She’s good. I nod, a little dazed, still absorbing the room, the fact that I work here. “Now, I want to show you how—”
My eyes halt in their scan of the soft cream walls. “I’m sorry, is that an original Frida Kahlo sketch?”
Maisie stops and smiles instead of looking irritated. “It is,” she says. “St. Clair said you had a good eye.”
“Sorry to interrupt. I just can’t believe I have a famous artist’s work in my office,” I say sheepishly. “It’s so incredible to be this close to talent like that.”
Maisie laughs and I immediately feel like I’ve screwed up, made myself look too eager and inexperienced, and I can’t shake the lingering feeling that I don’t really belong here.
“Did I say something wrong?” I ask, my cheeks warming.
“Oh, no!” she exclaims. “You and St Clair. are just going to get along so well!” Maisie moves the mouse and clicks. “Now, all our files are accessible through the network so if there’s anything you’re looking for you can start here…”
But my eyes have found a new home: the Dali painting from his house in Napa, a surrealist depiction of an elephant crossing a desert. I loved it. And now it’s here.
He remembered.
I think back to where it hung in his kitchen, the kitchen where St. Clair started kissing the back of my neck as he unzipped my dress and didn’t stop kissing me until he’d spread me out on his table and…
“Grace?”
“Oh, sorry,” I croak, my throat dry. I can feel a flush rushing up my cheeks like a giant banner for inappropriate thoughts. “Is it warm in here?” I shake the sensations of St. Clair’s soft hands and expert tongue out of my mind and try to focus on what Maisie was saying about international databases. “So…files.”
“Artists.” She laughs again. “This is why you have me. Basically, whatever will help you work—travel arrangements, lunch reservations, contact information, you name it and I’m on it.” She grins. “I’m very good at my job.” Maisie picks up a small gold box from the desk and hands it to me. “These are your business cards.”
I open the box and find thick glossy white cardstock with embossed black and gold lettering. Grace Bennett, Consultant – St. Clair International. It’s on paper; it must be official.
No going back.
Maisie bustles away, letting me know she’ll be just down the hall before leaving me alone to absorb my new office – and my new life.
I set my coffee on the desk—on a fancy agate coaster—and sink into my chair, the plush leather supporting me like a pillow.
It’s quiet. I rotate slowly so I can see the art again, the view. I can feel the warmth of the sun through the glass and decide to just sit here for a second, marveling at how fast life can change, how risk really can lead to reward.
“Ahem.” St. Clair stands in my doorway and I jump out of my moment of reflection, and almost out of my skin. “Sorry,” he says, his beautifully sculpted features furrowing into concern. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“Oh, no, it’s fine.” I stand up, nervous, unsure what to say. In a carefully-fitted suit, he’s just as gorgeous as ever: dark hair over handsome features, and that sexy English accent that makes my stomach turn in knots. “Thank you so much for—” I start.
“How are you—”
We both stop and laugh, easing some of the tension I felt. “You first,” I say.
“I was going to ask how you were settling in.”
“Great! Really great. Thank you again for this opportunity,” I say, trying not to sound too ass-kissing. “I promise I won’t let you down.”
“I know you won’t,” he says, his eyebrow raised suggestively. “I have a good eye for talent. It’s going to be fun having you around.”
Fun.
I pause, struck by sudden doubt. We only spent one night together—an amazing night, yes—but is that why he hired me? To be waiting in his office in my negligée after I’ve increased the value of his art collection?
“So, uh, what talents of mine do you hope to be using?” I ask hesitantly, trying to sound casual but hating how unsure of myself I suddenly am.
It’s like he reads my mind, though, because he’s immediately reassuring. “Grace, it’s not like that. I promise, you’re the person I want for this job because you’re going to be great at it.”
A rush of relief runs through my body. “Thank you.”
If my friends and family can believe in me, why not St. Clair? Believe in yourself, my mom would say. And the rest will follow.
“No need for thanks,” he says, showing off his dimples in a smile. “It’s the truth.”
Our eyes meet and there’s a moment where I look at the perfect shape of his lips, a beat where he takes a breath like he’s going to say something else, and I feel all the reasons why staying professional is going to be a big challenge. I take a breath, down girl. “How about we start by talking about the position. I mean, the job,” I add, ignoring my blush. “Being a consultant is a pretty wide-ranging description, and I know lots of people approach it in different ways.”
“Of course.” St. Clair comes closer, then takes a seat in the chair opposite. “What I’m thinking is that you’ll be my main advisor on everything related to art. You’ll help me build my collection, source new artists and acquire pieces, manage the public face of my art. My budget is pretty much unlimited,” he adds with a sheepish grin, “So you’ll have free rein to steer me in whatever direction you think is best. Maybe I should be building a classic collection, maybe you want me investing in newer works. It’s all up to you.”
My pulse speeds up with excitement—this is the real deal!
“This all sounds…perfect,” I manage to get out.
“Charity is important to me,” he adds, “So your first task is to select several pieces from my collection to donate to the new wing of the Nob Hill Hospital, which will be unveiled at the opening gala later this week.”
“Any guidelines?” I ask, eagerly jotting down notes.
He smiles. “Follow your instincts. I trust you.”
My mind is already spinning with ideas as the driver pulls up to the storage vaults where St. Clair’s overflow art is stored. He has so many pieces, he can’t display it all in his many houses and offices around the globe, so the rest gets stored here in this special climate-controlled vault. I can’t even imagine having enough works of priceless art that you keep most of them hidden out of sight, but I guess I’m in a whole new world now: where I have a private driver and town car transporting me around instead of the bus, and sole discretion about which magnificent paintings are going to be displayed in a major new hospital wing.
Inside, I find it’s kind of like a regular storage unit: if storage units came with plush carpets, chandeliers, and armed guards. The vaults are various sizes, smaller rooms for fine wines and jewelry, bigger rooms for furniture or artwork. A concierge whisks me down a long corridor to St. Clair’s rooms, and enters a complex security code before the doors click open. There’s a hissing noise.
“Air pressure is strictly regulated,” he explains. “All the art is sealed in climate-controlled plexiglass storage shells, so you can browse without compromising the canvas.”
He stands aside, and I step into the suite. This place is like a museum! Racks of paintings are stored all across the room, and I can summon any item by pressing a button and bringing it gliding along the automatic tracks. I glimpse them as I scan the racks: a Klimt in all its golden-toned glory, a Picasso full of bright colors and shapes, a Rothko with its bold strips of color…I want to spend all day here, to study each brushstroke up close, to smell the canvases.
I'm in heaven.
“Will there be anything else?” the concierge asks. “Tea, coffee?”
“No, thank you.”
“When you’ve made your selections, simply note down the item numbers, and our transport team will arrange for the paintings to be sent over.” He ducks out of the room.