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 finallyraised 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.
