"Likewise." Damon grins, holding out his hand to shake my parents'. "It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. and Mrs. Jones."
My parents give him a tentative shake, my fingertips tingling as they remain tight-lipped and quiet.
Damon doesn’t let my parents’ wariness faze him as he gestures to the paintings. He takes on a professional tone, almost like he’s a gallery guide. "VanGust was inspired by a voyage to the Caribbean Sea." He directs our attention to a portrait of a parrot sitting on top its handler’s shoulder. “I believe that this particular parrot’s name was Tito.”
My mother frowns. “I thought VanGust was terrified of the sea.”
Damon smirks, and I can feel the confidence radiating off his skin. “You’re thinking of Gustenberg. Similar styles and eras. Don’t worry, it's a common mistake.”
I inwardly wince. He showed up my mother. This can’t end well.
Mom purses her lips, eyeing Damon carefully. “You know your art.”
“I know mypainters,” he says. “VanGust is in my top ten, but this exhibit…” He clicks his tongue, his nose scrunching with disapproval. “This exhibit hardly showcases his best work.”
Mom lifts a brow. “And whatishis best work, Mr. Cavanaugh?”
“Damon is fine,” he smiles sweetly. Too sweet. He’s clearly got a plan, and by the sap oozing from his pores, I’d bet a good sum of money that it’s unfolding just as he had planned. “VanGust peaked between 1737 and 1740. Those pieces are highly desired. Seldom shown in…publicgalleries.”
This earns him an eye roll from my mother. “Unfortunately, not all of us are born with a silver spoon.”
My father snorts, casting Mom an amused side eye but he doesn’t say a word. I press my lips into a thin line, hoping this tit-for-tat jab session ends sooner rather than later.
“Silver spoon?” Damon chuckles, glancing at me. “Your mother is quite hilarious, Emery. It must be where you get your humor.”
“Must be,” I say, mentally jabbing him in the gut.
“Right…” Damon claps his hands, lowering his voice as he leans into our makeshift semi-circle. “I just so happen to know the owner of the private gallery that houses VanGust’s most prized collection. If you’re interested in something more…elegant, I’m sure Jean-Pierre wouldn’t mind opening his doors for us.”
My mother’s mouth gapes open, and she clutches onto my Dad’s sleeve. “Jean-Pierre? As in…Jean-Pierre Moreaux?”
Damon smirks. “The one and only.”
I gotta give it to the man. He’s managed to soak my mother’s panties in less than ten minutes of meetingher. That must be a record. Her icy exterior stood no chance. I can see it. She’s physically melting in front of me. It’s almost gross. So much for not being affected by power.
My father scratches the tip of his nose. “Who is Jean-Pierre Moreaux exactly?”
Mom’s eyes widen, and she smacks my dad on the chest, an embarrassed giggle slipping past her lips. “Richard!” She looks at Damon. “I’m sorry. My husband appears to have had a mini stroke.” She glares back at Dad. “Jean-Pierre is the most coveted art collector in the world, dear. Don’t you remember that documentary we watched?”
Dad scrunches his brows, attempting to recall a film he most likely fell asleep watching. And then his eyes spring open and he exclaims, “Right! The guy that looked like the Monopoly man! I remember him.”
If people could die from second-hand embarrassment, my mother would be six feet under.
“So, shall we?” Damon nods to the exit. “I have a town car waiting outside. It’s not too long of a drive.”
My mother glances at me, almost as if she’s seeking approval. Hell has frozen over. I’m sure of it. With a sigh, I give in to my mother’s silent demand to say yes.
“Why not?” I say. “We were practically finished here anyway, right?”
“Right,” she beams.
“Go on,” Damon motions them to the exit. “We’ll be right out.”
I cock my head, watching my mother speed-walkout of the gallery. Who knew she was so fast? When they’re out of sight, I face Damon and cross my arms.
“That was…impressive.”
He grins. “I have a way with parents.”
