Page 22 of Passion and Revenge

I had felt him at my back, far too close. My skin had buzzed with electricity, and my breaths had become shallow. I wanted to step away and, at the same time, get closer to him.

“Did you buy it?” The question that had nagged me finally slipped from my mouth.

I had felt him freeze behind me. “They were sold out by the time I asked for them.”

Something inside me withered, and all the zeros in my bank account suddenly made me unhappy. Why had I badly wanted him to be the anonymous buyer?

I remember pasting a smile on my face and saying, “That’s alright.”

“I hope whoever bought it paid a good sum for it, though. It deserved far more than the asking price.”

Whoever bought it had probably gone broke, dumping all that money on them. And I bet the fool wouldn’t even give The Revelation a second glance. It was probably rotting in some drafty storage unit.

“Wine?” Vincent had asked.

I nodded, and he had extracted a bottle from a shelf, along with two glasses. I watched his strong, sure hands uncork the bottle and deftly fill our glasses. The only thing on my mind was how I wanted those hands to handle me as effectively as he did the bottle.

I pressed my cool glass to my cheeks to stop them from heating.

“Do you know the artist?” I had asked.

“Timothy Velour.”

I had made a face at his reply, and before I could rearrange my face into a mask of passivity, his eyes had narrowed at me. “Problem?”

The thing was, most people in the art world were pompous jerks, especially to colleagues. Velour’s whole personality was that his mother was French, and as such, he was so exotic and refined. He was lucky he was so talented, or I was sure he would be trying to sell paper sketches on subways by now.

“No problem at all. He’s a brilliant artist.”

One corner of Vincent’s mouth pulled up the slightest bit. “You don’t seem to be a big fan of Mr. Velour.”

I scoffed. “Even Velour isn’t a big fan of himself. But his talent more than makes up for his personality.”

“So? What do you think?”

With a deep breath, I stepped closer to the easel, trying to shake off Vincent’s imposing presence behind me and get into business mode.

“About six years old,” I had evaluated. “Notice how the colors have sunk in, and the edges of the canvas have gone only the slightest bit brown. They’re all from the same period but not part of a collection. Velour only became recognized about four years ago, so this must be some of his earlier work. I’d say these were sold at about five hundred dollars apiece.”

“Close.” His voice had the slightest hint of pride. “Four hundred and twenty.”

I shot him an unimpressed look over my shoulder and then moved on to the other ones, taking my time to examine them.

“My final verdict is that you can sell the first two for something close to seven hundred and fifty thousand or about two million at auction. The third will probably go for three hundred thousand and won’t attract buyers at an auction.”

He had raised a brow, impressed. “And the fourth?”

“I suggest you keep it for at least five more years before you consider selling.”

“Why?”

I shrugged. “It needs a little more time to age, and this style of painting is going to become a rarity soon. If you take my advice, you can easily get ten million for it.”

“Is that what you would do if it were you? Sell the three and let the fourth age away?”

I remember taking a sip of my drink and saying, “No. I would invite Velour over and burn them in his face just to be spiteful. But if I were you, on the other hand, I would take my advice. Unless, of course, you’re not a patient man.”

“I’m a very patient man, Sienna.” His words curled the bottom of my stomach. “I find that I enjoy things better when I’ve planned and waited for them. Bided my time, so to speak.”

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