Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 76810 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 384(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76810 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 384(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
There have got to be photos.
A paper trail.
A gossip monger in the know.
If it’s out there, Broderick will find it.
“This way.” Apparently we’re shelving this conversation—for now.
I lead her from the study to the locked art galleria on the main floor. Many of the pieces are priceless, and, given that they’re family heirlooms, I haven’t wanted to part with them or take a chance on loaning them out to a museum.
Most people are unaware, but many of the “pieces” in museums are dupes. The real ones are hidden away in humidity-controlled chambers—if they weren’t stolen and quietly replaced. Black market art is a dirty little secret amongst the wealthiest art collectors.
“I took an art history class in college,” she says, studying an eight by ten Monet painting in a gilded frame—a gift from some French ambassador’s wife to my mother thirty years ago. “I’ve seen some of these before. In textbooks and slides. But up close …”
She drifts to the next painting—a Pellegrini, before stopping to gape at a Picasso sketch … my childhood favorite.
“I’ll be completely honest, sometimes I forget this room exists,” I say.
“Is that supposed to be endearing?” She laughs through her nose. “Because it’s not.”
“Just being honest,” I say. “That’s what we do …”
“All right.” She moves to the next one.
“If you agree to my offer, Sophie, I promise I’ll always be forthright with you,” I say. “About everything.”
“I’ve heard that line before …”
“What makes you think it’s a line?”
She spins, inspecting me before returning her attention to an oil painting by an artist whose name escapes me because all I can think about is the mysterious work of art standing before me. Her nonchalant beauty. The layers of personality, all hidden beneath one another. The mysterious past. The quick wit. The spunk. The cautious, guarded heart.
She’s everything I never knew I was missing in my life.
“Because at the end of the day, I have something you need, and you’re going to tell me whatever you think I want to hear until you get it.” She doesn’t mince words—a sexy little quality that would have me eating my fucking fist if we weren’t trying to have a respectful conversation. “I know how men like you operate.”
“Men like me? Care to elaborate?” I keep a straight face, disguising my offense. I’ve spent my entire life ensuring I could never be lumped into categories, and I’m certain I’ve done a damn good job of it.
“Charming. Intelligent. Attractive. Influential. Successful. Driven. Rich …”
“Last I checked, those were excellent qualities to possess,” I say. “I wasn’t aware those were turn offs for you.”
“Depends on the man.”
“I can’t help but assume you’re describing your last boyfriend,” I say. “Whoever he is, I can promise you we’re not the same. I’m my own person. And let me remind you, Sophie, I’m not trying to be your boyfriend.”
I can do sex. I can—on occasion—do something that resembles a relationship. I can do gifts and dinners and lavish trips and once-in-a-lifetime experiences. But I can’t do love.
Love is for the fucking birds.
And love is for my parents.
As far as I’m concerned, if I can’t have anything close to what they had (and I’ve yet to come across that in my thirty-five years), I don’t want it at all.
“And I’m not trying to be your bought-and-paid-for baby mama.” She winks, moving closer to the door. “I appreciate your straightforwardness, Trey. Maybe you’re not like the last one, but I have no intention of finding out, so …”
She shrugs, as if that’s that.
My jaw tenses, but not in anger. Something closer to impatience from these never-ending rounds of mental chess.
Enough with the fucking games.
“Fifty million dollars,” I announce.
She coughs, choking on her response. “What?”
“A hundred million. Is that enough for you?”
“You’re insane.” She doesn’t laugh. Quite the contrary. With stormy blue eyes beneath narrowed brows, she rests her hands on her hips.
“Five hundred million.” My voice is louder. “A billion? What’s it going to take?”
“You’re an asshole.”
“Give me one good reason why you don’t want this,” I say. “Why this couldn’t work?”
“I could give you a trillion reasons—”
“—I don’t need a trillion reasons,” I cut her off. “Only one.”
“Because I don’t want to.” Her shoulders rise and fall. Our deadlocked stares contain words unspoken. “I think we should call it a night.”
We both stand, unmoving.
Does she really want to go?
“I’ll call you a ride.” I walk her to the car port. Neither of us say a word, though maybe there isn’t anything to be said at this time.
I’m not in the mood to beat my head against a wall the rest of the night.
The chauffeur pulls up and gets the rear passenger door. Sophie slides inside, out of sight behind the black tinted windows. I watch them drive off before I head in.
I’m not proud of my little outburst—it’s not my style—and it was born out of an uncharacteristic moment of weakness. But it happened. Wishing it hadn’t won’t change a damn thing.