Romance: The Art Of Love: A Billionaire Romance (5 page)

         
“In
your Magritte,” Annette said. “There, they were painted, and here, they’re
drawn, but the arm that made them was the same.” She gestured into empty space,
indicating the way the artist moved while creating the work.

         
“Are
you sure?” Clifford said.

         
“I’m
absolutely sure,” Annette said. She lowered her voice. “On top of that,
Carrington was notoriously private. She was known for destroying her
preliminary work – and her breakup with Ernst was really, really ugly. You know
she wound up in asylum after he left her.”

         
“I
didn’t know that,” Clifford said.

         
“She
did,” Annette said. “She had electroshock therapy, the whole nine yards. It was
what they did at the time.”

         
“Horrible.”

         
“It
was,” Annette agreed, “and from what I read, she never fully recovered. I find
it hard to believe she would have kept any of her work from that time –
especially this.”

         
“Maybe
she didn’t,” Clifford replied. “She could have sold it then, or given it away.
Maybe she gave it to Max.”

         
“After
he got away from the Nazis, he took off,” Annette said. “And who could blame
him?”

         
“You
don’t think it’s real?”

         
“I
know it’s not,” Annette replied. She felt absolutely certain of her position.
“I can call
Feigenbaum’s
if you want me to, but
they’ll tell you the same thing.” She cocked her head. “If you want to buy
something, buy those prints in the hallway.”

         
“Not
the
Miró
?” Clifford asked.

         
Annette
shook her head. “If you like that one, there are better examples to be had.
Sotheby’s has one coming to auction at the end of the month.”

         
“But
I don’t like the prints,” Clifford pouted. “I do like this.”

         
Annette
nodded. “It’s a gorgeous sketch.”

         
“And
you’re still telling me no?”

         
“I
am.” Annette cocked her head. “The question now is if you’re going to listen to
me or not.”

         
Clifford
stared at Annette for a long moment. “What if you’re wrong?”

         
“I’m
not wrong.”

         
Clifford
took a deep breath. “I really like this.”

         
Annette
shrugged her shoulders. “You either trust me or you don’t. I’m telling you it’s
fake, and it’s fake. But at the end of the day, it’s your money. Do what you
want.”
 
She fell silent as Rene rejoined
them.

         
“I
must say to you that you are not the only interested buyer,” Rene said. He
indicated his phone. “Wilbur Ross is getting on a plane right now.”

         
Clifford’s
body tensed.

         
“Tell
me,” Annette said, speaking before her billionaire boss had the opportunity to.
“Do we know how this sketch made it from Paris to Montreal?”

         
“It
was during the war, apparently,” Rene answered. “We don’t have exact dates for
every piece, but we know that a lot came over in 1940, 1941.”

         
Annette
frowned. “Carrington would have been in Mexico then.”

         
“Perhaps,”
Rene said. “There was a time when she was in Spain.” He shrugged. “It may be
that this came over earlier. Or later.”

         
“We
just don’t know, do we?” Annette looked at her watch. “Oh!” She said, letting a
note of surprise enter her voice. She turned toward Clifford. “If you’re going
to make that conference call with Madison and the Pittsburgh investors, we’re
going to have to get going.”

         
“It’s
that late?” Clifford said. His delivery was flawless; if Annette hadn’t of
known better, she would have believed Clifford really did have a meeting
scheduled. “Let’s head out. I’ll think about this,” he said to Rene. “You said
eight and a half million?”

         
Rene
smiled. “Ten, mon
ami
.”

         
Clifford
nodded. “We will definitely be in touch.”

         
One
week later, Annette was carefully paging through the Christie’s catalog that
had landed on her desk that morning. Clifford wanted her to identify any pieces
that looked interesting, along with her own recommendations regarding what each
piece was worth. She had her computer open, a search for recent auction prices
running on her smartphone, and a reference book propped open to a chronological
listing of major works.

         
“Look
at you, hard at work,” Madison said. Annette looked up, startled. She hadn’t
had much interaction with Clifford’s assistant since she’d started her new job;
Madison was always, always busy.

         
“Well,
I’ve got to earn my keep,” Annette said.

         
“I
don’t think you have any worries on that account,” Madison said. Her smile was
strange. “Can you come with me, please?”

         
Annette
stood up. Her stomach sank. She was convinced that somehow Madison had found
out about the night she’d spent with Clifford in Montreal. Despite her boss’
assurances, Annette knew their time together was totally unprofessional. She
followed Madison down the hallway to Clifford’s office, certain that she was
going to be dismissed from her position.

         
If
that happened, Annette knew she couldn’t go back to
Feigenbaum’s
.
They would never forgive her for disgracing the house’s good name.

         
What
a stupid, stupid thing to do, Annette chastised herself. She had no illusion
that Clifford seriously wanted to have a relationship with her. The night in
Montreal was just a fluke, a one-off that never should have happened. Since
they’d gotten back to the States, her boss had been friendly but distant:
Madison had kept him extremely busy working on some kind of merger project.

         
Madison
pushed Clifford’s door open without knocking. Clifford was sitting at his desk,
reading through a pile of documents.

         
“Hey,
what’s up?” he said. His smile broadened when he saw Annette. “Good morning!”

         
“It
is a good morning,” Madison said. “It’s a great morning, in fact.”

         
“What’s
so great about it?” Clifford asked.

         
“Guess
who I just got off the phone with?”

         
“Who?”

         
“Shauna
Murphy.” The name meant nothing to Annette, but it clearly did to Clifford. He
cocked his head, clearly curious.

         
“Really.”

         
Madison
nodded. “And do you know what she told me?”

         
“Wilbur
bought the Carrington.”

         
Madison’s
smile got wider. “That he did.”

         
“And…”
Clifford glanced at Annette. “It’s a fake?”

         
“Yes,
it is.” Madison spun on her heel. “You get a high five, girl!”
 
She put her hand up in the air, meeting a
startled Annette’s palm with a smack. “That’s twelve million dollars you saved
us.”

         
“I
knew it!” Annette exclaimed. Her voice came out a little louder than she’d
meant it to, but she was too excited to care. “The way Max’s arms were in the
drawing – they just looked wrong.”

         
“Wilbur’s
not admitting anything, of course,” Madison said. “But according to Shauna,
he’s furious.” She stared at Clifford for a long moment. “Apparently, he sent
some associates to talk to Rene about exactly where the sketch came from.”

         
“I
thought he knew the family,” Clifford said. “The ones who’d inherited the
entire collection.”

         
“There
is a family, and there is a collection,” Madison said. “But apparently Rene
enhanced the collection with a few pieces of his own.”

         
“That’s
why he was so sketchy when I questioned him about the provenance,” Annette
said. “I thought he just didn’t like me.”

         
“Well,
you weren’t there for him to like you,” Madison said. “You were there to do
exactly what you did. Wilbur’s associates discovered that the Carrington came
from one Hans
Grüber
.”

         
“You
are kidding me,” Clifford said.

         
“I’m
not,” Madison said. “The same man who burned you with the fake Magritte sold
this sketch to Rene for two million.” She shrugged. “Apparently he needed some
cash money in a hurry.”

         
“This
is the part where you tell me Hans has been arrested, and we’re going to
recover that twenty-two million, right?” Clifford asked.

         
“Sadly,
no.” Madison’s smile faded. “This is the part where I tell you that Wilbur’s
associates can’t find Hans anywhere.”

         
“Has
he gone to the police?”

         
“You
know Wilbur’s not going to go to the cops with this,” Madison replied.
“Especially after all those comments he made to the media after you got
burned.”

         
Clifford
snorted. “I shouldn’t find that funny.” He laughed. “But I guess I do.”

         
“I’d
rather have you laughing than crying,” Madison said. She turned to Annette.
“Good job. There’s going to be a nice little bonus in your pay this week. Our
way of saying thank you.”

         
“Thank
you,” said Annette. “I mean, it’s not necessary – that is why I’m here, after
all. But thank you.”

         
“It’s
totally necessary!” Clifford said. He stood up behind his desk. “When I think
about what a hard time you gave me when you told me no…you know I thought about
going back and telling Rene I would take the sketch…”

         
Madison
and Annette looked at each other. “I’m glad you didn’t,” Annette said.

         
“I’m
not used to anyone second-guessing my decisions,” Clifford admitted. “No is not
my favorite word.”

         
“It
should be,” Madison said. “That no saved you twelve million.”

         
“He
was asking me for ten,” Clifford protested. “And I probably would have gotten
him down to nine.”

         
Annette
burst out laughing. “Saving that three million wouldn’t have made you any
happier when it turned out to be a phony.”

         
Madison
laughed. “You don’t know Clifford very well, do you?” She shook her head. “If
Wilbur Ross pays $50 for a pound of dog shit, Clifford will find someone to
sell him dog shit for 25.”

         
Clifford
blushed. “I’m not that bad,” he protested.

         
“Yes
you are,” Madison said. “But this time, thanks to somebody’s wonderful plan…”

         
“Yes,
yes, you were right.” Clifford looked at Annette and smiled. “Bringing you on
board was one of the best decisions we ever made. We should go out and
celebrate.”

         
“Now?”
Annette looked at her watch. “It’s eleven o’clock in the morning.”

         
Clifford
waved his hand. “That doesn’t matter.
 
Madison, why don’t you book us a table for three?”

         
“Where
did you want to go?” Madison had her phone out already.

         
“Tom’s
place would be fine,” Clifford said. “Say in an hour or two?”

         
“All
right,” Madison replied. Her eyebrow furrowed as she looked at her phone. “But
it looks like it’s going to be the two of you. My Mama’s telling me I need to
get my butt over there.” She sighed and looked at Clifford. “I swear, I can’t
tell which one of you is a bigger pain in my ass.”

         
“Oh,
definitely me.” Clifford said. “I’m sure of that.”

         
“If
you say so.” Madison turned to Annette. “If you’ve got anything scheduled for
the rest of the day, you’ll need to cancel. The food at Per Se is amazing, but
it takes forever to get through a meal.”

         
“You’re
going to love it here,” Clifford said, leading Annette to the big blue door in
front of Per Se. “Tom is an absolute genius in the kitchen. In a twenty-course
meal, you’ll never see the same ingredient twice.”

         
“Twenty
courses!” Annette exclaimed. “I’m not sure I can eat that much.”

         
“Don’t
worry,” Clifford said. “I had Madison tell him I’d want something a little
simpler. And plenty of champagne.” He bent down and gave Annette a quick kiss –
just enough to start her heart racing. “After all, we have your triumph to
celebrate.”

         
“Our
triumph,” Annette said. “After all, you should be congratulated for listening
to me.” She mock-punched Clifford in the arm. “Especially considering how much
you didn’t want to.”

         
The
food at Per Se looked like tiny jewels, Annette thought. She was facing a plate
full of small cubes. One was vivid orange, another brilliantly red.

         
“The
red is beets,” Clifford said. “They taste much better than they have any right
to.” He ate one off of his own plate, encouraging her to do the same.

         
Annette
tried one, following it quickly with a gulp of champagne. “They’re not bad,”
she said diplomatically.

         
Clifford
laughed. “You don’t have to eat anything you don’t want to,” he said. “This is
your celebration. You really saved me from making another mistake.”

         
“What
gets me is that it’s the same painter creating these forgeries,” Annette said.
“It has to be.”

         
Clifford
shrugged. “I really didn’t see the similarity between the two pieces, even
after you pointed it out.”

         
“It’s
right there, like the nose on your face,” Annette said. The champagne was
delicious, and no matter how much of it she had, her glass never seemed to get
empty. “I don’t know how you didn’t see it.”

         
“Well,
to be fair,” Clifford countered, “I don’t really see the nose on my face unless
I’m looking in the mirror.”

         
“I
can see my nose,” Annette proclaimed. She crossed her eyes just enough to look
at her nose. “It’s right there.”

         
Clifford
smiled. “And what a beautiful nose it is.”

         
“What’s
this stuff?” Annette said, poking at the next plate presented to her. “Not more
beets, I hope.”

         
“This
is a Salmon Tartare,
madame
.” The waiter said,
stiffly.

         
Clifford
waved him off. “It’s fish, darling. Very yummy.”

         
Annette
took a bite. “Oh, this is good,” she said. “There’s only one thing that could
make this better.”

         
“And
what’s that?” Clifford asked, indulgently.

         
“If
it were chocolates. Chocolate is always better than fish.” She hiccupped. “Oh,
Clifford. I think I’m a little drunk.”

         
“A
little, yes.” He smiled. “But you deserve it. You saved the day.”

         
Annette
got to her feet. “This is all wonderful stuff. But I think I’ve had enough.” A
waiter refilled her champagne glass. She drank a third of it in a swallow.
“Except for champagne. There is never enough champagne.”

         
“Let
me take you home,” Clifford moved closer, steadying Annette on her feet.

“Will we
have more champagne?” she asked.

Clifford
guided her toward the door. “You can have anything you want,” he growled softly
in Annette’s ear. Their bodies were pressed so tightly together that Annette
could feel Clifford’s heartbeat in her chest. His pulse was racing almost as
fast as her own.

         
She
tipped her head up for another kiss. Clifford’s lips tasted of champagne. The
sidewalk was uncertain beneath her feet; Annette wobbled on her heels. “All
right,” she said. “But I’ve got to warn you, my place is a disaster…”

         
Clifford
laughed gently. “We’ll go to my place then.”

         
She
nodded and fell against him, breathing in his scent. Clifford squeezed her
tightly, letting one hand slide over her ass. With his free hand, he pulled his
phone out of his pocket.