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I nodded, agreeing as the song came to an end.
Her smile was still on her face, cracking the lipstick she always wore. “When you get bored of the music, he told me to tell you there’s a gift in your drawers…it’s quite fitting with this art thing he has going right now.”
She smiled, and I smiled, too…because being an art dealer was another thing he hadn’t lied about.
Chapter 18
Mercer
Ishook the man’s hand, a false smile hiding my real emotions. He looked at me with condescending eyes, like he could hear my thoughts.
Pleasure not doing business with you, prick.
“Sit down, gentlemen. Are we sure we can’t come to some sort of agreement?” Ethan was still seated to the left of me on our side of the cherry-oak table.
I shook my head in Ethan’s direction. This was done. The guy, still attached to my hand as we stretched from one side of the table to the other in this office I rented, didn’t want my offer. He wanted more and in truth...I didn’t feel he was worth it. I thought I was too generous to start with, and I would be lucky to make my money back on his knockoff shit.
The painted sunflowers, wilted and crisp, stared at me from across the room as I let go of Mr. Duyuck’s sun-damaged hand and penned a quick note.
We have another meeting, and I’m sure Mr. Duyuck has other business to attend to.
I granted the man another smile and gave one to the men on each side of him—his agent and lawyer. I sat back between Ethan and Damiano. The birdbrain and the brainless musclehead who never said a word at these meetings...easy to guess who was who.
A curt nod told the men opposite it was time to leave, and they did, with Ethan’s rehearsed speech following them as they collected the ugly painting and carried it to the door.
“Thank you for your time. We appreciate you meeting with us, and as it has not worked out here, we wish you the very best with your art. I’m sure it will end up where it is truly appreciated.”
I tuned them out before Mr. Duyuck started muttering beyond the door about lousy offers.
Ethan laughed, finding amusement in their change of attitude.
It was funny how someone could go from ass licker to asshole the second something didn’t go their way.
I hadn’t been in this business too long, and neither had Ethan. I’d achieved my dream and had gotten my doctorate in medicine, but that profession had been put on hold because it didn’t allow the flexibility of time so I could run around murdering the traffickers who’d wronged me.
Art was relatively new to me, but not the family name. Thanks to my grandfather, who used art to hide his real job, I already had a good name when I took on this hustle. Everyone wanted to work with me—the good artists and the bad people, which was what initially attracted me to it.
People like Damiano. Damiano who annoyed me beyond reason as he picked the scum from his nails. I stepped away, I had to before I fucking killed him. I stared out at the city of Boston. Buildings towered around us but didn’t seal us in. It was pretty if you liked the hustle and bustle of city life. I did, I guess. But, maybe, that was just because I was used to it.
Maybe that was how it went with things.
Maybe that was the case with Chandelle.
Maybe if I thought that was fucking true, I could let go of the guilt I held hands with every time I thought of Feebee.
Feebee.
Fiery little Feebee.
The sweet scent of her was all over me today. I smelled of mango, pastry, and innocence...what a concoction.
I couldn’t get her off me. I didn’t want her off me.
I wanted her all over me, and I couldn’t even deny it anymore.
The truth hung on to every smile I gave these artists. The lies on every sarcastic sneer I shot at Ethan because he dared, more than once, to comment about my flushed cheeks. I was hot and bothered, sweaty and needy. And I needed to be home. Needed to be close to her.
She looked so pretty earlier today, with her hair silky and scented of mangos, with her round, inquisitive eyes staring at me with something other than anger. With her hands in mine as I taught her how to knead pastry.
