“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!”
“Youwere amazing in there!”
“Wewere 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,youmight appreciate the effect the painting’s adjacent colors have on each other or how beauty and science cohabitate in pointillism.”
