As He Bids Page 2

  My internal projection shuts down abruptly as Bruce enters the room.

  "This is not going to work," he thunders. "I can't have you late in the morning and then falling asleep at your desk."

  "I wasn't sleeping," I protest.

  "Maybe, but you were late this morning," he says. "And Tab tells me you didn't stop for lunch."

  "Right, I was making up for coming in late," I explain.

  "Don't give me any excuses. This is not acceptable. Really not working out as I expected. I need to find an alternative solution." His nostrils flare, and his pupils are dilated.

  God help me, I think he's so sexy when he looks that mad. I have this insane urge to throw myself at his feet and ask for forgiveness. I don't want him to be mad at me, I just want to make him happy, as happy to be with me as I am with to be close to him.

  "You obviously can't put up with my schedule. Pack your stuff and go home," he says, his voice dropping to the tone that hits me hard every time.

  I can't believe it. I'm being fired. I bite my lower lip and look at my desk. I've only been here five days, not long enough to bring anything to mark my territory. I just need to pick up my handbag, and there will be no trace left of my passage through his office.

  I get up and walk around my desk. Before I reach the door, I remember why I had my eyes closed when he entered his office. I turn back, take the picture of the young woman, and stand in front of Bruce's desk. He continues looking at the screen of his computer, totally ignoring me.

  I count to ten very slowly in my head, but he still does not look up to me. I guess he's dead set on ignoring me. That's it. As far as he's concerned, I'm history already.

  Trying not to think about how much his attitude hurts, I drop the picture on his desk and say, "I haven't had time to finish the research, but I'm pretty sure it's a Pigalle."

  Without waiting for an answer, which would probably never come anyway, I turn around and storm away.

  So much for my fabulous internship with Goldsmith and Evans. I won't even get to participate in the last auction of the season next week. I've been studying the catalog, and it's going to be a fabulous sale. It'll probably set new sales records for the auction house.

  Without me.

  CHAPTER THREE

  I hold it together all the way back home. The train ride takes forever, but I'm in no hurry. It's not as if I have somewhere special to be for the next two months. No one's expecting me. My parents are away in Europe for the summer. I have their house all to myself.

  Back home, I hang out in the kitchen, in front of the television with a pint of ice cream. I eat the entire thing straight from the box. There's no beating chocolate ice cream as comfort food.

  I try to fool myself that it's just my hurting pride, but I know it's more than that. I'm nursing a broken... something. I was in total lust with the man. Before I even met him for real on Monday, I was in absolute awe of him. He's a legend in the art world, and I'm not easily impressed because I was raised by two legends.

  My mother studied in Paris at l'Ecole Boulle, and for as long as I can remember, she's been traveling throughout the world to restore museum-quality pieces. Thirty years ago, she met my father in the Louvre, where he was doing research for his PhD on Old Masters before becoming one of the most acclaimed art dealers in the world. So, yeah, it takes a lot to impress me.

  I hate that Bruce fired me just because I was late one morning. He had me going home after ten every single night of the week. Of course, the corporate car did drive me, but still, my head hardly had time to hit the pillow before it was time to get up again and get ready to return to work. In one week, he sucked all the energy out of me.

  And yet, despite the lack of sleep, it was one of the most exciting weeks of my life. Working with him was nothing less than amazing. Of course there were moments he would just ignore me, but it was not on purpose. He would just get lost in his thoughts, then totally out of the blue, he would turn to me and ask for my input as if my opinion truly mattered to him. It could be about a work of art, the meaning of a person's answer, or the way my food tasted. But whatever the subject, when his focus was on me, I felt as if I were the most important person in his life. I will miss that feeling. It was magical.

  I drag myself to bed. I toss and turn then wake up an hour later, panting and covered with sweat. I curse myself for falling so hard. This overwhelming feeling of loss is out of proportion for someone I've truly known only for a week. Sleep overtakes me again when my body decides to catch up on all the missed hours.

  When I finally get out of bed, I spend what's left of Saturday taking care of everything I didn't have a minute to do since last Monday. I change my sheets, do the laundry, empty the fridge of the perishables before they start to take on a life of their own, clean the messy glass shelves, and take out the trash.

  Concentrating on the mundane is good. But I have trouble coming up with things I could do to keep me occupied for the next few days while I figure out what to do with the rest of my summer. I have no doubt that at least ten job offers would materialize magically in an instant if I called my parents for help. Should I call? Up until now, I've always tried to succeed on my own merits. I don't want to sell out now.

  Who am I kidding? I sold out the second I was born into this family. My own merits are not really my own anyway. I am who I am today because my parents gave me the best education money could buy. The incredible amount of extracurricular knowledge I have accumulated and that I can conjure up effortlessly is not really my own, either. I owe it to them for taking me to every noteworthy museum throughout the world during my summer vacations.

  So my success is theirs more than it is mine. That may be one of the reasons I am so fascinated by Bruce. He doesn't owe anything to anyone. His parents were more of an encumbrance than an asset. He and I may have been born in the same town, but we're from such different families that we could just as well be from two different planets.

  While I breezed through high school and college without ever wondering about the cost of anything nor questioning the luxurious nature of my single room in the dorm, he probably had to work several jobs. I'm sure he must have made do without sleep for extended periods of time. This is why I can't really blame him for having no patience with me. Why would he want to spend his precious time training a spoiled brat who's had everything served to her on a silver platter and still manages to arrive late on her fifth day of work? Looking at myself from his point of view, I would probably have fired my sorry ass, as well.

  I spend Sunday hanging out with spoiled brats like me at the country club. When the night comes around, reality hits again. I need to pull myself back together and stop this pity party.

  Tomorrow, after another good night of sleep, I will think more clearly and just turn this miserable page.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  It's almost ten when I wake up on Monday. Feeling like myself again, I march into the kitchen to make myself breakfast. As soon as I reach the kitchen, all my cooking ambitions desert me. I take the lazy way out: a bowl of cereal. Watching the tiny marshmallows bleed their colors into the milk, I play around with the spoon to change the hues. When I put the milk back in the fridge, I realize I haven't looked at my phone. It's been charging since I plugged it in on Thursday night.

  There are a few texts from friends and no fewer than twenty missed calls. I scroll through the list, which starts on Friday morning. There are several calls from Bruce's extension at Goldsmith and Evans. He must have tried to find me before he left that day. I scroll all the way down, and the last two calls are from Tab's line. One call was made around nine thirty this morning, and the last one, fifteen minutes ago.

  I guess she's wondering why I'm a no-show. Bruce probably didn't have an opportunity to tell her he let me go. I press redial. Tab was cool with me, so the least I can do is call to say good-bye to her.

  "Goldsmith and Evans Auctioneers. How can I help you today?"

  I answer her cheerful greeting with:
"Good morning, Tab. It's Hannah. Do you miss me yet?"

  She gasps then says, "Oh thank goodness you're all right. I was worried sick about you."

  "Why would you?"

  "You haven't watched the news?"

  "No. What happened?" I grab the remote from the kitchen counter and search for a news channel.

  The images hit me as I listen to Tab's voice. "Some crazy kid with a machine gun went postal in your train station. He slaughtered dozens of people. When you didn't show, I was beside myself with worry."

  I snort then realize I'm being unfair to her. "I guess Bruce didn't tell you that I had no reason to be on the train today. He fired me on Friday?"

  "What are you talking about?"

  "He let me go, asked me to pack my stuff, get out, go home--"

  Interrupting my diatribe, she says, "That's not possible. The man's crazy about you. Last Thursday, I overheard him speaking with Steven and Jimmy. He was telling them that you had one of the sharpest eyes he's ever encountered and that he's enchanted to have you. That's the reason I hinted about you staying on after the summer."

  "That was Thursday. On Friday, he sang a different tune." I snicker. "On Friday afternoon, he was very clear that he wanted me gone. I think his exact words were 'I need to find an alternative solution.'"

  Tab stays silent for a few seconds then says, "I can't believe it. There's obviously been a misunderstanding."

  "No, but that's okay," I lie. Nothing has ever been less okay in my life so far. "I'm sure there are dozens of students dying to replace me, and they'll manage to get to work on time everyday. Anyway, I just called to say that I was truly happy to have met you Tab. You're a very nice lady."

  "I enjoyed meeting you, too, Hannah, and next time you're in the Upper East Side, drop by, and I'll have a cup of coffee ready for you," she says sweetly.

  When I hang up the phone, any melancholy feeling I was tempted to nurse vanishes as I turn up the television volume.

  I watch the scene in horrified fascination. Behind the newscaster, the camera is filming the victims of the savage and senseless attack. The flashing lights of the emergency vehicles and police cars are nothing that I haven't seen hundreds of times before, but somehow, today it feels real to me. It's real for the first time because it's in my childhood town. Any of the tarp-covered bodies behind the yellow tape could be someone who sat next to me on the train last week.

  I close my eyes and remember the young pregnant woman who was reading a book about the secret meanings of first names, the grouchy man who made the entire car miserable for the length of his ride while screaming into his phone in a foreign language. He was a sharp contrast to the well-groomed attorney we all listened to as he patiently explained the incomprehensible subtlety of tax law to a client or maybe an intern...

  I switch channels and watch almost identical footage being played on another network. Hypnotized by the images, I distractedly answer my cell phone when it rings again.

  "Hannah?" Bruce's voice startles me.

  I snap to attention and shut off the television. "Yes, sir."

  Those words come naturally to put a distance between us and protect myself. The man fired me. I'm not about to call him by his first name as I did last week. I hear his breath catch and wait for him to speak again. When he doesn't respond, I ask, "Is there anything that I can do for you?"

  "Yes," he answers. "Could you please explain to me why you told Tab I fired you?"

  "Because you did, sir."

  "I did no such thing," he says, his tone so affirmative that for a second, I question my own sanity.

  "I beg to differ. I perfectly remember you telling me that--"

  "I know precisely what I told you," he says. "I needed to give some thought to this situation over the weekend, and I have come up with the ideal alternative solution."

  Again, I wait for him to continue because I have no clue what he's talking about.

  "The company car is on its way to pick you up. The driver should be at your door within twenty minutes. I assume this is sufficient time for you to get ready to come to work and pack a suitcase for the week."

  "A suitcase for the week?" I realize I sound like a dimwit for repeating the end of his sentence, but I can't help myself.

  "Right. I told you Friday that I thought making you work such long hours and then commute was not acceptable," he says.

  While that may have been what he meant, that is not what he said.

  "Since I do not intend on changing my schedule, I had to do something to modify yours. I have a place for you to stay in the city during the week so you won't have to commute."

  "Oh I see..."

  "Get cracking, Hannah. We have a very busy schedule this week... and one more thing..." His voice goes down to the tone I hear him use during his private phone calls on his cell.

  "Yes?"

  "If you decide to call me 'sir', you need to be ready to deal with the consequences."

  The line goes dead, and I realize two things. The first one is that I have no clue what he meant with that last sentence. The second is that I wasn't fired!

  Bruce was upset, but not with me... Bruce wants me to keep on working with him. Bruce cares about me enough that he's found me a place to stay in the city.

  I practically skip to my room with a smile so large that by the time I finish packing, my cheeks hurt.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The car drops me in front of the door at Goldsmith and Evans, and as I enter, a large smile spreads across Tab's lips. She's on the phone, so she just waves at me and gives me a thumbs-up. I wave back. Her eyebrows shoot up when she sees that I'm dragging a little rolling suitcase, but I just act as if I don't notice. I catch the elevator with a woman cradling an old doll like a baby. Those doll people creep me out.

  I knock on the door of Bruce's office, feeling as anxious as I did on my first day. No answer. Assuming the silence means he's away, I open the door. Bruce is sitting at his desk, and there's a woman standing in front of him. He's staring at her as if she's the most exasperating person he's ever looked at, and I shudder for her. If he looked at me that way, I would want the earth to open up and swallow me.

  "So sorry," I blurt out, attempting to escape.

  "Stay." Bruce's voice booms in the office. Then, using that very special tone of voice that has a direct line to the deepest part of my guts, he says, "Elisa was leaving."

  The woman turns around, and I step aside in the direction of my desk, to make room for her to go. Her face and eyes are cast down, but the little of her face she shows me is enough to see how stunning she is. And it's not just her face--she's a moving work of art wrapped in a simple and very elegant dress. She's got round curves in all the right places. She's so beautiful that she could be a model, one of the rare plus-size women who makes the cover of the mainstream magazines every once in while. Her skin is flawless, alabaster white as if she's never exposed herself to the sun a single day of her life. Her blond hair cascades around her. She takes my breath away. She's Boticelli's Venus in a designer piece.

  The woman barely acknowledges my presence until she notices the small suitcase behind me. The sight of it stops her dead in her tracks, and she slowly looks up from my shoes to my face. When her inventory is done, a contemptuous look distorts her lovely features.

  Bruce gets up as she turns around to face him again and cuts short anything she could have been planning to say with an ice-cold reply. "I said good-bye, Elisa."

  Those simple words sound like a warning to my ears. Elisa must understand the same since she casts her face down again and silently walks out of the room.

  Feeling uncomfortable for having been a witness to this exchange, I avoid looking at Bruce while I park my case in a corner behind my desk and turn on my computer. While it boots up, I tuck away my purse in the empty bottom drawer of my desk, and only then do I dare to look at Bruce again.

  He's staring at me, and I can't read his expression. There's no apparent emotion, as if he's checkin
g that everything is in place. I don't like it--the look makes me feel as though I'm a piece of furniture being put back in its proper position after being inconveniently displaced.

  But then it's probably my own insecurities bubbling to the surface after the confrontation with this reborn Venus.

  "So you're right," Bruce says as if continuing a conversation we started a few seconds ago. "It is a Pigalle, and the owner will consign it with us for the end-of-the-year sale."

  "Oh, cool," is all I can come up with.

  "Since you've got such a good eye, I've got a few more shots for you to look at while I take care of something else during the next few hours."

  I nod and sit down to begin going though the pile of mail and other documents that he has dropped on my desk.

  "And since you can't be trusted to eat properly when left to your own devices, I've ordered lunch for you," he says as he makes his way out the door. As it closes behind him, I hear the end of the sentence. "I understand you like sushi."

  I love sushi, but I'm not sure that I really love his attitude. I like that he cares enough to make sure I eat, but then I'm not crazy about being bossed around that way. But then again, he is my boss. And once more, I got in late, so he's right--I would have skipped lunch to make up for lost time. It is nice that he is attentive.

  Before I open the mail, I look through the dozen pictures he's left on my desk. Nothing strikes me as especially interesting. There's a handful of pictures of nineteenth-century beach scenes in a would-be Boudin style. The scene is pleasant enough to look at but nothing noteworthy. The same potential consignor sent pictures of prints. The top of the pile is easy enough to recognize. Those are very well-known prints by Louis Icart. I recognize his usual fare of sophisticated women. The first one is sitting on a tall stool next to an Irish terrier, and the second is running with three greyhounds or whippets. Depending on their condition and the date of sales, those could go from a dime a dozen to astronomical prices.