Romance: The Art Of Love: A Billionaire Romance (2 page)

         
The
collection was superb. Dieter had told Annette that Mr. Stanhope was a serious
collector, but she hadn’t expected to find so many top-flight works in one
place. There were paintings from all of the period’s major artists, and it was
clear they’d been purchased by someone with an artist’s eye. Each was truly
representative of the painter’s best work – the
Dalis
in particular were exceptional.

         
“There’s
more through this way,” a tall blond man said to her, beckoning through a
doorway at the far end of the gallery. “You’ll want to see this too.”

         
“I
want to see all of it,” Annette said with a smile. “This is a truly astonishing
collection.”

         
“It’s
not bad,” the blond said. “But I’d love to do more with it.”

         
“You
would?” Annette said. She gave the blond a second glance. Was this
exceptionally good looking man with the piercing blue eyes and charming smile
her new employer?

         
“I’m
Clifford Stanhope,” he said, confirming her suspicions and extending his hand.
“Glad to have you aboard. I’ve been reading your dissertation, and I feel like
you’ll be a real addition to our team.”

         
“You
have?” Annette was flabbergasted. “You may be the only person in the world who
has.” She shook her head. “I don’t think my Mother did, and I know my advisor
didn’t.”

         
“I
think it’s fascinating,” Clifford replied. “I think you’re right that
Miró’s
eagerness to repudiate the norms of bourgeois
society was driven by animosity toward his Father. His letters from the period,
when he was forced to resign from business school, put the blame on his health,
but I think you can read easily between the lines and see what was really going
on.”

         
Annette’s
jaw dropped. “You’ve read these letters?”

         
“Not
all of them, of course,” Clifford said. “But my friend has them in his
collection, and while my Catalan leaves something to be desired, I was able to
understand that much.”

         
“I
would love to look at them,” Annette confessed. “There’s been so little serious
work done on
Miró
, in part because these primary
source materials have been so hard to find. You’re sure they’re authentic?”

         
“Well.”
Clifford laughed uneasily. “I’m hardly the one you’ll want to turn to for that,
am I?” He blushed a little and looked at his feet. “After all, that’s why
you’re here.”

         
Annette
waved her hand, taking in the long hallway filled with artwork. “Don’t be so
hard on yourself. At some point, you have to look at collecting as a numbers
game. When you’re acquiring works in this sort of quantity, it’s inevitable
that you’ll run into a bad one eventually.” She shook her head. “It happens to
every gallery, every art house, every museum. Without fail.”

         
“And
what do they do when that happens?”

         
“If
the gallery’s small enough, a Mom and Pop outfit like my parents ran, they go
out of business.” Annette shrugged. “Art houses structure their buys to
minimize the risk, but I can’t tell you it doesn’t hurt them when it happens.”

         
“Especially
if the buy becomes public knowledge,” Clifford said. “Like Sotheby’s and the
fake Rothko. They look bad.”

         
“That
was ugly,” Annette agreed. “But Sotheby’s is a strong house. Their reputation
will recover.”

         
“I’m
not sure mine will,” Clifford said. “It’s going to take Madison a good long
time to forgive me for buying that bogus Magritte.”

         
“We
can’t change what’s happened,” Annette said, slowly. Not knowing the nature of
Clifford’s relationship with Madison made her cautious; she didn’t want to
start her new assignment by ruffling any feathers. “All we can do is
concentrate on preventing the same thing from happening again.”

         
Clifford
nodded. “I’d like to understand how you’re going to make that happen.”

         
“I’m
not,” Annette said.

         
Clifford
raised his eyebrows, clearly surprised. “No?”

         
“We’re
going to have to work together,” Annette said. “I’ll provide you with the very
best information I can, and then it’s on you to make your own decisions.” She
nodded down the hallway. “You built this entire collection on your own?”

         
Clifford
nodded. “There are a handful of pieces that were gifts, of course, but yes. The
majority of what you see here are pieces I purchased.”

         
“Sometimes
people inherit collections,” Annette said.

         
Clifford
laughed. “My mother left me very well off,” he said, “but she had the aesthetic
sensibilities of…” Words failed him suddenly, and he smiled. “She loved Monet.”

         
Annette
chose to gloss over that moment. “So you’ve got a great eye, and a vision for
your collection. You’ve been at this for a while now, and you’ve had one
misstep. I wouldn’t let it shake your confidence too badly.”

         
“Smart
and beautiful,” Clifford said. “What a wonderful combination.”

         
Annette
blushed. She knew it was extremely unprofessional, but she was very attracted
to Clifford Stanhope. He was good looking, charming, and his passion for
artwork was equal to her own: a very rare combination in her experience.
 
“Why thank you,” she replied. “On both
counts.”

         
Clifford
smiled. “And you haven’t seen the ceramics room yet, have you?”

         
She
shook her head. “Not yet.”

         
“Let
me show you.” Clifford reached out and took Annette’s hand. It was such a
natural gesture that she thought nothing of it until their skin met; then an
electric spark passed between them. Clifford looked back over his shoulder,
caught Annette’s gaze and smiled. “Most of the
Miró’s
are from the Seventies, but I have one piece that is from the late Fifties.”

         
“Oh,
I can’t wait to see that!” Annette bounced with excitement. “Hurry up!”

         
Clifford
smiled. “We definitely picked the right woman for the job.”

         
The
ceramics collection was smaller than the selection of paintings Clifford had
acquired, but every piece in it was exceptional. Annette couldn’t help
exclaiming over the colorful squat vases
Miró
had
created decades earlier.

         
“They’ve
got such a rich shape,” she said. “And the warmth. You can see the Spaniard in
his work.”

         
Clifford
nodded. “Sometimes it’s good when you can connect with an artist that way and
really feel what they’re about. Sometimes, it’s not so good. I have some
Picasso pieces from that era – not on display,” he added, as Annette looked
around for them. “I don’t like how they feel. I don’t want to see them every
day.”

         
Annette
agreed. “Art does that. You live with it every day; you absorb some of its
essence. It changes who you are, just by being there in your space.”

         
“How
does that work out when you’re in a place where the art’s always changing?”
Clifford said. “My understanding is that
Feigenbaum
doesn’t hold onto anything any longer than he has to.”

         
Annette
shrugged. “You see so many pieces, but you know they’re just passing through.
It’s not personal, not in the same way.” She looked at him and smiled. “I don’t
know about you, but I need a little bit of time before I’m willing to give my
heart away.”

         
Clifford
shook his head. “Not me. I can fall in love like that.” He snapped his fingers.
“Sometimes it just takes one look and I know I’m done for.”

         
“That
must make your social life…complicated,” Annette said, laughing gently.
Clifford didn’t wear a wedding ring, but many men didn’t, she knew.

         
“What
social life?” Clifford said. “I work. I buy paintings. There’s not much else on
my calendar.”

         
Annette
smiled. “That looks like it’s plenty,” she said.

         
“Of
course,” Clifford said, “I’m not above adding items to my agenda.” He looked at
Annette, eyes bright with interest.

         
“Such
as?” she replied.

         
“We
could go grab dinner and some drinks, if you’d like,” Clifford replied. “Maybe
do a little dancing…”

         
Annette
smiled, but then she remembered everything Dieter said to her, about the need
to be professional and how
Feigenbaum’s
reputation
was riding on her performance. “I’m not sure that’s entirely appropriate.”

         
“It
absolutely wouldn’t be,” Clifford said, “Not if we’re doing it right.”

         
It
was the most tempting offer Annette had ever heard. Clifford was so very good
looking, and he exuded a sort of sexy confidence she found irresistible.
Annette wanted to accept with every fiber of her being, but she also knew how
much of her future career depending on maintaining a sterling reputation.

         
“That
sounds delightful,” she said, “but I’m going to have to decline. My boss would
have my head if he heard I was…fraternizing…with our client less than an hour
after meeting him.”

         
“A
certain amount of fraternizing is in your job description,” Clifford said,
“surely.”

         
“There’s
fraternizing and then there’s fraternizing,” Annette said. “You know that as
well as I do.”

         
Clifford
smiled. “Well, then dinner, anyway.” He cocked his head. “I’ll tell you
everything I can remember about
Miró’s
letters. It
will all be exquisitely appropriate. I promise.”

         
“Now
there’s an offer a girl can’t refuse.”

         
Annette
understood that Clifford Stanhope was rich, but she hadn’t fully appreciated
how rich he was until they went out to dinner. The trendy Georgian restaurant
Clifford brought her to had been gushingly reviewed in the New York Times just
the week before; reservations were said to be absolutely impossible to get.

         
That
appeared to be no problem for Clifford. The owner greeted them at the door,
kissing both Clifford and Annette on each cheek. “What a wonderful surprise, to
see you again so soon!” he said. “I must thank you a million times. Your
friends have been so very good to us.”

         
“Well
deserved, David,” Clifford said. “The things you do with food are not to be
believed. I was telling Annette about your magical
penovani
– is there any chance she might be able to try some?”

         
“Of
course!” David said. He clapped his hands, and out of nowhere, waiters appeared,
setting up a new table in the already full dining room. One draped the table in
rich white linen; another provided place settings, a small bunch of flowers,
and a stubby white candle already burning.
 
“Sit down. I will bring you the wine myself.”

         
Annette
looked around, wide-eyed. New York’s biggest movers and shakers were all around
her; seated at a corner table were the Mayor and two of his aides. Near the
front window, the stars of one of the hottest Broadway shows were carefully,
slowly devouring their dinners.

         
“This
is amazing,” she said. “And I am so underdressed.”

         
“You
look fine,” Clifford said. “I’d say more overdressed than under, actually…”

         
“This
is the perfectly appropriate part?” Annette asked. “I’m checking just for
reference purposes, you understand.”

         
Clifford
blushed, just a little. “I will do better.”

         
Annette
cocked her head and smiled. “Sure you will.”

         
David
arrived, bearing a platter heaped high with golden brown rectangles. Behind
him, a waiter carried a bottle of wine, a pair of heavy glasses cradled between
his wide splayed fingers.

         
“Are
you two just having a snack,” he asked Clifford, “Or will I be able to make you
a proper meal?”

         
The
platter held more food than Annette ate in a week. She couldn’t help blurting
out, “This is a snack?”

         
David
laughed. “Clearly you are not from Georgia,” he said kindly. “For our women,
this is a light morsel only. Something you eat while you’re waiting for your
meal to be finished cooking.”

         
Annette
swallowed. “Well, I’ll do my best,” she said.

         
“You
have some lamb back there with my name on it?” Clifford asked.

         
“Of
course,” David beamed.

         
“We’re
going to be a while,” Clifford said. “I’m sure I’ll be able to manage a bite or
two.”

         
David
scampered off, leaving Clifford alone with Annette. For a long moment, the
couple looked at each other. All around, couples were holding hands or deeply
involved in intense conversations. Meanwhile, they really didn’t know each
other at all. They both laughed nervously.

         
“So,
about those
Miró
letters,” Annette said, at the same
exact moment Clifford said, “Let me tell you about what I read.”

         
They
laughed again. Clifford poured the wine. “This is Alazani. It’s the most
popular wine you’ll find from Georgia. Robust.” Annette took a sip and nodded,
surprised by the wine’s strong flavors. “It goes nicely with these. They’re
fried outside. Cheese inside.”

         
The
crisp puff pastry contrasted beautifully with a creamy melted cheese interior.
“Wow, that is really good!” Annette exclaimed.

         
Clifford
beamed. “Told you.” He then began to explain in detail what he’d read in
Miró’s
childhood letters. His recall was amazing. Annette
listened, enthralled, as Clifford told of the young Catalan dilemma: he’d been
booted, quite unceremoniously, from business school. His father needed to be
told, of course, but what was the best way to go about it?

         
Apparently
Miró
had discussed all of the possible strategies for
breaking the bad news with his correspondent, weighing the pros and cons of
each, before summarizing that there was really no best outcome. “No matter how
this story ends, it will be a tragedy!” Clifford said, quoting from the
letters.

         
“Positive
thinking wasn’t such a big thing back then,” Annette laughed.

         
“And
they were probably all the better for that,” Clifford said. They’d managed to
demolish the platter full of pastries while they were talking; when David
brought out two servings of lamb, Annette was both surprised and grateful.
“It’s much better for people to acknowledge the truth of their situations and
proceed accordingly.”

         
“You’re
right about that,” Annette said, thinking that her boss was thinking about the
bogus Magritte he’d purchased. The fact he was willing to face facts and move
forward was good news.

         
But
that wasn’t what Clifford was thinking about. “So knowing that you and I are
destined to become lovers,” he said, a scant second before sipping his wine,
“perhaps you will stop worrying about what is appropriate.”

         
Annette
glanced at her watch. “Wow. You doing better lasted almost two and a half
hours.”

         
“Why
fight it?” Clifford asked. “You’re attracted to me, I’m attracted to you.”

         
“I
work for you,” Annette said. “And I’m sure that’s not why Madison brought me
on.”

         
“Madison
would be miffed,” Clifford admitted. “But she doesn’t have to know.”

         
Annette
chuckled. “That’s not how I operate. And I don’t think that’s how you operate
either.” She cocked her head. “At least I hope it’s not.”

         
Clifford
shook his head. “Needs must,” he said. “But I’m willing to be patient.”

         
“I
hope that’s true for quite a while,” Annette replied. She took a bite of her
lamb, amazed at how soft and flavorful the meat was. “Because we have plenty of
work to do in the meantime.”