The Art of Stealing Hearts (5 page)

“This isn’t
a chardonnay, is it?” a
woman in a deep V neck gown asks me just as all the lights flash.

“No ma’am.”
She sniffs at
her glass and looks skeptical, but I want to rush back to the
auction. The Rubens is last; I want to see it one more time. And see
Charles in action—what
he’ll
do to get what he wants. “It’s
a very good year for this vineyard,”
I bluff.
“Better
than the 2008.”

“Very well,”
She takes the
glass and disappears into the sea of society folks heading back to
their seats for the second half. I’m
following them in when Stanford suddenly seizes my arm. Can’t
he ever just say my name instead of grabbing me?

“Not you,”
he says. He
pulls me into the lobby as the last of the bidders make it into the
main auction hall and the doors close. “You
are helping with clean up out here.”
He hands me a
broom.

“But can’t
I wait until af—” I
don’t
even get the words out. He’s
already gone.

“Fine,”
I say to his
back. “I’ll
sweep this floor spotless.” I
start to sweep as the auctioneer’s
voice echoes through the doors. I can’t
hear what he’s
saying, but I can just imagine the scene inside. As the minutes tick
past, I wonder about all those works of art I don’t
even get to see on the screen above the stage. Have they gotten to
the Rubens yet?

Suddenly, the doors
swing open. St Clair hurries out, his phone pressed to his ear. “Yes,
yes, okay, give me a minute.” He
sees me staring at him. His blue eyes light up. “Grace!”

“Hi,”
I say, like
an idiot.

“I need a huge
favor,” he
says, pressing his paddle into my hands. “I
need you to bid for me.”

“What?”

“Lot 52. It’s
coming up, but I have to take this call.”
He holds up
his phone. “Emergency
in the Japan office. I have to talk them through it, but I can’t
lose this bid.”

“I’m
not sure I can…” Can
someone else bid? Even as a proxy?

“Please, I
have to have that Rubens.”

I can feel sweat on
my palms. “I
don’t
know anything about bidding.”

“Just raise
your paddle until everyone else stops.”
I must look
as shell-shocked as I feel, thinking about that much power.
“Seriously,”
Charles
insists, his dark eyes deadly serious. “Whatever
it takes to get that painting. I’m
counting on you.” He
rushes away, putting the phone up to his ear and gesturing me toward
the auction hall.

Are you kidding
me?
What am I supposed to do? I shove my broom behind a potted palm and
slip into the back of the hall. They are already on lot 51, a Da
Vinci sketch, and the bidding is slowing down.
Shit
!

“Sold!”
the
auctioneer shouts. He has gotten louder, and the patrons have gotten
restless. The crowd of socialites is also much drunker than they were
during the first half. I hear Asshole Andrew the Silicon billionaire
say, “This
is it next, right?” His
friend nods. “Hot
damn.”

“Ladies and
gentlemen,” the
auctioneer says as a large painting is wheeled onto the stage,
concealed under a canopy of black fabric. A hush settles over the
hall and everyone strains in their seats to get a better look. “Here
is tonight’s
prize piece:
The
Judgment of Paris
.”
The painting
is revealed, the dancing goddesses in all their fleshy glory, the
dramatic lights and shadows intersecting, and it’s
just as breathtaking as before.

The room inhales in
a rush.

The auctioneer
launches into the history of the painting and its creator. “Paul
Rubens was a Flemish painter during the Baroque period, who developed
his art later in life but had a distinctive style…”
The pause
gives me a chance to slip into St. Clair’s
empty seat. The chair next to it is empty, too, his hot art
consultant gone. My heart is pounding like when I first met him,
except I haven’t
just jogged ten blocks in heels.

“…never
before has this famed painting been available for purchase anywhere
in the world. Now, you may have the privilege of owning this
incomparable work of art.” He
picks up his gavel. “Shall
we begin the bidding at one million dollars?”

Several dozen
paddles dart into the air like someone asked a kindergarten class if
they wanted cupcakes. “One
point five million?”

The same sea of
white plastic sails into the air. “Do
I hear two million?” the
auctioneer says and I don’t
know what to do. My knuckles are as white as the plastic in my
panicked death grip. St. Clair told me he didn’t
care about the cost, that he just had to have it. But I can’t
bid this much. Can I?

“Two million,
do I hear two and a quarter?”

I look around. A
half dozen paddles are still in the air, and it looks like Asshole
Andrew Tate’s
is one of them.

Was Charles serious?
Was he playing some kind of game?

“How about two
point five million? Two point five, folks, for this one of a kind
masterpiece.” Two
paddles.
OhmyGod,
can I really do this?

The
auctioneer takes a breath and I feel like all my air has been stolen
from my lungs. He says, “Two
point seven five million dollars?”

Andrew’s
paddle is the only one to rise this time and the auctioneer says,
“Going
once, going twice…”

I
hold my breath and stick my paddle in the air.

“And we’re
up to three million folks,” the
auctioneer cheers. “Who
will bid three million?”

Andrew’s
paddle keeps waving, so I have no choice but to match and beat his
bids. Higher and higher it goes, until we’re
at four million…four
point five…five
million dollars.

I think I’m
going to pass out.

“Five point
eight!” Andrew
stands, waving his paddle around like he’s
signing semaphore. His face is red, and everyone in the room is
whispering like crazy.

Holy shit, is
this for real?

“Do I hear
six?”

I hesitate. Charles
said whatever it takes, but this is six million dollars we’re
talking about here. Did he really think it would go this high?

“Going
once…”

Andrew
smirks at me and I remember how he didn’t
even care about the art, that he just wanted more boobs.

“We’re
at five point eight million, going twice…”

Last
chance. I bolt to my feet. “Six
million,” I
announce, my voice shaking.

The room goes
silent. Even the auctioneer looks surprised. But he composes himself
with a brief nod and says, “Six
million going once…”

Andrew
looks down at his friend, eyebrows raised. “Six
million going twice…”
Andrew’s
friend shakes his head and then Andrew shakes his head at the
auctioneer.

“Sold!
At six million dollars.” The
auctioneer bangs his gavel and the room cheers. My heart is pounding
in my ears and a wave of dizziness washes over me. I just outbid
Andrew Tate on an original Rubens for six million freaking dollars.
And Charles is nowhere to be seen.

Are you fucking
kidding me?

I’m
glad I’m
wearing black so no one can see how sweaty and nervous I am. I want
to sink into my seat, exhausted, but people are clapping and
laughing. I can feel the question in the air: who is this girl?

“And that
concludes our program for tonight—”

The auctioneer is
drowned out by the cacophony of chatter in the room.

“Bennett!”
One voice
cuts through the din. I cringe. “Grace
Bennett!”

Lydia is charging
through the crowd toward me like a hurricane, furious.

“What the hell
do you think you’re
doing?” she
hisses at me.

“This isn’t
my paddle,” I
stammer, my face flushing. “I—”

“This is not a
game, young lady.” She’s
fuming. “If
you think you can just come in here and humiliate this company—”

“Did
you get it?” St.
Clair appears at my elbow.

Lydia stops. “What?”

I nod, then gulp.
“Six
million. Is that, umm, okay?”

I brace myself, but
St. Clair breaks into a boyish grin and actually whoops. “Yes!”
He laughs and
picks me up suddenly, spinning me around. “I
can’t
believe you did it! I thought for sure Tate was going to beat me out
on this one.”

“He nearly
did,” I
admit, my pulse racing in a giddy rush of relief. “But
I jumped in at the last minute and he backed down.”

St. Clair laughs,
setting me down. “God,
I wish I’d
been here to see his face.”

“You can now,”
I grin,
pointing across the room. Tate is charging for the exit, scowling.

“I need to
take you to all my auctions,”
Charles
grins, still holding me close. “You’re
my good luck charm.”

My head spins from
his touch, his nearness, from the happiness in his eyes. “I
just did what you told me to do.”

“What he told
you to do?” Lydia
says, realization dawning on her face. She turns to St. Clair. “You
asked her to bid in your stead?”

“Yes, and she
did splendidly.” He
squeezes my hand, and I feel tingles rush up my arm. “Thank
you.”

Lydia ignores me. “A
prestigious acquisition, Mr. St. Clair,”
she says, and
a few other people gather around to congratulate him as well, pushing
me out of the way and off to the side.

The white lilies in
their vases have started to droop a little, and the chairs are no
longer in straight rows. A burst of laughter erupts from the cluster
of folks surrounding Charles, but he doesn’t
look my way. I don’t
want to linger here on the edge of the crowd, so I head back out to
the lobby. This has been one of the longest shifts of my working
life, and I’m
ready to go home.

I’m
walking across the marble floor toward the exit when someone taps my
shoulder. “Running
away from me again?” Charles
says, his voice low, his British accent crisp. He slides his finger
down my arm and lightly turns me to face him. “You
have to let me thank you properly for tonight.”

I smile, thinking of
the ways I wish his gorgeous body would thank me and hoping those
thoughts don’t
show on my face. Or maybe hoping they show a little. “What
did you have in mind?”

“Dinner?
Tomorrow night?”

I want to ask if
this is a date, or if it’s
really just a thank you, but I’m
aware of a few people watching us, the handsome art collector and
this awkward nobody girl in a no-name brand dress. “Sure,”
I say. “Of
course.”

He brushes a strand
of dark hair off his forehead and beams. “Great.
8 pm. Hakkasan, Union Square.” I
nod and he kisses my cheek, leaving an impression I can still feel
when he pulls away. “See
you then,” he
says and then he’s
gone while I am left here to catch my breath.

Did Mr. Hottie
Charles St.Clair really just ask me out?

The next morning, I
wake up almost hung over by the blur of last night’s
events. I bid six million dollars on a painting, got to see a genuine
Rubens up close, showed my new boss what I’m
made of (and miraculously didn’t
get fired), and at the end of it all was asked out by the most
handsome, charming man I’ve
ever met. I can remember the burn of heat when his hands grasped
mine, the crackle of energy between us—

My
phone pings, a text from Paige.
Where
are you, lover?

I drag my head up
and check the time. It’s
almost ten, the slot for our weekly Skype chat.

Keep your panties
on
,
I write back.

Paige brings out the
raunchy side in me, since it’s
such a part of her nature. She’s
also smart as a whip and way more confident than I am, so basically,
the cooler friend. But she’s
always been supportive of me and my art, even when I had to drop out
and leave her alone at Tufts at the end of freshman year. We cried as
we said goodbye, swearing to remain friends forever, and we have kept
in close touch over the years.

I open my laptop and
click on the bouncing icon and Paige’s
beaming face appears on my screen. Her hair is still wet, and she’s
got a facemask on: it’s
evening in London, and she’s
getting ready to go out for the night.

“Hey,
you,” she
says. “Tell
me all about your glamorous new job!”

“Oh,
yeah, sweeping the floor is so glamorous.”

“Hold
up,” she
frowns. “That
fancy internship has you playing Cinderella?”

“Right,
you don’t
know yet,” I
say and explain to her all about the mix-up and actually being hired
as a clerk/janitor/fill-in waitress/servant.

“I’m
sorry, Grace,” Paige
says. “I
know how much you wanted that internship.”

“It’s
a foot in the door,” I
say. “And
I got to be around some amazing art.”

She
nods emphatically. “Hell
yeah,” she
says. “And
you are going to kick ass and show those bitches who’s
boss.”

I
laugh, knowing she means it, and that she would have no trouble
kicking ass. Paige wouldn’t
hesitate for a second. “I
got to see a Rubens up close.”

She
gasps. “The
unveiling of
The
Judgment of Paris
?”
Paige works
for an insurance company valuing art and antiquities. Of course she
would know about the arrival of this highly prized masterpiece.

I
nod. “And
before it went on stage, behind the scenes when I went to get chairs.
I got to see it close enough to distinguish the brushstrokes.”
I sigh,
remembering. “It
was incredible.”

“I
heard Charles St. Clair won the bid for six million.”

“Wow,”
I say,
surprised. “News
travels fast in the art world.”

Paige
shrugs, picking at her mask. “St.
Clair is something of a celebrity in the art world. My boss said his
collection is insured for like, hundreds of millions. The guy’s
a veritable museum. And hot. Is he as dreamy up close as in all the
gossip columns?”