more than twice the last bid.
“I have twenty-one million euros! Any other bids? If not, going once, twice…” The auctioneer smacked her gavel against the wooden block. “Sold to Jean-Michel de Gramont on behalf of his client for twenty-one million euros.”
The room erupted into applause.
The Mystery Vampire shook Jean-Michel’s hand. Interesting.
“Her Serene Highness invites all of you to the ballroom for dancing and refreshments to celebrate raising fifty million euros!”
Mystery Vampire dipped from the room, leaving Jean-Michel, Lola and Winegrad behind. Hmph. So Winegrad was with Jean-Michel and Lola, not Mystery Vampire.
She threaded her fingers with John’s, then rose from her chair.
“We need to go. Quickly.”
Outside the gallery, she picked Mystery Vampire out of the crowd. He was among the people climbing the grand curved staircase to the ballroom. She and John followed on the crowd’s fringes.
“I need to take up-close-and-personal pictures of one of the people from the auction,” she whispered. “There will be flirting. Stay fifteen feet away at all times.”
John squeezed her hand. “I’d rather stick with you.”
“We’re in a crowded place. I’ll be fine.”
“As if nothing bad ever happened in a crowded place?”
Eurodance music blasted them as attendants opened the ballroom doors. Despite the dimmed room, she clocked Mystery Vampire standing at the bar.
“Stay over there.” She jerked her head toward a pillar, then nudged the tiny button on the back of her camera necklace. “Remember—fifteen feet.”
“Got it.” He nodded. “But I don’t like it.”
Neither did she, but this was the job.
At the bar, she shimmied into the spot next to Mystery Vampire. Christ, this was weird. She’d never played the vixen with a boyfriend…fiancé, hopefully…watching.
“Qu’est-ce que vous voudriez?” the bartender asked.
What she would really have liked was to fast-forward to the moment she and John could return home to restart their lives, but duty called.
“Pink Vesper, s’il vous pla?t.” She was more of a red wine girl, but she ordered the signature cocktail while she was on the job, both to blend and avoid traceable preferences.
The bartender nodded.
A different bartender delivered a tulip-shaped glass of amber alcohol to Mystery Vampire.
“Merci.” Mystery Vampire’s voice was deep.
She needed to get him talking to better suss out his accent. One word was not enough.
Her bartender delivered her drink in a chilled coupe glass. It was bubblegum pink.
“Merci.” She turned to Mystery Vampire. In French, she asked, “Pardon me, but did I see you at the charity auction?”
“Yes.” He peered over her head toward the doors.
Chatty.
She raised her glass. “Cheers to a successful auction!”
He did not reciprocate.
“What’s your drink?” she asked. “Looks yummy.”
She hated her word choice. But studies showed straight men were looser-lipped around women they perceived to be less intelligent. Madame Curie probably never said yummy.
“Rakija,” he answered, “is like cognac. Made from plums.”
Yeah, plums soaked in lighter fluid. The agency held a course on booze from around the world because it was bridge-building knowledge.
Mystery Vampire’s choice also helped geolocate his elongated vowels.
He spoke like he was holding a bubble in the middle of his tongue.
So…likely Eastern European, and based on his drink, probably Croatian.
More conversation was needed.
“Can you believe how much someone spent on the Rocksy painting?” She widened her eyes. “I mean, love that for them. But is it, like, as important as Warhol?”
She sipped her Pink Vesper. Blech. Vodka was her enemy.
“I love it,” Mystery Vampire said. “People pay millions for spray-painted garbage? I admire his grift.”
She did not appreciate Mystery Vampire’s pronoun assumption.
“You’re so smart,” she said. “What do you think about—”
Someone jostled Mystery Vampire’s arm. Rajika sloshed onto her and darkened her dress at her nipple. Perfect. She glared at the offender over Mystery Vampire’s shoulder.
Jesus fucking Christ.
“Sorry, dude,” John said. “Let me buy you a drink.”
“No.” Mystery Vampire thrust a napkin at Vivian. “Take this.”
“Oh my gosh, thank you so much.” She took the napkin and dabbed her breast with as much come-hither finesse as she could muster. This couldn’t possibly be alluring, but she had to try. She pointed to the dance floor. “This is my favorite song. Want to dance?”
Mystery Vampire skimmed his gaze over her, then shook his head.
Big fucking ouch.
He dropped euros into the tip jar, then left. Chasing him would be too obvious. Hopefully the camera picked up some clean shots.
“Jane Davis, I’ll dance with you.” John caught her free hand.
She set her drink on the bar. “What the fuck, Jason?”
“Dance with me.” He squeezed her hand three times.
No choice but to follow him. The music shifted to jazzy salsa.
Her agency dance lessons were stale, but it didn’t matter.
John led with confidence, twirling her, then reeling her back to him.
They clasped their left hands, and his right pressed firmly on the small of her back.
They moved through the crowd, not lingering near anyone for more than a few seconds.
“Where’d these dance moves come from?”
“My parents didn’t want me to be embarrassed if anyone asked me to dance at a state dinner when I was a teenager.” He twirled her again. “And the president of Iceland’s daughter had the night of her life.”
“Why didn’t you stay put like I told you?”
“My cuff links.”
“Say more, please.”
“I dropped one in that guy’s pocket when I bumped into him.”
Understanding dawned on her. She hadn’t considered planting them on a person of interest. But because John had, they could track Mystery Vampire instead of skulking after him.
“You’re brilliant,” she said.
“I know.” He glanced at his watch. “We need to move. It’s 11:20.”
“One thing first.” She raised herself on her toes and wrapped her arms around his neck, coaxing his mouth to hers. As their tongues tangled, he cupped her ass and hauled her to him.
“Is that because of the cuff links?” he asked.
“It’s a cover. If anyone’s watching us, they’ll assume I’m dragging you to bed.”
He arched an eyebrow. “We could skip everything else and do that.”
“You wish.” She patted his chest. “Let’s get to work.”