“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 theyellow 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.”
