The Exhibition (An Executive Decision Trilogy) (4 page)

Chapter Five

The day had been busier than she had planned, and that was saying a lot. It wasn’t that Maggie hadn’t taken care of everything as far as the auction was concerned. Unexpected events on the West Coast took a huge chunk of Stacie’s time, including repairs of the damage from the vandalism. She’d finally been contacted by a photographer who was famous for shots of urban decay and renewal. His main stomping ground was the Northwest and Stacie wanted him in her exhibition. His work would complement Harris’ and be a part of the overall story she wanted to tell. Kyle Waters had been shooting in South America. His timing for getting in touch with Stacie hadn’t been the best, but after a two-hour Skype session, she was pretty sure he was on board. She’d meet him to watch a shoot in Portland after she got back.

That all happened just after she returned from the emergency room. Not her clumsiness this time. One of the artists had sprained an ankle in a freak accident on the steps of the subway, and Stacie had ended up holding his hand in the emergency room while the doctor reassured him it wasn’t a bad sprain and he wouldn’t have to miss the auction.

It was always this way. There had never been an auction in the ten years she’d been doing them that had run smoothly and by the book. There had always been at least one major disaster, and often it looked as though the event would have to be cancelled at the last minute. One year the basement flooded when a pipe burst. Another year there was a partial brown-out in the area. And yet the event had always happened, each year with more glitz, more charm, more panache than the year before. And more contributions. This year was relatively easy, she thought, as she made one last pass through the exhibition of paintings and sculptures waiting to be auctioned off. They’d been on display in the gallery for the past month leading up to the event so everyone could enjoy them before they were auctioned off to grace the homes of the wealthy. The whole place glistened with vintage champagne, designer gowns, and jewelry that Stacie had no doubt was heavily insured and spent more time in vaults than it did displayed on women’s throats and fingers.

Stacie’s dress was deep cherry red, showing only a hint of cleavage but plenty of décolletage. She wore her hair up so her neck was also bare other than the simple string of pearls Alan Marston had given her just before her first big exhibition, the one that had gotten the gallery out of debt forever. Those pearls had a value to her way beyond the monetary, though, knowing Al, she figured that was substantial too. Stacie knew how to turn heads, and she knew how to appear the epitome of grace and polish when there was money at stake. She dressed to attract attention and yet at the same time to send out the message that she was above it all, that she was untouchable by even the rich and possessive.

She looked out over the sparkling scene with the same champagne flute held delicately between her fingers that she’d been sipping at for the last hour and a half. The early pieces had already been auctioned off to a crowd that was clearly more than pleased to part with lots of money. The break gave everyone a chance to move around, grab a drink and a canapé, and return to their seats fresh, energized. Stacie didn’t want them tired. She wanted them happy, exhilarated, and ready to bid the night away.

She knew the first half of the bidding had gone very well. Ellis’ secretary, Lynn, had outbid everyone for a gorgeous sculpture of Diana at the Hunt that Stacie could very easily imagine fitting into either the Pneuma Building or Ellis’ home. Lynn was sipping champagne and talking to the artist of a woodland scene that looked as though it might have been painted from one of Harris Walker’s photos. Stacie figured that was next on the woman’s “must have” list. Ellis had always been extravagant at the auction, though he never attended, and his home and the Pneuma Building were the lovelier for it. It was also well-noted that Tess Delaney, AKA Garrett Thorne, had taken away a few choice pieces as well, though this year he was at home, recovering from his injuries from the horrible kidnapping attempt on Kendra. He’d still sent a whopping check, and so had Kendra or, rather, K. Ryde. If she didn’t like the woman already, she certainly did when she saw the size of the check.

Al Marston was inspecting a cityscape he’d just purchased before it was taken away to be packed up and delivered. His extravagance was renowned, and she loved him for it. When he realized she was watching him, he smiled and gave her the thumbs-up sign. It was all shaping up to be a fine evening until Terrance Jamison walked through the door. Stacie felt his presence like a gut punch. The room spun and the sounds of the party going on around her were drowned out by the ringing in her ears as Jamison took in the room with a single glance. His gaze came immediately to rest on her, like he knew exactly where she would be in the throng, like he could sense her above everyone else. And she held his gaze even as she felt herself struggling to stand under her own power.

‘Come on, Stacie, I can’t make heads or tails out of this painting and I can’t find the artist. Thought maybe you could help me out.’ She felt the reassuring girth of Alan Marston close to her, his arm encircling her waist gently but firmly as he turned her away. ‘What the hell’s that bastard doing here? Trying to convince the world there’s a human being under that snake skin?’ He chuckled softly. ‘Gonna take a damn sight more than a charity auction or two to prove that, lemme tell you.’

The gentle ringing of a bell informed everyone the auction was about to resume. After a reassuring hug from Al, Stacie took her position next to Maggie, who didn’t seem to notice anything unusual about her boss. And neither would anyone else, Stacie promised herself, forcing her anger at what Jamison had done in Portland away from her. This was not the time to deal with it. This had been bound to happen – running into Jamison – and it was best to get it over with and get used to it. The man had a luxury apartment in Manhattan, though he most often stayed at the Plaza, and he owned a ranch in Oregon, but he seldom stayed there. She knew that, and she’d never expected for one minute that the two of them wouldn’t run into each other, that he wouldn’t make a point of it.

It didn’t surprise her at all that, when the auction resumed, Jamison bid on the most extravagant piece of sculpture done by a first-time exhibitor who looked to be barely in her 20s. She was dressed in black and gold lace, with equally black hair flowing wildly around her shoulders. Stacie knew immediately that Jamison wasn’t the least bit interested in the woman’s art, and ultimately he wasn’t interested in the woman either, but she was young and very pretty and the perfect way to send a message to Stacie. If it had been anyone else, she could have blown it off as jealousy, but she wasn’t jealous. Dear God, she wasn’t jealous! If she’d had that kind of money, she would have bid against Jamison, but she knew she couldn’t win. Oh, Marston and several of the gallery’s other wealthy supporters gave him a run for his money, but he would not be denied. She knew how he was. In his mind’s eye, he was not only purchasing the sculpture, modern and abstract but wonderfully intriguing, he was also purchasing the artist who had created it, and he was doing it to remind Stacie that he could have whatever he wanted – have
whoever
he wanted.

Whatever he thought, he couldn’t, she reassured herself. He couldn’t. She watched as he planted a gentlemanly kiss across the knuckles of the young artist, who was over the moon with excitement, as anyone would have been in her shoes, anyone who didn’t know.

But Stacie knew. And she remembered exactly how it felt to be the apple of Jamison’s eye.

‘Are you serious? A partnership?’ Stacie needed to work on her poker face, but wow, she almost had to pinch herself for a reality check.

Zoe and Jamison, who had insisted by then that she call him Terrance, offered each other knowing smiles and nodded in unison.

‘Why shouldn’t you be a partner in the business you’ve single-handedly turned around?’ Zoe asked. The woman looked particularly stunning that night. The copper shimmer of the cocktail dress that Stacie was pretty sure was new and expensive made the pale of her skin and the russet of her hair look like she was bathed in candlelight. The blush on her cheeks had risen as the evening progressed from dinner to drinks back in Jamison’s suite at the Plaza. Jamison had already opened the second bottle of champagne and Zoe was partaking liberally. ‘I just can’t see the point of having you be a wage slave when you’re worth your weight in gold. Besides –’ she leaned over the table and gave Stacie’s hand a squeeze ‘– you’re so damn much fun to work with, Stacie.’ Zoe downed her champagne and held it out for a refill. ‘Of course, right now all you’re really getting half of is my debt, but the gallery has huge potential to earn and, with your business savvy and what you’ve got in mind for the gallery in your five-year plan, I think we’ll see that debt disappearing quickly.’

‘And the fact that the entire debt of New World Gallery has happily been taken on by Omega Trust –’ Jamison laid a hand against his chest as though he alone were Omega Trust, and that was pretty much the case from what Zoe had told Stacie ‘– means that the three of us will be working very closely together, and I have to admit, the only thing I like better than working with competent, talented people is working with competent, talented people who are also lovely members of the opposite sex.’

He raised his champagne glass in salute. They toasted and Stacie sipped cautiously.

‘If I agree to this, what will be involved? I have no money. I can’t buy half that debt.’

Jamison offered an easy shrug. ‘Really, it’s just a legality, a matter of signing papers, a matter of taking on half of everything Zoe owns, which will be yours now in debt as well as it will be when New World Gallery is financially sound and running in the black. I’ll simply be the keeper of that debt – or, rather, Omega Trust will be. That’ll insure that in order for the gallery to reach its full potential it’ll be financially able to get exactly what it needs resource-wise.’ He held Stacie’s gaze. ‘Simple, really.’

Of course, it wasn’t. How could she have been so naïve? But once she’d agreed, Jamison had played something slow and sultry on the sound system, and he had offered her his hand. ‘Now, Ms. Emerson, I believe you said you could dance.’ He held her close and she lost track of time and space. For a little while, Zoe stumbled around the floor with them, her arms draped over both of them as they laughed and swayed to the music. But then she gave it up and fell asleep on the couch.

They danced and danced. The movements became less formal and slowed to a shuffle with her head resting on his shoulder, and both of his arms wrapped around her waist possessively. The slower they went, the harder it became to breathe. She hadn’t drunk that much and yet she felt muzzy-headed, dizzy, as though wherever she was at, she wasn’t supposed to be there. The slower they danced, the harder it became to think. At some point she became aware of the press of him. He’d lost his jacket and his tie and the tense insinuation of his nipples through the expensive shirt felt like brands against the plunge of her neckline. Her own nipples knotted to get closer to him. At some point she became aware that he was hard, that his hand had moved down to rest at the juncture between her lower back and her bottom. At that point, all he would have had to do was take her. And he could have taken her right there and then and she could have never said no, even though in the deepest part of her gut she knew she should. It seemed he possessed her soul for a moment, and she felt him move across her like a fast-moving storm cloud, leaving her in the deepest shadow of herself, in a place she had never strayed to before.

Then Zoe had made a mad dash to the bathroom to throw up. By the time they’d gotten her home to her flat she was running a fever and Stacie was unwilling to leave her friend alone, even though it clearly made Jamison unhappy, even though he clearly wanted her to go back with him.

There were so many omens Stacie should have seen, and she not nearly as young as the artist whose work Jamison had just bought, but still unprepared. So unprepared. Stacie forced her attention away from the dark descent of memories and back to the glitter and glam of the gallery.

Jamison was a showman’s showman. He had timed his little display of generosity just right, chosen an extravagant piece of art created by a young and very attractive, if very naïve, artist in just the right part of the second half of the auction to guarantee his show of grandiosity would be the climax of the evening. It couldn’t have been more obvious if he had thumbed his nose at Stacie. But then, she reminded herself, she knew him better than most.

There were only a few more pieces left to be auctioned after Jamison’s little display, and though they were now rendered anti-climactic, they gave Stacie a chance to gather her thoughts for the closing statements and the presentation of the award for best new artist, which always went to the creator of the piece that had brought the most money. Jamison had guaranteed that would be Ingrid Watson, the lovely, dark-haired artist who now sat calmly looking down at her hands in her lap, but had to be ready to jump off her chair with excitement. She had to know that she had won. Everyone had to know.

This was Jamison’s message to Stacie: that he still could control her; that he still could have whatever he wanted whenever he wanted, and there was nothing she could do about it. For a second, she fought back total panic. For a second, she fought back the urge to run, to just walk out of this room, pack a bag and go. She could do it. She could go anywhere she wanted and let the rest sort itself out. Let everything she had worked for just slip away. It had all been an accident anyway, hadn’t it? This had certainly never been the path she had intended for herself, and did it really matter? What mattered was never having to look into those icy, controlling eyes again, never having to wonder what he would do next.

But there was Ingrid Watson, young and naïve. Hailing from rural Minnesota, Stacie recalled, where she helped her father run a dairy farm. Jesus! Jamison would chew her up and spit her out before she even knew what happened. And if that occurred, whose fault would it be but Stacie’s?