Eight
Beah sat in Paris Cummings’s overly decorated sitting room, staring at her hands instead of the amazing art on the walls. She had a tiny chip in the pale pink polish on her right hand, and the diamond ring she wore on her right hand—her mom’s engagement ring from her dad—needed a cleaning.
She wished a dirty ring and a tiny chip in her nail polish could keep her occupied but a million thoughts buzzed around her brain, chief of which was how much she missed Finn.
She’d left Boston in a hurry early yesterday morning because one of her oldest clients, a Russian oligarch, told her he would be in London the following day and he could only see her at three the next afternoon. He was, he’d also told her, in a buying mood.
Because it was her job, Beah caught the next plane out of Logan International and upon meeting Yuri, and his new, very young wife, was told he wanted to start a jewelry collection. Beah wasn’t fooled. Yuri didn’t care about jewels, but his new wife—wearing a ten-carat diamond ring—obviously did.
But, because he was immensely powerful and stupidly rich, Beah kept her mouth shut, put a pleasant expression on her face and took notes. Yuri, being Yuri, wasn’t interested in easily obtainable pieces, no, he wanted famous jewels, fabulous jewels, items worn by kings and queens and Hollywood icons and Indian princes. He wanted the exceptional and the outstanding and it was her job to find them for him.
Which wouldn’t be easy because those types of items rarely came up for sale. She could see many phone calls in her future to collectors, asking whether they were prepared to sell their much-treasured pieces. She already knew the answer would be no.
Or a hell no.
If you owned Catherine of Russia’s emerald and diamond necklace and matching earrings, or Elizabeth Taylor’s Krupp diamond ring, you held on to them because you’d never get the chance to own the magnificent pieces again. Yuri, she was afraid, was going to be disappointed.
Before making it back to her apartment after a long day yesterday, she’d also had a dinner meeting with Michael Summers and she’d informed him she was very interested in joining him and was excited about a new challenge and that while she wasn’t saying yes just yet, she probably would.
As soon as she said the words, she’d felt her stomach cramp, panic close her throat. Michael had clapped his hands in delight, kissed her and ordered champagne, obviously not noticing she was close to tossing her cookies.
Michael was much more enthusiastic about her coming on board than she was. What did that mean? Why wasn’t she more excited about this amazing opportunity? Why was she hesitating? Why did she suddenly feel like Michael’s offer was not what she really needed or wanted?
Why was she starting to think that only a hot, reticent man and a life spent with him in Boston would fill up the empty holes in her life and her heart?
Beah’s phone rang and she glanced at the door before lifting it to her ear. “This is Beah.”
“Hey, sweetheart.”
Beah smiled and looked at her watch. It was just past six in Boston, which meant Finn was just waking up. It made her feel warm and wonderful that she was the first person he thought of when his eyes opened.
“How is your day going?” Finn asked.
“Good, thanks. You still sound half-asleep.”
“Mmm. I was having an X-rated dream.”
“Was I in it?” Beah asked, dropping her voice and keeping an eye on the door.
“Only you. When are you coming home?” Finn demanded.
Home.The word rolled easily off his tongue and it was tempting to believe he meant it. But Beah knew that essentially nothing had changed. Finn hadn’t given her the smallest hint he wanted to take their relationship to the next level, to make any sort of commitment. They were just bed buddies who’d once been married.
Finn still needed distance and she still needed intimacy...
Beah heard the door opening, told Finn she had to go, assuring him she’d talk to him later. She stood up, buttoning her black jacket over her black silk shirt.
She shook Paris’s hand, asked about his health and sat back down on the nineteenth-century chesterfield sofa and crossed her legs, one hand on the folder next to her. She accepted Paris’s offer of coffee and smiled her thanks at his butler.
Paris sat down in the chair opposite her—a rare, nineteenth-century Howard & Sons wingback, covered in the original blue-and-white fabric, totally gorgeous—and draped one leg over the other and pinned her to her seat with intense eyes. Thoughts of Finn and his sexy dreams were pushed to one side as Paris interrogated her about the items in the upcoming sale, asking her what she thought he should buy, what price the items would reach and what items in his collection he should consider selling.
Beah’s brain kicked in and they spent the next hour running through the Mounton-Matthews collection and the artworks Paris owned, talking prices, values, returns.
Paris eventually stopped grilling her and leaned back in his chair. “My butler will be here with hot coffee soon.” He picked up the plate of pastries and a small side plate. “Have something to eat. You look pale.”
“I’m a redhead, I always look pale,” Beah said.
Paris’s smile hit his eyes and, for a moment, he looked ten years younger. “Have a piece of lemon cake. It’s fabulous.”