Romance: The Art Of Love: A Billionaire Romance Read online

  “It would,” Madison replied, “but Clifford is passionate about discovering lost works. He’s convinced that every house in Europe has art hidden in the walls. There’s a masterpiece in every attic, just waiting for him to find it.”

  Annette shrugged. “He’s not necessarily wrong,” she said carefully, “although at this point, I think that most of what’s out there to be found has been found.”

  Madison nodded. “But then Munich happened. And that really fired Clifford up.” German authorities had discovered more than 1,300 separate artworks that the Nazis had seized during the war in a prominent collector’s apartment. “He thinks that’s was only the tip of the iceberg.”

  “Well, we shall see.” Annette patted her bag, hugging the resource texts she’d brought along with her. “We shall see about that.”

  3

  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 kn
ow 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.”

  4

  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.”

  5

  Annette was still in bed when her phone rang. She rolled over, blurry eyed, and grabbed it from her nightstand.

  “’ello?”

  “Good morning, Annette. This is Madison. I’m calling to let you know to pack your o
vernight bag.” She sighed, only slightly theatrically. “Clifford’s heard about a painting he absolutely has to see.”

  “All right,” Annette said, sitting up and blinking. “Where are we going?”

  “Not too far,” Madison replied. “Just Montreal.” She paused for a long moment, and Annette thought for a second she’d lost the connection. “Apparently it’s quite cold up there. The weather report says it’s only thirty degrees.”

  Annette smiled. Madison didn’t, despite all appearances, know everything. “They’re on Celsius up there. Thirty degrees is actually quite warm.”

  “Well, that does make things better,” Madison said. “But you’ll want to hurry. We’ve got a gate time of 07:30.”

  Annette peered at her clock. “Oh. Wow. I’ll be there as soon as I can.” She had less than an hour to make it to the Cobble Hill office. “Hopefully the trains are on time.”

  Madison chuckled. “Don’t worry about that. Clifford will be picking you up.”

  Annette’s apartment was normally spotless, but nothing had been normal in her life since she’d started working for Clifford. Late nights and busy weekends meant she’d let her housekeeping go. There was no way she was willing to let anyone see her place.

  “I’ll meet him out front,” she said. “We’ll save time that way.”

  “Excellent,” Madison said. “That means you’ve got half an hour.”

  Annette sprang out of bed. “Shit!” she said. A glance in the mirror revealed that she was a mess – her curly brown hair was springing out in every direction, including straight up. She grabbed a thick elastic band and pulled the mass of it back into a loose ponytail.

  “Okay, clothes.” The experience at the Georgian restaurant had prepared Annette for what life with Clifford might be like. She pulled two simple dresses out of her closet; they’d do well in a gallery or restaurant. She looked at a sequin covered shift. If Clifford insisted on bringing her to a nightclub…