Wicked Steps (2 page)

Ellery

“So what do you think?”

I stared at my best friend of more years than I cared to remember and did my infamous rolling of the eyes. If I had pearls right now, I swear I’d be clutching them—or possibly strangling her with them. “Really? You can’t be serious, Coco. That is pornographic. We can’t show this at tonight’s event. I get the feeling because we chose Salacity as our name, you’ve decided we should live up to that reputation and show nothing but graphic material. I mean, what would the mayor think?”

I watched as she shrugged and returned my look of dismay with a twisted smile. “I heard he liked it kinky.” She laughed while running her white-gloved hand along the glass frame.

I snorted as I shook my head. “You did not. And even if he is
kinky,
I doubt he would be impressed by this showing. Hell, I’m fairly sure he wouldn’t even know what this is.” I paused as I swept my eyes over the painting. “Damn, I’m not even sure I know what
that
is.”

“Ummm… what’s not to like? The way the woman is positioned or where his hand is? It’s all subject to personal interpretation. I find the colors subtle yet the subject matter bold. This artist intrigues me. He opens a world of possibilities. And maybe if you’d get on with your life, you wouldn’t have to ask me to define everything sexual. Truly, how long has it been? And I’m talking prior to the old geezer’s illness, not recently, because he was… ew… Never mind.”

I glared at her. Because I knew what she was referring to. True, it had been a long time since I had any meaningful relationship or actual sex, but I’d been married and too busy for romantic liaisons.

I shrugged and waved her off. “Regardless. We have other things to worry about than my sex life. Please, display that, whatever it is, in the Risqué room with the other perv art you recently acquired,” I said as I shook the paperwork in front of her face. Sometimes I felt as though I were reprimanding a child instead of an adult who should know better. “Once again, you’ve gone over budget. Jesus, what were you thinking? This is insanity. You do understand the hole we’re digging is getting deeper, right? If you keep it up, you and I will be interned along with this gallery.”

Coco never understood the word budget. She appeared to think it an invisible line she could cross whenever she wanted. Because we had a gallery in Soho and our clientele were wealthy did not mean we ourselves had money to burn. If she kept spending thousands of dollars on acquisitions, we’d be fucked, and not in the way she hoped. She was well intentioned and, without a doubt, that woman had an eye. She always sensed an up-and-coming artist that would capture people’s attention and how much they would pay to own a particular piece. And in truth, during the last year, we were bringing in sales as well as making a name for ourselves, but our debt was mounting, over eight hundred thousand, and that didn’t count the monthly overhead for the actual business.

“I know. Honestly, I’m aware of that. But why worry? Pretty soon, money won’t be an issue for this place. You’re going to get the funds anytime now, right? Damn, it’s been two months. What the fuck are they waiting for, a resurrection? Because the first one only took three days.” She snickered.

“Jesus, Coco, please have some respect. I know you and Hartman had issues, but I think you forget if it weren’t for him, none of this would possible. Our little pipe dream of opening a gallery, especially one so prominent, would have never come to fruition. So the least you could do is pretend to be a little bit grateful.”

“You know how I feel. I’ve never been a hypocrite, Elle, and I don’t plan to start now. I realize, for some reason, you have guilt about that fossil. But can’t I just bask in my giddiness for one minute because he finally went home to his final resting place in hell? Don’t expect me to pretend I liked the man. He was an asshole, which is why no one at the funeral bothered to recite poetic eulogies about how much he’ll be missed. You forget I’ve been by your side for these last five fucked-up years. I know the truth.”

You haven’t got a clue, and if you actually knew the truth, it would kill you. Because it almost killed me.
I waved my hand in front of her face. “Okay, just stop. Let’s not fight. We have a big evening ahead of us. Hopefully, this event will rake in enough to cover at least fifty percent more than what it’s costing us.”

“You didn’t answer my question, Elle. What’s going on with the old man’s estate? I mean, fucking hell, you should be Ms. Moneybags by now, but it almost appears since he croaked, you’ve lived on a shoestring allowance. I don’t get any of this. You were his wife. You should get everything.”

I felt both physically and mentally exhausted, but I managed a laugh. “I hardly think I’ve been living as a pauper. You do realize I live in a mansion in Scarsdale, and have you seen my wardrobe? I doubt I’ll be destitute anytime soon. But to calm your anxiety, I’ve been told Monday I’ll be signing all the paperwork. Beyond that, I have no idea. I suppose all this takes time. It’s complicated, between the money and all Hartman’s businesses. Preston is taking care of everything.

“I’m not penniless. I have more than enough to live on. It’s you who feels like you’re able spend millions that aren’t yet available, and currently, most of my assets are in limbo.”

I watched as Coco’s white-gloved hands grabbed another frame and began moving toward the storage room. “I don’t understand why you’re not happy, Elle. After next week, all our financial problems will be over. Things will go back to the way they were before you met him, except now we have our gallery and you’ll have security forever. Everything will be perfect. We’re having our biggest event, and I managed to procure five famous artists to display their newest pieces tonight. One of which… Let’s just say you’ll be in shock, because no one ever gets his work. It’s finally coming together.”

“Can you just put that away? I need to finish up here and get dressed,” I asked while pointing to a darkened room.

We chose to exhibit highly sexual or questionable acquisitions in a particular room called Risqué. The lighting was diffused and all the selections curtained. We also posted a disclaimer so our patrons wouldn’t be shocked or scandalized when they chose to view the art in that room.

I walked toward my office and grabbed the garment bag hanging on the back of the door.

“You’re not going home to get dressed?” I heard Coco shout.

“No, I brought my outfit. The traffic is too crazy on a Friday night. Instead of a forty-five-minute drive, it may take hours. I didn’t want to chance it. I thought this might be easier for me. You know how driving frays my nerves.”

“That’s what copious quantities of alcohol are for,” I heard her say as I closed the door to the bathroom.

I quickly dressed in a dark-navy eyelet design by Versace. The knit material covered everything but clung to every curve of my body. It was sexy but conservative. One of us had to be. God knows Coco would probably be wearing something that required a stripper pole as an accessory. I’d always been the grown-up in our friendship.

Tonight’s showing was what everything had been for. I almost wished briefly that Hartman were here to see it finally come together. But this way was better. Not that I was publically overjoyed he was dead. Even if I were, I had to keep that to myself. But it had finally ended. I felt a sense of relief now—closure. I’d been suffocated for five years. It was punishment for my actions. I could complain all I wanted, but the fact was I sold myself for money. He was gone now, and I could finally exhale. Regardless of the bastard he’d been, he had warned me in the beginning, but I signed up anyway.

I wasn’t a traditional gold-digger, but my arrangement with Hartman might have painted me as one. I’d never even told Coco all the seedy details. She’d always been suspicious, but what I’d done was for both of us. Even though we’d been friends, forever, and I trusted her. I knew she’d never want me to give up my self-worth and my soul. But when I looked at our gallery now and what my future held, I was sure it had been worth it.

I started working at Wick Global when I was twenty-eight. I was a financial advisor at the main headquarters in New York. I met Hartman one night at a company party at his home in Scarsdale. As my eyes traveled the walls of his estate, I felt overwhelmed. Rembrandt, Picasso, Monet—they were all present and tastefully displayed. I was caught between being breathless and straight hyperventilation. I’d only seen these paintings in magazines. To see them up close and in person, I was overcome with emotion.

Art had been my major, honestly in all aspects of my life. I couldn’t draw worth shit, but I loved the way an artist’s portrayal made me feel. It conveyed to me sometimes sadness and despair but mostly happiness and beauty. I became obsessed with every era and daydreamed of a time I could visit the Louvre in Paris. Having my own gallery was my life’s ambition.

I shared my love of great art with my best friend Coco. Unlike me, she could draw and had a knack for buying pieces that were unique and fresh. She had an acute awareness of artistic possibility before it was recognized by the ones who mattered most: the critics.

But being surrounded by beauty and acquiring my life’s ambition wasn’t meant to be. My best friend was closer to it than I would ever be. She found work as a buyer at one of the finest galleries in New York. On the other hand, my gift was numbers. Among all the art classes I’d taken in college, I also studied business. When it became painfully obvious I would never have my own gallery and it was nothing but a delusion, I secured a position at Wick Global. The opportunity was incredible and so was the money. Maybe if I saved every penny for the next thirty-plus years, I could open my own gallery by the time I retired.

Somehow, I found myself strolling into what looked to be a large, lavish library. Shelves crammed with books towered from ceiling to floor. And like the rest of the decor in the house, these walls too were adorned with famous works of art. I ghosted my hands across a few of the hardbacks as I stared intensely at the paintings.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a figure sitting in a high-backed leather chair. I jumped.

“Did I startle you?” His deep voice vibrated in the cavernous room.

My hand strangled the straps on my purse as I suddenly realized who this was. I’d walked past his photograph every day in the lobby at work for the last seven months.

“I am so sorry, Mr. Wick. I didn’t mean to intrude. I was mesmerized by your stunning art collection. I think I might have gotten lost.”

He turned toward me and took a sip of dark liqueur. I knew he was at least twenty years my senior, but he was very attractive, with salt-and-pepper hair, a strong jaw, and green eyes that glittered like shards of rich emeralds. I’d always adored mature men. His gaze held me fixed to the floor. His hand gestured me to sit down. I slowly perched on the edge of a chair that probably cost more than I made in a year.

“Would you care for a brandy?” he asked as he stood and moved toward the bar.

“Um… yes… please.” I mentally chastised myself for stammering through three tiny words. But truly, this man unnerved me.

“You work for me, miss?” he asked.

“Yes, sir, Mr. Wick, for the past seven months. I’m Ellery St. Claire,” I said, holding his stare for a moment. “I’m actually one of your financial advisors.”

“Really. So how is my company doing, Miss St. Claire?” he asked, chuckling as he handed me my drink.

I watched as he took another sip from his own sniffer. His mouth surely belonged on the wall, because it too was without a doubt a work of art.
Really, Elle? Worst pick-up line ever, even if you’re only thinking it in your head.

For the next few hours, we were engaged in conversations that stemmed from business to art. This man had made me feel comfortable in less than five minutes. The tyrant persona I’d heard rumors about never surfaced—at least that first night. I learned he’d never married or had children. He loved travel and abhorred parities. Even with all his wealth and servants, he appeared lonely to me.

I’d heard women whispering about him at work. I knew they said he was a shark in the boardroom as well as the bedroom. He always got his way. He’d made some powerful enemies behind closed doors. Both in business and with women. His sexual affairs were notorious. All of this was hearsay and speculation. The women I worked with loved lascivious gossip. The man I’d just spent hours talking to did not come across as the kind of person they branded him to be.