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  Instead of ranting and raving, I merely replied, “Okay, I’ll see what I can do about it. I’m sure we can fix it.”

  “You’d better,” a voice returned. “I’ve heard nothing but endless enthusiasm for your skills, Ms. Bellahooks.”

  I turned around to follow the origin of the voice, and my eyes came to rest upon one of the most frankly unusual looking women I’d ever seen.

  She was around six feet tall and as thin as the frame of a painting. Her skin was almost translucently pale, her neck extended like that of a swan. Her hair was a shock of dyed platinum, cut in nonsensical chops that stuck out at random, her lips dipped in deep purple paint. She wore all black, perhaps a failed attempt to make herself a slightly less visible personage. But I quickly countered that thought in my mind as I spotted her massive jewelry — intertwined ropes of copper that hung from her ears and looped around her neck. She was a blanched peacock of the oddest variety.

  She was also one of the most famous people in the art world.

  “Hello, Mx. Tok,” I replied.

  She remained in place, posed beneath a Legros, arms crossed over her thin rib cage. After a moment, I saw that she wouldn’t approach me, so I crossed the distance between us and stuck out my hand.

  “Pleasure to meet you.”

  She disdained my hand — I’d heard rumors she was a germaphobe — but returned, “Yes, I’m often told it is indeed a pleasure to meet me.”

  I suppose you can’t begrudge famous folks their eccentricities — however many they may have. Mx. Tok was the director of Comino, and renowned for her keen eye, especially her ability to pick out promising young artists and turn them into veritable stars. She used “Mx.,” the gender neutral form of formal address, not because she was non-binary, but because she said ‘Ms.’ and ‘Mrs.’ weren’t powerful enough for her. She was, in a word, both daunting and very, very badass.

  If that meant she had a little bit of an attitude, so be it. I would impress this woman however the hell I could.

  “Alexandra has told me a great deal about you,” Mx. Tok elaborated. “Says you’re going to be one of my new favorites, that you’ll repair the Gentileschi without difficulty.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  She raised a bleached eyebrow. “Well, we’ll have to hope your best is rather wonderful. The paintings are coming in just now, would you like to help me supervise the unloading?”

  It was phrased like a question, but most certainly was not one.

  “Of course.”

  Without so much as a ‘thank you,’ Mx. Tok turned around. “Follow me.”

  It looked like my new job had already begun.

  Alexandra shot me a look of resignation, and we fell in step with Mx. Tok. The woman was infamous for her attitude, but I suppose deep down I’d thought some of that to just be art world fluff and filter. The people you hear whispered about the most are often the sanest, while those who fly under the radar have quirks that would set you back on your heels.

  Mx. Tok led us to the unloading dock of the gallery, a spacious concrete space that held dollies, bubble wrap and the like. There were a few workers floating around in coveralls and beanies, probably art school grads taking a year off before doing their masters.

  “You can start the unload.”

  The workers nodded and began complexly signaling a truck, a series of orchestrations that was as fluid as it was industrial. This would make an excellent performance piece, I thought to myself.

  In a few minutes, the workers pulled out the first painting. My heart pounded as three men swarmed around the piece, balancing it with finesse to ensure that it never so much as jostled. What lay beneath that swaddling?

  Mx. Tok was the conductor of the affair, leading it with a general’s rigor. Much as I might disdain her airs, I had to admit she was great at her job. These paintings were in safe hands.

  The workers laid the paintings, one after another, on a series of surfaces. I knew from experience that the pieces wouldn’t get unwrapped until a whole restoration team was on standby to document the condition. Alexandra and I were here, but we’d need at least several other folks on board before we could begin to peek beneath the bubble wrap.

  “The collector has just informed me that he’s dropping in to say hello,” Mx. Tok called out from across the loading dock.

  “Okay,” Alexandra replied before turning to me.

  “Who do you think it is?” I asked in a quiet voice.

  Alexandra shrugged. “Either he’s some dynastic douchebag or a new money tech guy. Mx. Tok said he’s nice enough, but never gave me his name, just said it was a collector. She intimated that he was very private. I’m surprised he’s showing up here.”

  “Well, let’s take whatever she said with a grain of salt.”

  Alexandra’s eyes sparkled with concealed laughter.

  Across the space, I heard Mx. Tok say, “Welcome, sir, what a pleasure to see you.”

  I looked away from Alexandra and to the director, expecting to see some middle-aged dude in a flashy suit, or an old baron wearing pinstripes.

  Instead, I saw Xavier.

  Oh. Fuck.

  What the hell was he doing here?!

  I’d never expected to see or hear from him again, and yet somehow, we were in the same room, surrounded by masterpieces and workers.

  Our eyes locked, and his mouth dropped open. He obviously hadn’t expected to encounter me, either. Xavier hadn’t changed a bit. He was still seriously, wildly hot with his tall, willowy frame, deep set eyes, smooth skin and shag of almost-black hair.

  And he was saying my name.

  CHAPTER 3

  Xavier

  “CHLOE?”

  The word left my mouth like a prayer.

  There was no way she was in front of me, more beautiful than ever. I was hallucinating, right? Had the aspirin I’d popped on my private flight back from Los Angeles actually been a psychotropic drug?

  No, no. It was definitely Chloe. Nobody else in the world held themselves with such a potent mixture of ease and sexuality. Her blonde hair tumbled far down her back, nearly grazing her waist. I remembered wrapping my hands in those locks and pulling hard… She’d gotten tan since last I’d seen her, which served only to accentuate her glorious figure. High, tight breasts, an impossibly small waist and legs for days. She belonged on a runway. Instead, she was here with me.

  “Xavier,” she whispered, her pink lips wrapping around my name.

  The rest of the room had stopped to look at our exchange with curiosity and amusement. Fuck. I had to pull myself together before people saw me weak in the knees. Our tone was more appropriate for a bedroom than a business meeting.

  I swallowed hard, then put on the most casual air I could muster and strode across the room to greet her, brushing past the infamous Mx. Tok. Something I reckon didn’t happen to her very often.

  Chloe met me halfway, and we stared at one another for a moment before I forced a smile onto my face.

  “Give me a hug,” I said, trying to keep it as friendly as possible.

  Her chest heaved once, but she obliged, stepping forward so I could fold her into my arms. I breathed in the familiar smell of her hair, unchanged since I’d last seen her. She was still scented like the ocean — salty and faraway. I pressed her just a little too close to me, but only for a moment, before pulling away.

  “It’s nice to see you, Chloe.”

  She let out a blunt laugh, I’m not sure at what. “Yeah, it’s… been a while.”

  Why were we talking like this, like strangers? I’ve seen you orgasm more times than I can count! I wanted to cry. But I knew that I needed to participate in the charade. At least play-acting in this elaborate game would keep my mind busy, and thus prevent my quivering dick from rising to its full station. Being in Chloe’s presence had that effect on me.

  “What have you been up to?” I asked, as though I didn’t know.

  She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “I’ve
just come back from Italy, doing a master’s program in art restoration. You?”

  “Oh, you know. This and that. Seeing the world. Making trouble.”

  Biting her lip, she was about to reply when Mx. Tok interrupted our unexpected rendezvous.

  “Do you two know each other, Mr. Holt?”

  I refrained from rolling my eyes. “Yes, we… went to college together.”

  It was a dramatic understatement, but how was I supposed to explain our history?

  “Well,” she continued, “then I’m glad Ms. Bellahooks is here to supervise the unloading. I’m sure you trust her capable hands.”

  Oh, I knew just how capable those hands were. I remembered the ghosts of them, running over my body with a ferocity and fire that I hadn’t been able to find in another woman since. The way she’d pulled me between her legs, the gasps of pleasure from her throat—

  Shit. I needed to concentrate before my mind got too carried away.

  “Let’s get these pieces down to our restoration room,” Mx. Tok was saying, though I wasn’t particularly paying attention.

  There was a renewed frenzy of activity around Chloe and me as the workers swung back into position, Mx. Tok leading the encore. We were the still eye of a hurricane, never looking away from one another, both frozen with the profundity of our reconnection.

  I waited several long seconds for Mx. Tok to beckon Chloe away. Clearly, Chloe was here as an employee of some sort. But for whatever reason — probably because Tok wanted to keep me and my deep pockets happy — she didn’t interrupt us. Good.

  “Shall we go in the galleries?” I asked Chloe. “It’ll keep us out of everyone’s way.”

  She knew that I was just trying to buy us a moment alone. “I guess,” she replied uncertainly.

  “Mx. Tok, I’ve asked Chloe to show me some of your new work in the galleries.”

  That taken care of, I led Chloe out the door of the loading area and into the galleries proper.

  I’d spent a fair amount of time here over the years, first with my father as a little boy and then at various fundraising events, celebrity openings and the like. Our whole family was Comino Gallery patrons, and I knew the area like the back of my hand.

  Once we were safely out of earshot, sequestered in the corner between a Magritte and a Malfatti, I turned my attention back to Chloe. Though, technically speaking, I don’t think it ever left her.

  “Okay, so what’s the deal?” I asked.

  She pursed her lips. “What do you mean?”

  “Why are you here?”

  “I’m not, like, following you, if that’s what you’re implying.”

  I snorted at her defensiveness. She had always been so insistent about her independence.

  “I know that, Chloe. You’d never follow a man. Even if he asked you to.”

  Her eyes darkened at my last sentence, but she replied evenly, “I’m taking over for my friend Alexandra while she goes on maternity leave.”

  “So you’ll be supervising the Gentileschi reveal?”

  “I guess so, yeah. I literally started here this afternoon.”

  I hoped she couldn’t see the excitement in my voice, or the way I moved just a half step closer to her. Though, of course, she could — Chloe was sensitive to people’s movements and seemed to have a weird intuition for how body language revealed inner turmoil. It was like every twist of a knuckle had layered implications to her. Her gift had made the sex amazing, all those years ago.

  She continued, with an edge of nervousness, “Italy was wonderful. I felt like I found my calling. You know how hard it was for me to commit to anything, but I think art restoration is really it.”

  “Yes, I do remember something about your inability to commit.”

  Despite my best efforts, the frustration seeped into my voice. Chloe looked away, her angular profile catching the glow filtering in from the skylight. She was the Mona Lisa, beautiful and confoundingly mysterious.

  “Anyhow,” she said quickly, ignoring my barbed comment. “What’s with the donation? Feeling charitable?”

  Fuck. I’d have to tell her the truth. She’d find out sooner or later, right? It was better she hear it from me than someone else. And, I reminded myself, it doesn’t matter, because you two are in the past.

  “Well, my family is going to be sponsoring this year’s Spring Gala in March,” I said, naming a date some eight months away. “We figured it’d be an appropriate year to donate our Gentileschis. And…”

  I trailed off, unable to bring myself to the reminder of the truth.

  “And?” she pressed.

  “At the gala, I’ll be proposing.”

  The words had been unleashed, and now I watched Chloe’s face, anxious to see how she’d reply.

  She didn’t have to ask for clarification. She knew this story all too well.

  “To Rebecca,” she said, looking for confirmation. “You’ll be proposing to Rebecca.”

  “Yes.”

  Chloe nodded stiffly. If the news upset her, she scarcely let on.

  Rebecca was the daughter of my father’s business partner, Adam. The two men had worked together for some forty years now and were closer than brothers. Rebecca and I grew up together, running between our fathers’ various estates and raising all manner of hell. We were the closest of friends, and everyone in our circle assumed we would get married when we were of age. Our union was practically arranged at this point.

  “I’m very happy for you,” Chloe said.

  Her words sounded fake. Or was I just hearing what I wanted to hear?

  She went on, “I remember how tight you and Rebecca were. I’m sorry I never got a chance to meet her, back when we were…”

  When we were dating, I finished in my head. And fucking. The old resentment was there, as fresh now as it had been when we split.

  I’d told Chloe about Rebecca a number of times, but had never introduced the two — not because I thought Chloe would feel threatened (she wasn’t that type of woman) but because introducing them would’ve meant that I was really serious with Chloe. Rebecca was the closest family I had, save for my father. I hadn’t been ready to take that step, to put a wax seal on my relationship with Chloe. Lord knows I paid for that dearly.

  In fact, it was my lack of commitment that had pushed Chloe away. Although she had trouble committing to a path in life, I had trouble committing to relationships. In other words, we were two opposing kinds of directionless, and neither could work in harmony.

  After we broke things off, she’d joined a different program at NYU in a whole different school, meaning we were on campuses across the city and never once ran into each other. It was like she’d done everything in her power to avoid me, including leaving the damn country.

  “I missed you,” I said, unable to help myself.

  She was silent, fiddling with the gold bangles that were stacked on her wrist and staring off in the direction of some Picasso sketch.

  “Did you miss me, Chloe?”

  I had no right to push, but I needed to know if there was still something between us or if this flame I was feeling was only in my mind.

  She inhaled through her nose and then found my eyes once more.

  “You know I did,” she murmured.

  I wanted to grab her hands in mine, to press my face to her breast, to lap at the sweet well of her clit once more. I took another half step forward, for once letting my body and not my mind take the lead. Just as the sparks of passion were mounting between Chloe and me, her lips parting open in greeting, the gallery echoed with the sound of someone clearing their throat.

  Chloe and I sprung back like kids caught with their hands in the cookie jar. She blushed a furious pink and folded her arms behind her as though to keep them from wandering over my body.

  “Yes, Mx. Tok?” I said, addressing the director and speaking for both Chloe and myself.

  The woman had wandered into the gallery and was meaningfully eyeballing the pair of us.

 
She smirked, her lips laden with implication. “Am I interrupting?”

  “Of course not,” Chloe replied smoothly, lying with ease. “Xavier was just showing me around some of his favorite pieces.”

  Mx. Tok looked disappointed at Chloe’s cover story. I suspected the director had a taste for the obscene — most art world people do. And a sordid tale of a high-profile donor’s son and a mere gallery worker getting caught unawares… it was too good to pass up.

  She had, however, been thwarted, and took it on the chin.

  “The paintings are being unpacked now,” she told us, and as she did, the woman from the loading area joined us in the hallway, nodding in Chloe’s direction with a wink.

  Mx. Tok continued, as if casting about for something else to say, “It’ll take some time to get them sorted.”

  What was she getting at? Or was she just buying time so she could study Chloe and I together? Either way, I wouldn’t give her the satisfaction.

  “Does that mean you won’t need my assistance?” I asked.

  “No, of course not, sir.”

  “Very well.”

  I looked to Chloe, and then to the younger woman who’d winked at her. They seemed like friends. I calculated that I could probably invite the two of them out to dinner under the guise of it being a work event, with the friend serving as an informal chaperone.

  “Chloe, and…” I nodded to the woman. “How would the two of you like to join me for supper?”

  “Alexandra,” the stranger supplied.

  She and Chloe made what they probably thought to be surreptitious eye contact. The woman smiled just a little bit, then continued, “And that’s a very kind offer, but I’m actually pregnant and feeling a little woozy on my feet right now.”

  Chloe let out a frustrated noise next to me, so quiet I knew I was the only one to hear.

  “Morning sickness only happens in the morning, Alexandra, and it’s the middle of the afternoon.”

  Alexandra shrugged with impish glee, ignoring Chloe’s protestation.

  “Guess I’m just special, huh? Sounds like the two of you will have to go to dinner without me. Bummer.”