Yeah, right. Annie is a rock. She never cries, is never flustered and applies the rules fairly to everyone. That’s why she’s my favorite building manager-slash-owner.
On the other hand, she had to deal with Wyatt first thing in the morning, which would make anyone cry. He probably gave her a roach, like he did to me in high school. “You seem to have that effect on women,” I mutter.
He shoots me a probing look—the one that used to make me want to babble, explain and then, when I was out of things to say, just kiss him so I wouldn’t have to keep talking. The fact that I feel the same urge again makes me super pissed. I’m much too mature for that sort of reaction now.
“I’m not going to sue her,” I say. But that doesn’t mean I won’t sue you. “And you need to go. I have things to do this morning, and they don’t include chatting with old high school…memories.” I fling the last word like ice cream topped with a panicked frog. Which is fitting, since he once actually did drop one on me, and it ended up in my ice cream sundae.
Fed up and now ultra-conscious of the time, I maneuver around glass on the floor, shove Wyatt out of the apartment and slam the door in his face.
Chapter Nine
Kim
Damn Wyatt. Coming into my home in the morning like he had every right. I don’t care if Annie gave him the key. He probably did some dark magic on her. And I hate it—hate, hate, hate it—that he caught me like that in the living room.
And I’m furious that I’m still thinking about how he smelled. I resent the hell out of the fact that he didn’t have some medieval body odor like a sweaty Game of Thrones character.
Everyone should smell like the way they are deep inside, in which case Wyatt would smell like a sewer. And not just any sewer, but a rotting, rat-infested sewer.
It’s his fault I’m in an Uber, rather than my own car, so I can apply cosmetics. I don’t do makeup and drive at the same time. If texting is too distracting, making up one’s face is suicidal. But I always report to work in full, flawless makeup. Maintaining the right image is part of the job description.
I march to my desk outside Salazar’s downtown office. He isn’t in yet, which is a relief.
First order of business is reviewing the day’s mail and agenda. There’s no correspondence that requires an urgent reply. No meetings for the rest of the day. I send Salazar a quick note letting him know, then think about how to get this Wife statue and have it delivered as soon as possible.
François is reclusive. He’s also a dick with an ego so big it has its own field of gravity. And he seems to be highly disorganized, because he almost never answers his emails, calls or texts. Apparently my offer—sort of—of naked selfies isn’t inducing him to call me back. Or maybe
he hasn’t even gotten the message.
But getting that statue is basically the final task I need to complete to claim my five-year bonus. I’ve worked too long and too hard to not get it over a lousy hunk of bronze.
There’s gotta be a way—other than hiring a team of pilots to write out my message in the Parisian sky. But how? I can’t send him an express mail, signature required, because he won’t sign for it.
I inhale sharply as a light-bulb moment hits. Catherine Davis! Why didn’t I think of her before? François is incredibly fond of her because she discovered him when he was a nobody and supported him. She’s currently working as an art curator for Barron Sterling, who is Salazar’s in-law, and undoubtedly has bought even more of François’s works. I’m pretty sure François doesn’t ignore her calls, with or without naked selfies.
And Catherine will reach out on my behalf without requiring any incriminating photos. I’ll owe her a favor down the line, of course, but that’s how this stuff works.
Happy with my solution, I pick up my phone.
“Hello?” she says, her voice soft and sweet.
“Hey, Catherine. Am I interrupting anything?”
“Not at all. What can I do for you?” she says, knowing this is no social call. It’s one of the things I like about her.
“Listen, I’m trying to buy François’s Wife sculpture, but I can’t seem to get a hold of him at all. Do you think you could help arrange it? I’ll owe you one.”
“I’d love to, Kim, but it’s already sold.”
“What?” I straighten in my seat. “To whom?” Please, God, let it be someone I can cajole into selling. But fat chance. The people who buy from François are usually collectors.
“Don’t you know? Dane.”
“Dane Pryce?”
“Yup. He bought it last week. Which is sort of interesting, because I didn’t think it was his thing.”
I have a sinking feeling. “Did he get it for Sophia?” If so, there won’t be any way to pry it out of him…unless I can prove that the bronze is radioactive and is going to cause cancer. The way he coddles and hovers over his wife… You’d think she was some kind of ancient Chinese vase.