Caterina
The gallery reopening and gala loom over my head all day Friday.
The redesign put the Cosmopolitan Museum of Art into a whole new category. Who knows, maybe we’ll start giving MoMA a run for its money. A girl can always dream.
To avoid boosting his already big ego, I won’t tell him, but the addition of Connor’s Rain on Jupiter contributed to the venue selling out.
Every guest arrives dressed to the nines, sweeping into the museum in tuxes and ball gowns in winter shades.
The exhibition hall at the Cosmopolitan Museum of Art is less of a “hall” and more of a circle. Four wings display single-artist collections. The art hangs on the crisp white walls, fencing in the party. You can spin in a circle from the amphitheater-like space and view every piece.
When I tried this earlier, pride bloomed in my chest. I did this. Caterina Ricci, Curatorial Executive Assistant.
Damn, I’m good.
Thanks to my now-active sex life, I’m feeling more empowered these days. Lust has a way of making you see yourself in a new light and injecting a little extra brightness into the world.
The new woman in me wears a formfitting chartreuse gown with an asymmetrical neckline, a sheer scarf draped over my left arm that billows behind me as if I’m being chased by smoke. Not a color many people can pull off, but the hues are magical with my skin tone and dark hair.
Tonight’s gala is the perfect place to show it off too.
Rare to my nature, I’m wearing my hair down. I ironed out the curls to create Hollywood-glam waves and added a diamond clip on one side to accentuate the teardrop earrings my father purchased for my eighteenth birthday.
My tennis bracelet dangles on my right wrist beside my honeysuckle tattoo.
I broke out the Jimmy Choo glitter pumps to accompany the ensemble, mainly because I can walk in them for hours.
I’ll need to hustle tonight to ensure the gala guests enjoy themselves while I also navigate the closed-door meeting between my father and the organization.
The best news is that Father could come.
I nearly cried when I saw him in his green pin-striped suit. He was going to wear it for the holidays but never left his suite. Needless to say, I had to force those tears right back down. After all, my smoky eyes took me thirty minutes to complete.
At some point tonight, he’ll be meeting with the executor of his will. We planned for that conversation to coincide with the gala as soon as he got sick.
Though Father should improve now that we have an antidote, he insisted on proceeding as scheduled.
Neither Nino nor I are privy to what kind of amendments he’s making to his will, but based on last night’s conversation, I have a few guesses.
Nino has no clue that he might lose his position as the Ricci heir.
My stomach squirms, so I shove the thought aside to deal with later.
Father’s also decided the Roguilins are out and the Gallaghers are in.
Nino turned every shade in the color wheel at that announcement, but he didn’t fight the declaration. No one can argue the role Connor played in saving our father’s life. We owe Finn Gallagher and the Irish Kings a chance to prove themselves.
Severing ties with Oleg Belinski will be another story. My brother got in deep with them, and Father said we’d strategize over the next week about how to best amputate the unwanted appendage.
So many words in that sentence had me cringing.
I spy Curator Pruitt from across the room, who’s raving about the new art and the beloved artists responsible.
He’ll handle the schmoozing. Everything else falls to me.
Champagne flutes flow through the crowd on silver platters.
Add in two full bars and a few vintage bottles from the museum’s basement, and our patrons are imbibing to their hearts’ content.
Any true wine connoisseurs will indulge in one of the red’s from my father’s personal collection.
He “donated” the vault three years ago, when I started working at the Cosmopolitan.
We Italians take our wine very seriously.
He said lugging along a case of wine every time he had an appointment in Manhattan was a waste of energy.
He wasn’t wrong, and having his cellar at my fingertips has been great for business.
I check on the snacks in the kitchen, then pop into the employee halls to check on my father. He’s sipping on a glass of Chianti and smiling from behind my desk. So far, so good.
I need to mingle, but before I brave into the nucleus of shimmering fabric, the back of my neck tingles.
Enter Connor Gallagher.
Is it possible for a man to rob you of your breath? I place my palm against my chest and inhale deeply to calm my heartbeat.
His midnight blue tuxedo is perfection against his lightly tanned skin. His waves sit perfectly coiffed on the top of his head, smoothed back with gel and visibly soft enough to tousle.
Move over, James Bond.
I head straight for him, but he pivots and marches back outside.
That’s odd. After the past few days, I doubt he’s avoiding me, so what is he doing?
Ignoring the prickle of unease in my chest, I follow him out and nearly laugh at myself.
He’s helping an elderly woman from her limo. Mrs. Charlene Hathaway, one of our most generous patrons, is a vision in her babydoll pink sequin gown and faux-fur stole. Her silver hair sparkles in the evening light.
My heart melts, and the space between my thighs throbs with desire.
What a gentleman. Is he even real?
When our eyes meet, Connor winks. My lungs stutter.
I hold open the door, and he nods in thanks while escorting Charlene in and setting her up at a table with a champagne flute.
This is the Dane Ryder I first fell into bed with.
As if he’s telepathic, he saunters over.
“Nice threads, Ricci. Can’t wait to get you out of them.” His dazzling grin’s on full display, his brown eyes even darker underneath the glow of the chandelier.
He bends close, and I back up, hyperaware that there’s no alliance yet.
Though we’ve been working together, I don’t think I’d recover if anyone in the organization knew we were lovers. They’d view it as me sleeping with the enemy in the most literal sense of the phrase.
Connor reads me and backs out of my personal space, sighing dramatically. “Fine. I get it. I’m already yesterday’s plaything.” He shoves his hand through his hair, his lips tipping down in a subtle pout. “I had no idea I was so disposable.”
I swallow a laugh, fighting the urge to reach for him. “You’re ridiculous. Don’t talk so loud, you idiot.”
He takes the insult in stride by grinning and offering his palm. “Dance with me.”
I’d love to. “Hell, no.”
Connor clicks his tongue against his teeth and waves a hand at the room.
“You’re on the clock. If any of these other knobs asked you to dance, you would.
And I have art on the walls.” He walks over to his J.
Rochelle and proudly points with his thumb.
“I’m pretty sure this qualifies as a dance ticket. ”
“Dane Ryder has art on the walls.” I smile and shrug. “But you’re here as Finn’s representative, an adversary until an agreement is signed. Some people here know you, or will know you, as a Gallagher. So no dance. Sorry about your luck. Come back next year.”
Connor rolls his eyes and adjusts his beautiful gray tie. “Fine. I’ll ask Pruitt to dance.”
My laugh bubbles out before I can suppress it. “He’ll have to lead. He’s a foot taller than you.”
“I’m sure I can manage.” Connor grins and winks, then turns and disappears into the crowd.
Disappointment smolders in my chest. Fine. Now I can focus on the gala.
Except, Connor only left to say hello to the curator and grab a brandy.
For the next two hours, he acts as my shadow, interjecting himself into conversations while I’m chatting with waitstaff or bartenders.
The man puts on every hat in the house, playing server by replacing empty drink glasses and assuming the role of curator by talking like a damn art historian.
He’s toying with my control, pushing me toward the edge with all this almost-flirting. He’s literally charming the damn pants off not just me but everyone in my radius, and he’s even introduced himself as Dane Ryder to a few.
His plan is working, the bastard. The thrill of breaking the rules erodes my determination to play the calm, cool, and collected curator’s assistant.
Finally, Nino emerges from the crowd, and I breathe a little easier. Connor would never do anything with my little brother in sight.
We zigzag through the throng to meet each other.
“You looking dashing.”
Nino strikes a quick pose in his red suit, and I giggle. I love the rare occasions when the old Nino makes an appearance.
He plants a hand on his hips and glances over my dress. “You clean up okay yourself. If you weren’t my sister, I’d even say you were beautiful.”
“You’re such a jerk.” I flutter my lashes, then sober. “How’s Father?”
“He’s hanging in there…holding his own. The antidote’s working. I can’t believe the Mick had a hand in this.” Nino shakes his head. “After that first meeting, and then the laundromat… I thought I’d be killing him before the end of the month.”
I pick a piece of lint off Nino’s shoulder. “I can’t believe it either. I knew Connor would come through for us.”
With narrowed eyes, my brother retreats a step.
Shit. I fucked up.
“What’s with the familiarity?” Nino crosses his arms. “Did you make a new best friend since Monday?”
Cover your ass, Cat.
“Of course not.” I roll my eyes, striving for nonchalance despite the way my insides just curled in on themselves.
“We’re about to join forces. We can’t just call them Micks to their faces.
We need to get used to using real names.
” I take his tumbler from one of his inked hands.
“I really love your tats with your tux, by the way.”
He scoffs. “You’re just trying to change the subject.”
“I’m not.” I did mean the compliment. Ink covers his entire body, sprouting from under his collar to curve behind his right ear.
On the left side of his head, the shaved part of his hair shows off the family crest above his other ear.
Black ink bejewels the back of his hands and all his knuckles, and on one of his wrists—just like mine—rests a delicate honeysuckle in honor of our late mother.
Most of the time, his tattoos give him an ominous presence. He looks like he’s fresh out of prison, or maybe on his way in.
If you put the man in a three-piece designer suit, though, he could pass for a famous musician. Handsome and stylish.
“Come on.” I hook my arm in his. “Follow me. I’ll fill you up with the good stuff.”
After about ten minutes of mostly awkward small talk, Nino goes to check on our father and see if the executor is still around. We’re low on red wine, and the waitstaff isn’t allowed in the cellar, so I head down myself.
Leaving the party for the basement has nothing to do with Connor’s string of sexy texts suggesting that we meet. Nothing at all.
Well, maybe a little.
I’m only human.