Chapter 10
TEN
“I have given you enough time to deliberate. Either give me your answer by the end of the day, or I’ll withdraw my very generous offer!” Darcy barked into the phone before hanging up.
He turned in his desk chair to face the eighty-story midtown view from his office window.
Yes, he was in a shit mood, still angry with himself for indulging in Lizzy’s memory.
With eighteen days left to his wedding, there was no room in his already complicated life to fantasize about his ex—titillating as it may be—at the right time, of course.
Not titillating! Dammit! No!! It’s never the right time to think of her!
The trifecta of stress of the Sonic Defense deal falling through, the closing on the townhouse, and the fast-encroaching wedding date further exacerbated his miserable attitude.
Not to mention that Beanz’s sister’s Hampton wedding was in a couple of days and he would be sharing a suite with his fiancée for the first time.
Yeah, he’d better get used to it. She was going to be merciless about wanting sex before their wedding.
Picking up his mobile, he tapped Beanz’s image on the home screen. “Yeah, hey. I want to go with you to drop off the broker application. After reviewing some of my mother’s artwork, I have a few specific requirements for our representative. What time should I meet you?”
“Actually, I didn’t count on you coming with me, so I made other arrangements,” Beanz said.
He sighed. “I distinctly remember you stating that you wanted me in on the process from the onset. Now you’ve changed your mind? I thought you liked the broker?”
“I think the broker is perfectly suitable for our needs.”
“So, what’s the problem? ... Beanz ...”
“There’s no problem, but I distinctly remember you saying you trusted me to handle it alone,” she protested.
“Fine. You’re right. I do trust you. Just make it clear that I’m a traditionalist because if I get saddled with a Dali or van Gogh, I won’t be happy. I don’t care how much the resale value will be.”
“Even I don’t want a Dali. The work of a certifiable madman would not present well over the mantle.”
“Exactly my thought. Also, Amanda has arranged for the limo to pick you up at noon tomorrow. It shouldn’t take you more than three hours to get out to Westhampton Beach. Please be ready. Taylor really hates it when you mess up his schedule.”
“And yet, he’s always late. Will you be arriving Friday night?”
“No. You know how I hate that saccharine wedding rehearsal shit. I’m taking a charter flight out after a breakfast meeting with a prospective client on Saturday.”
“Saturday? Oh, c’mon! The wedding is Saturday! Need I remind you of my role in the ceremony?” Caroline balked.
“I am more than aware when the wedding is and that you’re the maid of honor.
You have my word. I’ll be there, just later than expected, and yes, I’ll make it clear to everyone you are my fiancée, the woman I love more than life itself.
And that I’m happy to spend a million five on our over-priced society wedding. ”
“Good. I’m expecting an Oscar-winning performance, darling! Ta-ta!”
He rolled his eyes, then clicked off the call.
Leaning back, he considered the stressed tone in her voice.
After all these years, he could tell when Beanz lied.
She was born a liar, and he was born to detect bullshit.
This was the second time now that she didn’t want him to go to the gallery with her.
Why? Perhaps she was having one last fling, which in itself wasn’t earth-shattering, but why risk stressing things so close to their nuptials?
She’d always been careful to keep her hook ups on the DL, and he appreciated that.
Hell, he certainly didn’t expect her to be entirely faithful once they got married, but he knew she’d pursue her dalliances out of the country and double protected. Both clauses were in The Marriage Pact.
“Hey, Amanda,” he called out to his assistant.
“Yes, Mr. Darcy,” she said coming into his office.
“I’ll be out of the office for the rest of the morning. Please forward all my calls, especially Chase Intelligence. I’m expecting their decision, and I want to wrap it up before I leave for the Hamptons.”
“Yes, sir. Will you be back this afternoon? You have a dinner meeting at seven with Empire Shores Resorts at The Reading Room. Do you want me to cancel?”
“I’ll be back, and I’ll keep the dinner meeting. I just have some personal business to attend to for the wedding.”
“Ah! If I can help with the plans, just ask.”
“I appreciate the offer, but Caroline has most everything covered.” He forced a smile, then blinked, checking himself. “How is your mother feeling?” he added.
“Oh! That’s nice of you to ask. She’s much better, thank you.”
He smiled again, this time from his heart. Amanda was an excellent assistant and a good person, certainly not the cause of his grouchiness.
“Oh, and if you can do a complete workup on La Tempera Art Gallery. I think they’re down in Tribeca. I want to know everything about them by Monday.”
“Are they a Pemberley potential client?”
“I am a potential client of theirs, but I want to be sure they’re on the level before I invest tens of millions.”
“Of course. It’ll be in your inbox before you arrive at the office on Monday.”
Foregoing his security detail, six minutes later, he was in the back of a yellow cab headed downtown to La Tempera and its owner—according to Infopedia—Guy Bernard.
Finally, after two detours, he sat in the taxi examining the gallery storefront in an old, refurbished building.
The place had curb appeal and the artwork in the window was a pleasing presentation of three traditional landscapes hanging from ceiling wire.
At first glance, he liked what he saw but would do his due diligence on the place on Monday.
Exiting onto the busy sidewalk, he cracked his knuckles and cricked his neck in usual fashion before entering any business meeting.
Buttoning his suit jacket, he confidently strode to the entrance.
Through the cut glass on the inside vestibule door, he spied an older, white-haired man talking with a middle-aged couple. Animated, his hands flew this way and that as he spoke about the pieces on the wall.
Darcy waited for a break in the conversation to ring the bell.
Smiling, the man waved, then buzzed him in.
“Welcome to La Tempera!”
“Good morning. I’m looking for Guy Bernard.”
“That’s me! How can I be of service—any service—to you?” he replied with a flourish of his arm.
Looking around the yellowish gallery, he was impressed by the warmth, layout, and the current exhibition, meager as it was, but the artwork was superior. “Your gallery came recommended by a friend who attended the reception last Saturday. Is this the same artist?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t know much, but this is far from abstract.”
“Oh, dear. That must have been another gallery. Our reception was what you see of the remaining pastel pieces by the mucho, mucho talented Gregory Pillson. The night was simply fabuloso! You should have come!”
“Forgive me. I see I clearly misunderstood my friend. Pillson’s work is ... very impressive.” He furrowed his brow, further confused by Beanz's obvious obfuscation. “Are you the broker?”
“Although pseudo-retired, I am one of two here at La Tempera, but it’s been ages since I’ve traveled for acquisitions. Although ... I am in the market for a travel companion―for pleasure.” Gleason raked his gaze over him.
The bell buzzed and the owner said, “Excuse-moi, handsome. Have a look around. I am sure I can send you home with something to tickle your fancy.”
With his back to the door, William walked through the salon, admiring the few pieces on the wall.
Confronting Caroline about her fib wasn’t worth getting into the weeds over until after Louisa’s wedding.
The gallery seemed on the up-and-up, even if Guy was trying to sell more than art.
Turning to leave, he stopped dead in his tracks.
“Well, well, well. Welcome to my gallery, Fitzwilliam,” George Wickham said.
For the second time in his life, he was rendered speechless.
He balled his fist but thought better of making contact with his mortal enemy’s face.
Although not a violent man, the abhorrent douchebag’s sneering, curled lips repulsed him.
He thought of Gigi; kicking Wickham’s ass years ago hadn’t been enough! He thought of Beanz.
Faced with the debased sex addict and the recollection of his past relationship with Caroline, it all became crystal clear. Expressionless, he realized his fiancée was hiding Wickham from him—a clear violation of page thirty-six of the contract!
Furious, he stormed past the jerk, then out of the gallery. Pressing her smiling image on his mobile, he waited until it went to voicemail before hailing a cab.
Receiving two calls a day from Darcy was never a good sign. Something was afoot. Caroline felt it in her bones, but given her current situation, she was in no position to answer—nor did she want to lie again about why she didn’t want him to go to the gallery with her. She silenced the ringer.
Stealthily concealed under a sunhat and Holly Golightly sunglasses, investigation beyond cyberstalking always produced usable Intel.
And on this gorgeous, sunny day, it just so happened to have brought her to Central Park’s Bow Bridge.
Although Manhattan-born, she’d never been to the cast-iron landmark, but had seen it in hundreds of photographs and in Charlie’s sappy movies.
Admiring the arches from where she sat on a park bench, she tried to put herself in the mindset of the woman she watched beside the lake.
Even a non-artist could find beauty and inspiration in the bridge and row boats.
Deep down, she felt a little jealousy for not having a modicum of Elizabeth Bennet’s kind of creativity.
Elizabeth had, after all, shared that passion with Darcy before The Breakup.
These days, Darcy didn’t consider interior design creative or inspiring, just a means to an end: window dressing to enhance superior architectural engineering and a sound investment for resale.
Elizabeth sat at the bank behind a blank canvas propped up on a French easel, and for an hour, brush in hand, she just stared at the structure.
Just as Guy Bernard had intimated, the woman couldn’t or wouldn’t paint, but—maybe—she could give her props for trying.
Her gaze, again, traveled down to the yellow sundress covered by a well-used apron and cowboy boots.
What’s up with that? Such a fashion faux pas.
Maybe it was a watercolorist thing or maybe something like lucky boots. She shrugged.
Caroline glanced at her wristwatch. As intriguing as it was to sit there and watch the woman’s lack of progress, what was the point?
Well, after meeting with her to discuss the painting acquisition, A) she wanted to know more about her mortal enemy; B) she was insecure and admittedly jealous of the woman; C) she needed to see her with George because—this went back to B)—because D) she hadn’t stopped thinking about George since running into him.
It was either cold feet or sexual attraction.
How in the world had he hooked up with someone like Darcy’s cowgirl?
Just then, Elizabeth seemed to snap from her funk and picked up her mobile, scrolling for a bit, then made a call.
Quickly, Caroline rose from the park bench and walked to the majestic oak, listening in on the conversation.
“Hey, Char. You said to call if I get stuck. Well, I’m super stuck.”
…
“Yeah, I did that.”
…
“And that. I’m even wearing my cowboy boots.
…
“I just ... I don’t know ... this place was special, and I painted so many things from this exact spot, I thought it would help. Now I’m distracted by foolish memories.”
…
She shrugged, dipped her paintbrush in some paint, then flicked it onto the canvas in a spray of red. “No. The usual meandering.”
…
“Ha! It’s not cold feet. But between you and me, I think we might be over, but I’m still thinking about it.”
…
“Don’t let Jane hear you say that. She’s going to go ape shit when I tell her I’m having second thoughts about going through with the wedding. You know how she reacts when her advice is ignored.”
…
“Again with that? He’s not a cheater, Char. I’m just ... sorta ... considering what’s most important. I didn’t survive what I did only to go backward. I hardly know myself anymore. Instead of seeing life as a kaleidoscope of color, it’s sorta shades of grey.”
…
“Yeah, thanks. Okay, I feel better just hearing your voice. I may not paint anything today, but at least I am reacquainted with my brush and looking ahead. You gotta start somewhere.” Again, she flicked paint onto the canvas.
Tilting her head, she took in her crimson creation.
“Maybe abstract is my new direction,” followed by a chuckle.
…
“I can’t this weekend, but next Saturday definitely. Thanks for the pep talk, Char. Give a kiss to the baby for me.”
Caroline smirked. This was too good to be true and too dangerous to let Darcy near. She had made a wise decision not to let him anywhere near La Tempera and Elizabeth Bennet.