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The sweaty, stout man leveled the list to his face, squinting behind his reading glasses. “Does this say two carats?”
“Twenty,” I corrected. “Between one-point-eight and two-point-two million dollars, please.”
He gulped.
Any other zip code, and the insurance alone on this sale would build him another house.
“Ah, yes, sir.” He turned toward his office. “Let me show you a few of our options…”
“No need.” I waved a hand in his face, checking my Philippe Patek. “I don’t need to see it. Just as long as it ticks all the boxes, you can bag it and give me the insurance paperwork.” Pause. “I’ll need the certificate, too.”
Eileen seemed like a stickler for such things, just as much as I was. It should have made her more relatable, but it didn’t.
I found that trait tedious and tiresome.
Was that how people—re: Fae—saw me?
The jeweler dropped the tweezers he was holding, his mouth agape.
He blinked. “You don’t want to see the two-million-dollar engagement ring you’re about to purchase?”
“Did I stutter?” I scowled. “Yes, that’s what I just said.”
“Excuse our friend here.” Ollie laughed, sliding next to me. “He’s being strong-armed into marrying the human answer to a 1040 form.”
I shot him a glare. “You haven’t even met her.”
“You said she reminds you of yourself.” He pouted at me with naked pity. “One must conclude she isn’t the life of the party.”
One needs to ask God for forgiveness for being a manwhore, and my jobis to arrange that meeting between them.
Unfortunately, Buddhists didn’t do violence.
Buddhists that have never met Farrow Ballantine, that is.
“We’re missing the Frestone Agency Art Auction.” I tapped my watch, turning back to the jeweler. “Just pack up something. Do it fast.”
“Why are we even going?” Romeo gestured for one of the employees in the store to wrap up the necklace he’d eyed for Dallas. “The art there is subpar. Always has been.”
“And the pussy is nonexistent.” Oliver ran a hand down his face. “The average age there is one hundred and two. Even I have my limits.”
“You always said Frestone’s art is where good taste goes to die.” Romeo raised a brow. “Why the change of heart?”
I watched the perplexed jeweler slide a black velvet square into a crème satin pouch.
“I have a piece I want from there.” He handed it to me.
In return, I slid the black Amex card his way.
Romeo paused. “A piece of what— Shit?”
“A replica of Da Vinci’sSalvator Mundi.”
“What?” Oliver choked on his saliva, then proceeded to slap his own back. “You’re buying areplica? Next thing you’ll tell me is you buy knockoff Prada and Gucci from the back of a truck.”
Now was not the time to admit Celeste Ayi owned some limited-edition Hermès bags of dubious origin.
She’d bought them out of a garage run by a former luxury department store associate, who’d insisted she had a good hookup.
