Chapter 23
TWENTY-THREE
Sotheby’s new Paris flagship salesroom purred with barely controlled anticipation for the evening auction.
Men in expertly tailored suits and women draped in fashionable luxury leaned forward, poised for battle.
International brokers, dealers, and high-stakes bidders scrutinized each other.
Elizabeth knew this art connoisseur world well—the intoxicating blend of wealth and power.
Art was just the excuse. The true game was dominance and victory.
Seated in the back of the salon with a clear line of vision to the auctioneer, her steady pulse hummed, her attention riveted on the players and the game about to unfold. From years of dealing with her narc family, she had perfected the ability to appear indifferent, when necessary.
Although focused on the business at hand, she couldn’t resist side glances at William seated beside her.
He unnerved her. Taking a steadying deep breath, she inhaled the intoxicating scent of his cologne, rich with something undeniably masculine.
It wrapped around her senses, dragging her back to last night’s unexpected, confusing visit at her hotel suite door and their near kiss.
The sexual tension between her and William wasn’t imagined.
It sizzled beneath the surface of their collected facades.
He adjusted his cuff. That deliberate motion, like running his hand through his hair, had always driven her mad.
Similar to the start of dinner at the Bar Vend?me, he was a perfect storm of arrogance and composed restraint wrapped in a bespoke navy Zegna suit.
Although the billionaire financier appeared unimpressed by the winner-take-all auction or its competitors, she could feel his passionate readiness for the kill as he took it all in.
Flanked on both sides of the impressive salon, Sotheby’s representatives took absentee bids via telephone like an old-fashioned telethon bank. Above them, state-of-the-art TV screens displayed the bid increments.
“Are you ready for the kill, Elizabeth?” William murmured, his voice infuriatingly sexy.
She wrapped her fingers around the paddle resting on her lap. “Absolutely, Mr. Darcy. Let’s win your fiancée a painting.”
Leaning to her ear, he seductively whispered, “Tu es très belle ce soir.”
Clever man, having taken her advice to do an internet search.
Even with his poor enunciation, he was testing her equilibrium under enticing assault, but she was too focused on proving herself to him to respond as she would desire.
“Thank you. Remember, William, keep your hands to your side and for the love of God, don’t nod or run your fingers through your hair.
This is an active auction. Any movement may be considered a bid. ”
“Yes, boss.”
The wall to the left of the auctioneer turned, revealing their stunning, sought-after treasure flanked by two white-gloved employees.
The painting was exactly what she would have selected for his taste, and she couldn’t help but be envious that Carrie had chosen it with him in mind.
As she should, his fiancée knew him well.
“She’s so beautiful,” she whispered.
“Yes, she is.”
“And she’ll be yours before the night is through.”
“Nothing would make me happier.”
She could feel the burn of his regard upon her profile.
From the rostrum, the auctioneer began. “Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you for the first time at auction a pointillist masterpiece by Georges Pierre Seurat, La Seine à Courbevoie, 1885. We’re going to start the bidding at ten million dollars.”
A representative at the phone bank raised his arm.
“We have ten million,” the auctioneer responded. “Do we have ten million-five?” he quickly added.
A paddle raised.
“Ten-five. Do I hear eleven, eleven million?”
Another bid, then another, the price increasing with rapidity. Then another.
“Eighteen million dollars, excellent, James,” the auctioneer said to a bidding newcomer—a telephone representative.
William glanced at her; something unreadable tinged his sky-blue eyes. “Aren’t we going to bid?”
“Trust me.” She smiled, attempting to appear professional and collected. “You’re paying me to win, aren’t you?”
His furrowed brow signaled their silent agreement. The raw, unspoken truth, on the beach and now, was that they were still tethered, a team. However, Carrie, the client—William’s fiancée—was waiting back in New York for him and the Seurat.
Elizabeth patiently waited, examining all the bidders and poker faces, but within three minutes, many of the early frivolous showmen dropped out of the race as the price rose. Only the serious bidders remained for the death fight.
“We have twenty million dollars. Do we have twenty-two?” the auctioneer called out.
She felt William shift beside her, his presence comforting but distracting.
And when he leaned in just enough for his breath to touch her cheek, her resolve nearly cracked.
She finally raised the paddle for her first bid.
“Twenty-two million.” From this point forward, she kept her eyes riveted on the auctioneer, the paddle no longer needed.
He could see her intent with each sharp nod.
For exciting minutes, a sophisticated battle of numbers ensued among three enthusiastic players, one via telephone. The auctioneer strategically worked toward securing bid increases, building tension. How much would the rare Seurat sell for? “Do we have thirty-five million? Thirty-five.”
She responded with a firm nod. Last night, William said he would only go to forty.
“Very good. James, do you have a reply?” he addressed the lone representative covering his mouth to conceal his phone conversation.
“Why aren’t you bidding?” he whispered, opening and closing his fist.
“I am. You have to trust me.” She could see he wanted control.
“This isn’t just about the painting, is it?” William softly asked.
She stiffened, gaze glued to the auctioneer. “It is for me.”
But both knew better. The energy between them—in an already charged environment—was too powerful for them to ignore despite the cost to the other interested parties, here and in New York. But she must ignore it for that very reason.
“Thirty-seven. Do I see thirty-seven? Excellent. Thirty-eight ...” He waited, calling it again until it was between two serious contenders: her and James’s client.
She nodded.
“Thirty-eight million dollars! James, what do you say? Do we have thirty-nine? Very good. Thirty-nine million dollars for the incredibly rare Seurat. Forty, do we have forty?
William slipped his hand over hers, gripped the paddle and raised it, sending an invigorating shiver up her spine. With a steady, calm voice he said, “Fifty-five million dollars.”
A collective gasp rippled through the room, and his gaze locked with hers. He tenderly smiled.
“Exciting bid from number seventy-two! Do we have fifty-six million? ... Fifty-six, James?” The auctioneer waited.
“We are at fifty-five million dollars. This is fair warning.” The room paused, eyes riveted on the man with the phone, waiting for an answer.
Her eyes stayed glued to the handsome, blue-eyed man still holding the paddle above her head.
“Fair warning, fifty-five.” Down went the gavel. “Sold for fifty-five million dollars to number seventy-two.”
They’d won—together!
And yet as William’s dancing eyes held hers, she knew that in this exhilarating room, victory wasn’t about the painting. There it was—the quiet, maddening truth: deep down, they still belonged to the other. The painting was just a conduit and would forever be “theirs.”
“Where are you taking me?” she asked, seated beside William in the Ritz courtesy limousine.
“It’s a surprise, a thank you for a job well done.”
“A celebration dinner? Coq au vin at Benoit?”
He looked worried. “No. Is that where you want to go?”
“One day.”
He curtly nodded, then opened and closed his hand.
“Wherever we’re going is fine. I’m starved,” she calmed, then blurted, placing her hand on her heart, “My God, I’m still reeling from the acquisition. That was so exciting!”
“You were amazing in there!”
“We were amazing!”
“I can’t believe I just spent fifty-five million dollars on a painting, like it was nothing,” he laughed. “It’s double the amount I paid for the townhouse it’s going to hang in.”
“You purchased a twenty-seven-million-dollar townhouse?”
Shrugging, he defended, “Why not? It’s a half a block from Fifth Avenue and Central Park, and if I crane my head just right, I can catch a glimpse of Bow Bridge. You remember Bow Bridge, don’t you?”
“Of course,” she quietly replied. Astonished that he would bring up their romantic history, she allowed silence to settle between them. But under the weight of that history, silence was dangerous, leading to memories and false hope of what could never again happen between them.
“If nothing else, both the painting and the townhouse were sexy, smart investments,” he said.
“For what it’s worth, Anne would be tickled by your choice of artwork.”
“I think she’d think I was crazy for spending so much.”
“That, too.” They laughed.
In the waning sunlight, the limo drove down the lamp-lit Quai Jacques Chirac, and she said, “Carrie will be happy.”
“I texted her.” His smile faded. “She’s out of her mind happy. I guess, it’s her own type of victory, but if she’s pleased, I’m pleased.”
“She’s a lucky girl to have a guy who feels that way.”
“I suppose. Although I’m pretty sure she doesn’t appreciate the way, let’s say, you might appreciate the effect the painting’s adjacent colors have on each other or how beauty and science cohabitate in pointillism.”
“Finally! Someone other than Guy who wants to discuss Chevreul’s treatise on the law of simultaneous color contrast.”
“Mom did teach me a few things,” he said with a smile. “And would you go so far as to say that Seurat was the master of illusion?”