Page 59 of The Vanishing
The detective frowns. “Why are you laughing?”
“They’re doing it again,” Asao explains, clearing the table.
August
Twenty-Seven
The gallery opening for the new artist Cellina has contracted is in full swing on a windy summer evening. The musicians are in place, the food is beautifully presented, the art is showcased with the perfect lighting and the patrons and donors are pouring in through the doors. Cellina’s hard work is paying off and everyone seems to be pleased with the results.
Everyone except for the prick artist.
He’s complained and raised hell about a myriad of insignificant things. The latest being that the brand of water bottles she’d chosen don’t match up with his refined standards, nor are they “reflective of the quality of his art.”
They’re fucking water bottles.
And they’re expensive water bottles—glass, recycled and eco-friendly, for God’s sake. The artist has even complained to Cellina’s director. She’s just walked out of an impromptu “emergency meeting” where she was berated by the artist for not meeting his petty demands. She storms through the gallery, weaving in and out of the amazing crowd of people that she’s procured.
Her mind is white with rage when someone steps in front of her, causing her to crash into them. It’s like she’s hit a brick wall. She looks up and Giovanni is there, smiling down at her. His brow shifts into a look of concern. “What’s wrong with you?”
She shakes her head and lifts her palm. “Not now.” She hasn’t even seen him in two weeks, since he walked away from her at the Midsummer Night’s party. He’s been avoiding her altogether now, so why the hell is he even here? She moves around him and heads straight to her office in the upper corridor, away from the main hall and festivities.
Cellina enters the darkened space and doesn’t bother turning the lights on. She’s pacing and rubbing her forehead in disbelief.How can this pompous asshole be so ungrateful?
She knew this artist back when no one had heard of him. While she was still in school, she’d been the one to help him achieve his major break within the Milan art scene. But he’s changed. It’s inconceivable how disloyal and shallow people become when given a little success.
On top of tonight’s meeting, her director has told her that they will meet tomorrow as well. Apparently, they need to clarify “artist expectations” for gallery openings going forward. “My ass—donor support has increased by twenty percent since I took over the programming.”
Cellina grumbles in frustration as her office door creaks open. She pauses, watching in the darkness. Giovanni peeks his head around the corner. He steps inside, loosening his tie and smiling. “Hey…”
“I saidnotright now.”
Walking forward, her heel catches on the throw rug covering the marble floor. She reaches down and unties the straps at her ankles before throwing the shoes across the room one at a time. “Stupid high heelbullshit.”
“Lina—your guests will be looking for you. You need to calm down.”
She meets his gaze, her eyes wild as she points. “Don’t you dare come in here fucking telling me what to do. I’m done withallof this shit.”
Giovanni crosses the room, his long legs carrying him into the intimacy of her personal space within seconds. Startled from his sudden movement, Cellina backs away. She hits the wall beside her desk and looks up at him. “What thehell—”
He places his large hands against her jawline and presses their foreheads together. Immediately, she’s grounded by his soothing, gingery warmth. It slows her heart rate, making her inhale and exhale his spicy scent as her eyes close. Soon, her breathing is in rhythm with his. She unwinds, allowing the peaceful sensation to wash over her.
They stand together for a long moment before Giovanni pulls his head up. Cellina opens her eyes. He’s staring back at her through glowing irises.
“Listen,” he says. “This event is fantastic, and you’ve worked too hard to let it be ruined by some shitheadartist. I saw him come out of the room behind you, and he was acting like a little bitch and making a fuss. But you have to stay calm in these situations.”
Cellina leans back, relaxing her head against the wall. Giovanni’s hand drifts down to the small of her waist. “And you look incredible, by the way. You always do…”
His hand is heavy against her body—against the soft, silky material of her mustard-colored dress. She loves this dress. The hem flows and moves when she walks, the capped sleeves and neckline fit her bust perfectly. It makes her feel exquisite.
Lifting her chin, she meets Giovanni’s emerald eyes. “Thank you. I like this suit. You wore a tie tonight?”
He sighs. “I hate ties.”
“I know you do.” Cellina reaches up to his neck, maneuvering her fingers around the knot to loosen it. She unravels the silky material, amazed at how much calmer she feels. “Don’t do things you hate. Tonight isn’t so formal anyway.”
He stands still, unspeaking, as she pulls and slides the tie from his neck altogether, then tosses it onto her desk nearby. Giovanni’s breathing is deep and his Adam’s apple bobs in his throat. She unfastens the first two buttons of his collar and separates the shirt. “Better?”
He clenches his eyes shut, shaking his head in a tight smile. “No.”
