The Proviso (29 page)

“
Morning in Bed
is rumored to be a
self-portrait,” Sebastian continued. “It supposedly has clues
painted into it that would help someone figure out Ford’s identity.
It was bought anonymously immediately upon its release by a private
brokerage, it’s never hung anywhere but at its premiere, and nobody
knows who owns it—except us, now.”

He got up and pulled a coffee table book out from a
stack on the buffet. He looked through it until he found the right
page and swung it around to show Bryce. “That’s it,” he said,
pointing to it.

Giselle knew every nuance of that painting.

Morning sunlight streamed through an unseen window
on a bed clothed only in white sheets, and occupied by a man. A
nude man, whose body was the essence of masculine perfection and
beauty. He lay on his stomach on the edge of the bed, his head
propped on his right arm and turned toward a pillow beside him. His
left arm, possessed of a hamlike fist, stretched out across the bed
to crumple nearly half of the pillow in his grasp. One leg was
crooked, thrown wide and tangling in the rumpled sheets, the other
a straight line from his muscular buttocks to his toes. His scrotum
lay nestled between his legs. And while the abused pillow and most
of the man’s body were bathed in the new sun, his face lay in
shadow—no features, no hair, no anything that would make him
recognizable to anyone.

Bryce studied it for a moment before saying, slowly,
“I don’t know how this can be called a self portrait.”

“Its only real value,” Giselle said, “is that Ford
has never exhibited a man and as far as anybody knows, he’s never
painted one other than this. Because of that, everyone assumes that
it’s him.”

“That makes this the closest thing to proving who
Ford is?”

“Exactly,” Sebastian agreed. “Whoever owns this
painting is arguably the most powerful person in the contemporary
art world, other than the people who actually do know who he
is.”

“Taight, you speculate in art. What do you
think?”

“I think it’s a gag to see how many self-important
people will swallow the rumors and drive its price through the
roof. Is it Ford or isn’t it? Does it have clues painted in it or
doesn’t it? Can Ford be found or can’t he? The painting itself has
no more value than any other Ford painting except that it’s a rare
subject for him. You could reasonably expect to pay twice as much
as any other Ford painting. It’s the rumors that give it four times
that value.”

“Would you buy it?”

“If I were strictly speculating, absolutely not and
certainly not at that price. I don’t think Ford can keep his
identity a secret much longer and the value of that painting will
either skyrocket or plummet depending on who he turns out to be. If
he’s somebody famous for something else, up it goes. If he’s a
nobody, it falls to about twice the level of the other Fords, where
it really should be. But it doesn’t matter. Any way you cut it, the
return on investment is too low for me to bother with it. His other
work won’t change in value much one way or another because the art
is what it is.”

“Also,” Giselle added, “people are getting a little
blasé about his anonymity and restless with his work. Yes, it’s
divine, but he’s been a one-trick pony for too long. Tonight’s the
opening of something new.”

“So that’s where we’re going tonight? To see this
artist’s work?”

She swallowed and shifted. “Yes.” She shot Sebastian
a hateful glare and he smirked anew. That bastard was enjoying
this, especially the fact that he’d successfully piqued Bryce’s
curiosity.

Bryce closed the book and set it aside, looking down
at the documents again, flipping through the pages until he stopped
at the inventory. “And this—woman—has the most valuable one.”

“She says she does.”

“Or she has a forgery.”

Sebastian shrugged. “It’s very possible. I’d have to
see it first and have it appraised.”

“I can’t imagine she’d give it up,” Giselle pointed
out.

“She doesn’t want to, which is why it isn’t on her
books. I told her I’d think about it.”

Giselle stared at him hard and long, confused by
that. “That’s not your style,” she said slowly. “There’s something
else going on here you’re not saying.”

Bryce’s head snapped up then to stare at Sebastian.
“I know why,” he said with a smirk. “Got your face between her
legs?” Giselle laughed at Sebastian’s immediate scowl. “What’s the
trust for? What’s going in it?”

“I’m going to fund it. I want at least a few of
those paintings, but I don’t want her to know. The trust will buy
the paintings once they go on the block.”

Giselle shot him a look. “You
can’t
be
speculating on Fords.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Really,” Giselle said, tilting her head and
watching him carefully. For once, Sebastian squirmed. Giselle’s
mouth dropped open and she gasped. “You’re in love with her. You
wouldn’t do that for a woman you just want to fuck.”

“Okay, so what? Mind your own business,
Giselle.”

“Hey, you’re the one who told Knox to open my door
and you knew very good and well Bryce was here, so you have no room
to talk.”

“You didn’t lock it.”

“I forgot.”

“Bullshit. You’d’ve been ecstatic if I’d thrown you
a deflowering party this morning.”

“All right, children,” Bryce interrupted, amusement
heavy in his voice. “When I get in the office on Monday, I’ll start
the process.”

“Thank you,” Sebastian said, and leaned back in his
chair, locking his fingers behind his head. “So, Kenard. What made
you chuck a lifetime of being the perfect example of Latter-day
Saint priesthood to fuck a virgin renegade intellectual with a
taste for rough sex the first chance you got?”

Giselle rolled her eyes, but Bryce only smirked and
looked straight at her. “A virgin renegade intellectual with a
taste for rough sex.”

Sebastian laughed. “I knew I’d like you, Kenard.
Welcome to the pack.”

* * * * *

28:
DIRTY WHITE BOY

They walked into the Kemper Museum of Contemporary
Art & Design fashionably late after having gone to Bryce’s home
so he could change into semiformal wear.

They had watched each other as they dressed, Bryce
in a black suit and Giselle in a pale yellow silk evening gown, the
sleeveless top randomly studded with pearls. He chose a pale yellow
tie, which made her smile. “Where’s the Glock?” he murmured low.
She had begun to appreciate that his voice deepened and hoarsened
when he was aroused.

“Here,” she said, putting the gun, in its holster,
in his big hand. She propped her foot on his bed, her skirt pulled
up to show him that she wore nothing underneath it but white lace
garters and stockings. He grinned as he wrapped the wide band
around her thigh and tightened it. “Harder,” she whispered,
watching him, waiting.

“How hard do you want it?” he muttered as he ripped
open his fly and backed her up against the wall. He bunched her
skirt up around her waist, lifted her, and plunged into her. She
smiled and sighed as she wrapped her legs around him.

They mingled a bit before making the rounds of the
exhibit. The new painting to be unveiled hung from long cables
attached to the ceiling. A jazz band played standards, the smoky
alto reminiscent of Diana Krall.

“Well, we’re attracting a lot of attention tonight,”
Giselle murmured.

“I guess it’s now been confirmed I’m fucking
Sebastian Taight’s lover,” he returned wryly and she laughed. The
corners of her eyes wrinkled in merriment and her ice blue eyes,
now having darkened to steel gray, twinkled. He’d received a
welcome boost to his ego on the information that everyone in the
city found it amazing and scandalous that he’d seduced a beautiful
woman away from Sebastian Taight—two equally rich men and she’d
chosen the ugly one. Oh, yes, that was shocking.

“Kevin!” Giselle called and waved at the Jackson
County prosecutor and his wife. Oblivious to the fact that the
people around them vied for an introduction to Giselle, she pulled
Bryce through the crowd as the other couple battled to meet them in
the middle.

“Well, hello, Miss Cox,” he murmured once they’d
shaken hands. Introductions of Bryce and Jill Oakley were made,
though Kevin and Bryce did know each other in passing. “Nice to see
you again when you haven’t been cleaning up after me or running
through the courthouse. Knox tells me you’re the one to blame for
my sudden career change.”

“No good deed goes unpunished and I’m always willing
to take out your trash—but don’t act like you hadn’t already
thought about it. Your boredom can be heard loud and clear all the
way from Twelfth Street to Rockhill Road and back. Have you spoken
with Justice McKinley yet?”

“Oh, yes. She’s, uh, interesting.”

“Mmmm, but more importantly, she’s getting very
influential.”

Bryce remained silent while they chatted for another
few minutes, listening to her, what she had to say, how she said
it.

She just gave your IQ a blow job and she’s not even
here.

That feeling of deep contentment pulsed through his
chest.

One gun in each hand. No hesitation. No remorse.

The sex was as incredible as he’d ever hoped,
wanted, craved for so many years with a smart, dangerous woman he
could throw at a bed and fuck.

The prosecutor and his wife broke away a little
sooner than Bryce would have liked. He found the whole process
fascinating—and that Giselle had gotten the political ball rolling
made him unaccountably proud of her. Then he started. Did he have
any
right
to be proud of her?

I’m in love with you.

She’d demanded he not leave her once they’d crossed
over into sin, but now he wanted more than that from her. And given
their shared cultural identity, he didn’t have to wonder if she’d
want the same.

Bryce and Giselle were approached in an
ever-increasing stream of people eager to learn the identity of the
woman who’d made the society grapevines as Cinderella, Sebastian
Taight’s lover—until she’d very conspicuously abandoned him and
invited Bryce Kenard deep into the bowels of the gallery with a
look. Her sprint’n’slide back through the gallery in a serious
state of deshabille, Kenard hot on her heels, had only set the
gossip mill running overtime.

Everyone wanted to know her name and provenance, but
no one had dared ask Bryce once he’d put his fist in Taight’s face
and Taight was unapproachable under any circumstances. Likely no
one had known to ask Fen and Fen Hilliard wasn’t one to volunteer
information.

“Giselle Cox,” Bryce said over and over again to
people he knew, and tonight, it seemed he knew everybody. “Taight
and Hilliard’s cousin. Trudy’s niece.”

While that came out of left field for everyone, it
was no less jaw-dropping. Bryce had no idea how his credibility
would stand up under the scrutiny of his association with Knox
either as best friend or relative, but he refused to dodge it.
After all these years, Knox deserved whatever support Bryce could
offer him.

The only other jaw-dropping part about it—to which
Giselle was oblivious and of which Bryce was most acutely aware—was
the unvoiced question of
why
Giselle had chosen the ugly
one. On the other hand . . .

“ . . . seen the way she looks at Kenard? She’s head
over heels.”

“I noticed that. Nothing mercenary about her. Very
sweet, especially after what he’s been through.”

That tidbit he’d heard on his way to the restroom.
It made him smile, made warmth spread through him. He still didn’t
know exactly what she saw in him either, but here, tonight, with
her, he felt normal again, like the man he’d been before the
fire.

Fen and Trudy made their appearance to a cacophony
of society clamoring for information. Bryce exchanged amused
glances with Giselle when the Hilliards were good-naturedly called
to account for hiding their relationship to Cinderella. When Trudy
shot her a hateful look across the room, Giselle chuckled and blew
her a kiss.

“I hate that bitch,” Giselle murmured. “It doesn’t
matter what Fen does to me, I’ll give him a mulligan almost every
time. Trudy . . . no.”

Puzzled, Bryce said, “Why?”

Giselle’s mouth tightened. “Trudy,” she said
finally, “is not a nice person. I was an adult before I realized
how much Fen protected me and Knox from her, how much Fen went
behind her back to support Knox.”

“Then why is he with her?”

“I think he’s possessed.”

Bryce laughed at her wry tone. “Apparently that
works both ways, since he slapped you for calling her a whore.”

“Yeah, and look how that turned out.”

Fen sported the bandage over his nose with the pride
of a warrior freshly off the battlefield. “Giselle, Kenard,” he
said expansively as he shook Bryce’s hand and hugged Giselle. Trudy
made it a point to ignore Giselle and thus Bryce; she would have
wandered off, but Fen kept her at his side. “Well, Giselle, I must
give you credit for being a fast worker. You only came to see me
yesterday
.” Trudy started and shot a look at her husband,
but Bryce just chuckled. “I told you he wouldn’t hold your little,
ah, masquerade-that-wasn’t against you.”

“So you did and no, he didn’t. But for all you know,
this could be our first date.”

“Not with that bright neon glow of the newly fucked
you’ve got.”

Giselle laughed. “I daresay you’d have been
disappointed in me had I come alone.”

“True, true. Are you armed?” Giselle tilted her head
and pursed her lips. “Of
course
you are! Does that mean
you’re still sulking?”

Bryce bit back a laugh.

“Do I act like I’m sulking?”

“Now that you mention it, no. Glad to see you’ve
returned to your usual humor, my girl.” He gestured to Bryce with
his champagne glass. “So who’s plowing whose field now?”