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“Yeah…” I try to recall. “It was people with… beaks? Yeah, that’s right. On a landscape. Really surreal.”
Rhett is already Googling. “This look familiar?” he asks, showing me the screen.
“Holy shit,” I say, taking it. Sure enough, there’s the odd painting that Clark had snatched from my fingers.
I scroll to the article attached to the photo and read aloud: “The Long Walk to Beakdom by renowned surrealist Aristotle Livonia.” I look up, excitement beaming across my face. “Mr. Livonia recently celebrated his 101st birthday.”
Rhett grins back. “Happy birthday to him.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
RHETT
Liz whirls around the ballroom with the grace of a dancer.
As it turns out, the gray-suited man who’d been speaking with Paul is Ashton Wells, the director of the auction and surely behind any back-door sales happening tonight.
I stand against the wall, watching with immense pride as Liz stalks Wells, disentangles him from his conversation and pulls him into a private alcove for a prolonged chat.
Someone with less faith in Liz’s abilities might be anxious; I’m almost bored, keeping my eyes fixed on Paul to make sure he doesn’t get suspicious. Thankfully, Paul lacks the good sense to watch Liz. He spends the next hour getting progressively drunker at the punch bowl surrounded by a knot of yukking yes-men.
When Liz emerges from the alcove shortly before the auction begins, her victory shines bright across her face. It’s this pride, this confidence, that makes her the most gorgeous woman in the ballroom, drawing the attention of every man she passes.
But she only has eyes for me.
A deep affection swells inside my chest, and I couldn’t be prouder to walk in front of them all, to put one hand protectively against her back, and to walk with her to take our seats for the auction.
A thousand pairs of jealous eyes bore into me; my satisfaction couldn’t be more consuming.
The auction itself is incredibly dull compared to the lead up. I couldn’t care less which multi-millionaire snags which painting only to lock it away in a glorified vault. If it were up to me, they’d all be in museums where everyone could enjoy them.
Too bad I’m not running everything, huh?
So I’m content to let my mind wander while numbers are called, relaxing into the warming atmosphere of success sharpened by the slight thrill I get from just resting my hand on Liz’s knee.
I probably should have asked her before linking us in front of the paparazzi earlier. I could tell she was surprised, though I’m still not sure if she’s upset. Flying high herself from her latest victory over Paul, any concern over my admittedly rash move appears to be an afterthought; every time I glance at her, smiling eyes meet mine and hold them steadily, the promise of a private afterparty playing in those stunning gray orbs.
Finally, the last piece is announced, Lot 97. It’s the enormous abstract painting from Basquiat.
Liz leans over and whispers to me, “Marie is wondering if I’ll bid on it. If I do, we lose.”
The bidding starts and is quickly overtaken by two serious contenders — a woman toward the front and a man a few rows behind us. The two battle, throwing out numbers that most people wouldn’t come close to spending on a house, let alone a painting. Liz, of course, stays silent. When the price begins to reach its peak and the man hesitates with every increase, Marie turns in her seat a few rows in front of us and fixes Liz in an unreadable stare.
The look only lasts for a second, maybe two. Then she turns back around.
“It’s okay,” Liz mutters at my confused glance to her. “She’s trying to rattle me, see if she can shake me into bidding on it.”
The painting sells for forty-five million dollars to the woman in the front, and the crowd stands with audible relief.
I check my watch. “Do we have to stick around much longer?” I ask.
“No,” Liz says. “But let’s wait over there. I want to get Marie alone.”
Marie moves about congratulating a few people on their purchases, but after a minute she and Bill separate from the crowd and move into the hallway. Neither of them even glance in our direction.
Liz and I exchange a look. Interrupting them seems to be a bad idea. But after a minute Liz nods in that direction and we try to nonchalantly amble over to the doorway they disappeared through.
Sure enough, the faintest sounds of an argument echo down the empty corridor. I’m just about to suggest that Liz leave this conversation to a phone call when the sharp clack of footsteps sound and Bill appears in the doorway.
