Total pages in book: 135
Estimated words: 134706 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 674(@200wpm)___ 539(@250wpm)___ 449(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 134706 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 674(@200wpm)___ 539(@250wpm)___ 449(@300wpm)
“Why?”
He frowns, puzzled by my question. “I guess . . . hmm.” He thinks for a moment. “Her paintings speak to me. I can’t explain it.”
I smile softly as I stand beside him and stare at the canvas. “How romantic.”
His eyes come to me. “Really?”
“If I were an artist, all I would want in life is for my paintings to speak to someone.”
He smiles and turns his attention back to the painting. “I suppose.”
“So you know her?” I ask.
“No, I’ve never seen her. I go to every auction, but she never attends. She’s elderly, from what I know.”
“And you have a few of her paintings?” I ask.
“I’ve bought five at auctions, although there are thirty in circulation. It is my aim to own all of them at some stage. They never come up for sale.”
“Are they all in storage?”
“No, her paintings are in my homes. They are personal to me.”
I smile as I watch him. He’s not intense like I first thought; he’s deep.
A man in a suit comes out with a roll-out little table thingy. “We are about to begin the auction for Harriet Boucher,” he calls.
The people in the room all turn and make their way over to where we stand. The crowd gathers in a semicircle around the painting.
Tristan puts his hand on the small of my back and smiles as he watches.
A woman comes and stands opposite us in the crowd. She’s honey blonde and innocent looking. She has a ballerina look about her. Perfect posture and innately feminine.
Elliot’s and her eyes meet across the crowd, and they stare at each other. I smile as I watch them; I can feel the electricity as it bounces between them.
Elliot leans into Tristan. “Black dress, red lips. Who the fuck is she?” he whispers.
“Never seen her before,” Tristan whispers back.
Elliot turns to Christopher and whispers the same thing to him.
Christopher looks over at her and frowns. “No idea.”
I smile as I listen to them. Tristan moves behind me and puts his arm around my waist as he pulls me close. He kisses my temple. “Do you want another drink?” he whispers.
“No, thanks.” I smile. I’m too busy watching Elliot and this girl mentally fuck each other across the room.
The auctioneer begins. “The second auction for tonight is the painting Serendipity by Harriet Boucher.”
I look at the painting. It’s an abstract in greens and blues, and it almost looks like rays of light shining down from heaven. It really is magical. I can see why Elliot loves it.
“Do we have an opening bid?” the auctioneer asks.
“Two hundred thousand,” Elliot says calmly.
My eyes widen . . . what the fuck?
“Two fifty,” an older man replies.
Elliot glares at his competition. “Three fifty,” he fires back.
Holy shit . . . this is a real art auction, the kind you see on cable.
“Three seventy,” a woman calls.
Elliot rolls his eyes—another bidder. Tristan’s eyes dance with delight as he looks on.
Christopher leans in and whispers something to Elliot. He nods once, as if understanding. “Half a million,” Elliot announces.
The room falls silent.
The older man narrows his eyes. “Seven fifty.”
Elliot clenches his jaw in anger.
Tristan begins to chuckle. “It’s on,” he whispers.
“One million dollars,” Elliot fires back.
“One point one,” the man fires back.
“Fuck,” Elliot whispers.
Christopher leans in and says something to Elliot. He seems to think for a moment.
He’s telling him what to bid. It seems that Christopher has a lot of pull in what Elliot does.
“Do we have another bid?” the auctioneer asks. “One point one is our last call.”
“One point four,” Elliot snaps.
The crowd lets out an audible gasp.
Elliot’s jaw tilts to the sky in satisfaction, and Tristan smiles broadly.
I look among the Miles brothers. These men are wealthy beyond measure. They don’t seem rattled at all—$1.4 million for a fucking painting . . . what the hell?
“One million four hundred and ten thousand dollars,” the other bidder replies.
“One point five,” Elliot fires back.
The man shakes his head. “I’m out.”
The auctioneer turns to the woman. She shakes her head. “I’m out too.”
The crowd waits and looks around.
“Do we have any more offers?” the auctioneer asks.
“One point five once . . . twice . . . three times. Last call.” He brings down his hammer. “Sold, to the man in the navy jacket, Elliot Miles.”
Elliot laughs in delight, and Tristan and Christopher shake his hand in congratulations. He looks up and around the room. “Where did she go?” he asks.
“Who?” Tristan frowns.
“The blonde,” he replies as he scans the room. “She was right here.”
“She left,” I whisper. “As soon as you bid your last bid, she left. I saw her walk out the front doors.”
Elliot turns and storms toward the door.
“Excuse me, sir,” the auctioneer calls after him. “We need details.”
“Go find her,” he says to his brothers.
Christopher marches out the front door to look for her as Elliot talks to the auctioneer. Tristan goes looking for her too.