The Exhibition (An Executive Decision Trilogy) (5 page)

From the middle of the crowd, Ellis’ secretary raised a number. Stacie noticed that the woman held two numbers. Maybe one for Dee? She was bidding on a lovely Western-style painting of a mountain lion stretched on a ledge above a river, and it was clear she wasn’t about to be outbid by anyone. Not far from her, Al Marston offered Stacie a reassuring nod and a hint of a smile.

She remembered that Jamison didn’t always get his way. Ellis had been standing toe to toe with him for a long time now and holding his own. Jamison hated him for that. Al had given the man a run for his money a time or two, and she – well, she owned this gallery outright, and that was a testament to standing up to Terrance Jamison. She squared her shoulders and turned her attention to Jamison, who sat as cool as winter, unflinching, unmoving, his eyes locked on her. And she returned his gaze in spades. None of this was unexpected, she reminded herself. She knew when the time came, he wouldn’t let it go. Well she wasn’t a naïve young girl any more, and she wouldn’t let it go either.

She returned her gaze to Ellis’ secretary, who’d just given the winning bid for the mountain lion painting.

‘Sold!’ The auctioneer pounded his gavel on the podium. In spite of herself, Stacie jumped. ‘
Sunset Vigil
by Andrea Vargas sold to Mr. Harris Walker.’

Stacie felt as though the sun had just come out. She hadn’t seen that coming. A quick glance at her BlackBerry, and, sure enough, there was a message from Harris.

Stacie

Just my way of making it up to you for my bad behavior. It’s a lovely painting, BTW. And I trust the artist had her BlackBerry turned off when she painted it. Best of luck tonight. I hope you rake in the dough.

Harris

She didn’t know how he’d done it, some scheming with Ellis, no doubt, but she was more certain than ever that she would have Harris Walker’s work in her exhibition. It was essential. And the timing couldn’t have been better if he’d planned it. It was just the reminder that she needed that she had an exhibition to plan and a new gallery to bring on line with all the fireworks and excitement she could manage. And she planned to manage a lot. Quickly, she texted back.

My hero! Apology most definitely accepted, Mr. Walker.

Stacie

She’d barely gotten the text sent off before Maggie was introducing her and calling her to the podium. She stood and offered the whole room a broad smile, which she now definitely felt. Then she moved to stand next to the gallery’s new manager. There was a round of applause and then silence as she took the podium. For a lingering second, she looked out over the room full of wealthy people, people making an effort to give something back, perhaps even making an effort to assuage their guilt for being “haves” in a “have-not” world or perhaps just putting on a good act. Her gaze came to rest first on Ingrid Watson, then on Jamison. Then she spoke.

‘It’s no secret, I’ve always loved being surrounded by beautiful things, and I’ve always had a deep respect and admiration for those who create them, for those who have studied and trained and sacrificed and put in long hours to create something breathtaking, something moving, something astounding. And I think there’s no one in this room tonight who would deny that we’ve been surrounded, for the past month, here at New World Gallery, with some of the most powerful works of some of the most promising new artists of the day. I’d like to thank all of them for their contributions to this event, for the gift of their time and their talent to give back to future artists.’

There was a round of enthusiastic applause. Then Stacie continued.

‘We need art maybe more than anything else because art is a reflection of ourselves, of our souls, of all the things within us that we can’t see, but know are there. Art feeds us, nourishes us, strengthens us, encourages us and moves us beyond ourselves to act boldly and live bravely and openly, even when we’re frightened, even when we’re unsure. Art gives us that and so much more.

‘Having said all that, having been surrounded with so much manifest creativity, it’s my great pleasure to announce that tonight’s award for Outstanding New Artist goes to Ingrid Watson for her work,
Inspiration in Stone
, purchased by Terrance Jamison for a cool million.’

The room erupted in applause as the young artist came to the podium to take the plaque that Stacie offered. The two women shook hands. Ingrid offered a few nervous words of thanks, her eyes continually returning to Terrance Jamison, who smiled up at her indulgently. Stacie fought back a wave of vertigo, remembering the first time she’d seen that look on his face. She grabbed onto the podium with both hands and forced the thought out of her mind. Then she shook Ingrid’s hand once more and watched her return to the audience, this time to sit next to Jamison.

As the auction ended and while the champagne and canapés made another round, Stacie did her best to mingle and smile. It was what she was good at, especially for a worthy cause. And she was certain that no one had any idea of what a rough evening this had been for her. The crowd thinned and Maggie flitted about making sure final details were taken care of. Stacie had just finished talking with Lynn when she turned to find herself face to face with Jamison. Ingrid Watson’s arm was folded over his and the young woman looked totally delighted.

Jamison leaned in and kissed Stacie on each cheek, taking his time to let a free hand slide onto the bare skin of her shoulder. ‘A lovely evening, Stacie.’ He brushed a loose strand of hair back behind her ear in a way that made her shiver, but she held herself, she held herself as though she was encased in glass and his touch meant nothing. ‘You always did know how to make the money,’ he whispered against her ear. Then he pulled back and straightened, patting Ingrid’s hand. ‘Ms. Watson and I are having a late dinner, and she’s going to tell me all about her work, aren’t you, my darling?’

Ingrid offered an adoring nod.

‘We’d both love it if you’d join us.’ The surprised look on Ingrid’s face told Stacie that clearly wasn’t the case.

‘Thank you, Terrance –’ Stacie was amazed she could speak to him without her voice trembling ‘– but it’s traditional for the winner of the Outstanding New Artist award to join the VIP list for dinner.’ He knew this, and Stacie knew that their conversation was making Ingrid Watson uncomfortable. Clearly she’d rather be with Jamison. But then she had no idea how dangerous being with Jamison could be. Stacie added, ‘There are always reporters and gallery owners hoping for exhibitions with the artists.’ She could see the dilemma in the woman’s eyes. ‘It’s your chance to shine, Ingrid.’

‘Come now, Stacie, don’t be so stingy.’ Jamison drew the woman possessively closer to him. ‘I’ve just paid a million dollars to share this lovely woman’s company, and you and I both know I have plenty of connections to make sure her work gets the attention it deserves.’

If Ingrid noticed Jamison’s derogatory play on words, she didn’t show it, and in all honesty, it was meant for Stacie, but Stacie could take care of herself. It was Ingrid she worried about.

Just then Al Marston lumbered over to her side. ‘You ready to go, Stacie? The limos have arrived for the artists.’

Ingrid looked desperately from Jamison back to Stacie and Al. Jamison forced the issue. ‘Come now, my darling. I’m sure Ms. Emerson knows better than most I’m the best thing that could possibly happen to your career.’ He nodded to Stacie, his eyes never leaving hers while he completely ignored Al. Then he turned on his heels, still holding Ingrid Watson’s arm in a possessive grip.

But before he could get completely away, Stacie grabbed Ingrid’s other hand in a hard handshake. ‘I just want to congratulate you again, Ms. Watson. Thank you for your contribution tonight. You clearly impressed everyone. Your heart shows through your work. That’s where your power is.’ She held the woman’s gaze. ‘And it’s a lot of power. A lot of power. Remember that.’

Then she turned and moved on shaky legs toward the exit, thankful for Al’s strong arm to lean on.

Chapter Six

Ingrid Watson woke alone amid a tangle of expensive linens in the middle of a huge bed. Through the thick haze of a champagne hangover it took her a few seconds to remember where she was and how she’d gotten there. And when it all came flooding back to her – the big win last night at the art auction; the evening with Terrance Jamison that had ended in the glorious suite at the Plaza Hotel – somehow her head hurt just a little less. She had won! Ingrid Watson from
Farmville,
Minnesota had won! She had won out over the sophisticated, polished locals and the graduates from expensive art schools. Her work had made an outrageous amount of money for the auction and got everyone’s attention, hands-down. And then she’d left New World Gallery on the arm of the very sexy man who had just bought her sculpture for a million dollars. A million dollars!

She sat up in bed and looked around the room for Mr. Jamison, realizing with an embarrassed smile that even after all the naughty things they’d done in that big, expensive bed, they weren’t even on a first name basis, but then what was in a name? When the man was nowhere to be found, she recalled that Terrance Jamison always rose before dawn. She had gleaned that fact in her frantic and less than thorough search for information about him on her iPhone while he was bidding for her sculpture. She hadn’t even known who he was until he bought her sculpture for an obscene amount of money. The man had driven the price up in a dizzying competition with two other bidders, and then it was as if he had just gotten tired of the game, and simply bid a million. A nice round number, he’d said later as they rode to the Plaza together in his very swank limo. And that had been that. His generosity had left the room in an uproar and had left an excited Ingrid claiming the prize and frantically trying to figure out who this insane man was.

She eased herself out of bed, sore from way more sex than she’d had, well … ever. After a night with Jamison, she could hardly count the gropings and fumblings of her limited experience, not really. She looked around. Her clothes, which last night had been strewn carelessly across the floor from the sitting room to the bed, were nowhere to be found. But Mr. Jamison’s white shirt was still draped neatly over the back of the chair where he had left it last night. She pulled the shirt to her face, taking in the smell of expensive cologne mixed with the dark, mysterious scent of the man himself. Then she slipped into it and wrapped it tightly around her. Instantly she felt her nipples peak against the fabric that had caressed his body just a few hours ago.

She smiled to think what a gentleman he had been. Perhaps that’s the way it was with older men. She’d never been with one before. She’d never been with anyone who wasn’t either as awkward and bumbling as she was or so full of themselves that they were barely aware of her being anything more than a hole for their cocks. But Terrance Jamison had even asked permission to kiss her, had even asked if she was sure she wanted him to make love to her. Of course, by the time he got around to asking, she was aching for it in every cell of her body, aching for it in a way she didn’t even know she could. And my God! He hadn’t disappointed. He was a bit rougher than she had expected, but not without her permission, and she figured, experienced as he no doubt was, he’d intuited that she would like it that way. That was something even she hadn’t known about herself.

Then the silence of the present encroached on her thoughts, and she wondered if he had left her there alone. But the smell of fresh coffee was encouraging. Wrapped in his shirt, she tiptoed into the lounge in search of him, hungry for more of him.

He sat reading the
New York Times
at the table in front of the window. He was already showered and dressed for business, even though it was a Sunday. For a second, she stood in the doorway watching him, letting the wave of butterflies flutter over her. This man, this very powerful, very wealthy man, singled her work out from all the rest; this man believed her worthy of his attention. He sipped his coffee and sat the cup carefully back onto its saucer. She hadn’t thought him even aware of her presence until he spoke. ‘There’s a robe in the closet,’ he said without looking up from the paper. ‘Go put it on.’

She obeyed, stripping off the shirt in full view of him before she walked slowly back into the bedroom. When he didn’t look up, the champagne headache spiked in a wave of confusion. The man had been the best host ever last night. He had taken her to dine at Per Se, putting out way more on one meal than she paid for her apartment for six months. Then he had brought her back to his penthouse suite in the Plaza Hotel. She’d never even been to Minneapolis until her senior trip, let alone New York City, so she reacted like a kid at Christmas – maybe a little embarrassing the morning after, but last night he seemed to relish her delight. This morning, he was miles away. Surely it couldn’t be anything she’d done. She hadn’t done anything that he hadn’t suggested or recommended. Perhaps he was just distracted. An important man like Terrance Jamison had plenty of things other than art and artists on his mind.

She slipped into the robe and joined him at the table. He still didn’t look up. ‘Help yourself to coffee. I’ve ordered breakfast to be delivered –’ he glanced down at his watch ‘– in twenty minutes.’

She poured herself coffee, then moved to admire the view out over Central Park. ‘It’s so beautiful,’ she said, her voice breathless with nerves.

Still he said nothing. So she took matters into her own hands and leaned over his shoulder. ‘What are you reading?’

‘The write-up about last night’s little soirée,’ came the reply that sounded neither irritated nor warm. ‘It seems Ms. Emerson has done it again. Even without our little contribution, Americans for the Arts has done very well from her efforts.’

She studied the picture of Stacie Emerson shaking
her
hand and offering her the plaque for Outstanding New Artist. Ingrid looked a bit shell-shocked, but Stacie looked polished, at ease, and gorgeous. Her insides somersaulted with a strange mix of envy and hero worship. She owed the woman big time. If Ms. Emerson hadn’t given her the chance to display her work in the gallery for the charity auction, she’d still be just Jim Watson’s little girl who dabbled in the arts in the old barn behind the cowshed, and Terrance Jamison would have taken no notice of her. And yet she couldn’t help it. She would have liked it if the gallery owner had been a little less perfect, a little less comfortable in her own skin. There were several other posed shots with Stacie Emerson and people Ingrid would know if she ran in the same circles. Perhaps they were people she might have had the opportunity to meet if she had joined the other artists for dinner. The little niggle in the pit of her stomach made her wonder if she’d made a mistake by not going along last night, especially when her absence was noted in less than gracious terms in the article. But Terrance Jamison had said he could help her career at least as much as Ms. Emerson. And she had wholeheartedly believed him. Then. Right now she wasn’t so sure.

‘How long have you known her?’ she asked, recalling the twinge of jealousy she’d felt at the way he looked at Stacie Emerson, the way he touched her when he’d asked her to join them for dinner.’

‘Oh, Stacie and I go way back,’ he said, still not showing any emotion. ‘She’s a very talented girl, our Ms. Emerson.’ This time the corners of his mouth turned up into a smile. ‘I doubt there’s anything she couldn’t do if she set her mind to it.’

Ingrid certainly wouldn’t have called her a girl. Encouraged by the sudden shift in his humor, she settled onto the arm of his chair and leaned close. ‘Were you lovers?’

He shrugged her off so quickly that she stood to keep from falling. Then he pushed back from the table and tossed the paper into the trash can next to the sofa.

‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered. Confusion escalated to something a little more alarming as he began to pace in front of the big window. ‘That was none of my business. I’m sorry.’

He turned on her so quickly that she nearly tripped over the leg of the chair he’d just vacated trying to step away. But there was no need. There was a broad smile on his face, and he took her into his arms and smoothed her mussed hair. ‘Stacie and I did some business together,’ he said, one hand moving inside the robe to fondle her breasts while the other undid the sash. ‘And certainly for me, that business did involve some … pleasure.’ He pushed the robe off her shoulders and, in spite of all they’d done last night, she felt shy, but he only chuckled softly and gave her body the onceover the same way she’d seen him appraising the art at the gallery. ‘You have nothing to be jealous of, my dear Ms. Watson. While Stacie Emerson likes to be surrounded by lovely things, I prefer to possess them.’ He gave her nipple a pinch for emphasis and she flinched, feeling a flush of heat between her legs.

He pushed her back until her bottom pressed against the table, then he lifted her onto it, rattling the cups and spilling coffee on the white linen tablecloth. With one hand he opened her legs and stroked her down there until she trembled with something more edgy than just arousal. With the other hand he opened his fly, eased out his erection, and pushed into her with no warning, no foreplay. She couldn’t help it, she cried out. It felt as if he had forced a battering ram up inside her. For a second, she couldn’t breathe; for a second, her eyes watered; for a second, she felt fear tangle and knot with the beginnings of arousal. But just before she could get truly frightened, his efforts calmed and he held himself still inside her, catching his breath, studying her face, her breasts, her thighs, the place where their bodies joined. The pain gave way to an achy, prickly, almost panicky sort of pleasure. He stroked her breasts, examining them like they were one of her sculptures, thumbing her nipples until they were raw and hyper-sensitive. All the while his gaze took in her body as though he were judging it, as though it fascinated him in an abstract sort of way.

‘But what’s most interesting about lovely things, Ingrid, is that lovely things need to be possessed. I believe that’s their sole purpose.’ Then he began to thrust, both hands moving to grip her hips and pull her tighter against him. ‘What do you think, darling?’ He held her face so she couldn’t look away. ‘Do you think that might be the case?’

His thrusting grew harder and she wrapped her legs around his waist to steady herself. A coffee cup rattled off the edge of the table and shattered on the floor. He held her chin in a tight grip between his thumb and forefinger and kissed her with a kiss that threatened to smother even as it aroused her. When he pulled free, he still held her so that she couldn’t look away from him. The tension in his body told her he was about to come. ‘Not that it matters.’ His words were now breathless and forced from his throat. ‘I don’t have to have permission to possess what I want, Ingrid. I simply take it.’ And then he came with a hard thrust that forced the breath from her lungs and felt as though it would split her in two.

Before he could bring her to orgasm – though she was already pretty sure that was not his priority – and before he could even fully recover himself, there was a soft knock on the door. He pulled out and wiped himself on one of the linen napkins. ‘That’ll be breakfast.’ He tossed her the napkin. ‘Clean yourself up.’ Then, without so much as a backward glance , he went to the door, leaving her feeling nearly as shattered as the cup on the floor.

She hurried to wipe herself and retrieve the robe. She had just cinched it tight around her when he returned looking as though nothing at all out of the ordinary had happened.

She was mortified when the room service waiter followed, pushing the breakfast trolley in front of him. ‘Leave it,’ Mr. Jamison said without even looking at the waiter, who obeyed with a deferential bow of his head.

The man had barely shut the door behind him before Mr. Jamison gave a quick glance at his watch. ‘I have a plane to catch, but you have the room for the rest of the day. There are clothes in the closet that should fit you. I’ve arranged for your gown to be dry-cleaned. It’ll be returned to your hotel room by the time you get back.’

He picked up a small case from where it sat near the sofa and headed for the door, leaving her stunned and confused. Then he stopped, came back to her, and pulled her into a demanding kiss. He slipped a hand down between her legs, thrusting two fingers quickly up inside her and thumbing her clit until she came with a startled sob. Then he pulled away all business-like. ‘My secretary will be in touch with plans for furthering your career, and I’m sure the two of us will be entertaining each other again soon.’ He left without another word.