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“Alright. Just let me know when.”
“How about now?”
She was about to take a drag from her cigar, but she lowered it back into the ashtray. “This second?”
“Yes.” I made my own schedule. I could do what I wanted, when I wanted. “We’ll take my plane. We can leave in thirty minutes, arrive in Milan in an hour, and then have dinner before we return.”
Siena wasn’t as suave as she usually was. All of that information caught her by surprise. She knew I was rich, but she probably didn’t realize how easily I could make things happen with the snap of my fingers. Her father had an impressive empire, but it was dwarfed by mine. “Alright. I’ll call the museum and let them know we’re coming.”
The exhibit was closed off to the public, so we could see it in private. Anytime I did anything, I usually shut down the building because I wasn’t a big people person. I wasn’t concerned about being assassinated or kidnapped. I simply liked my own space.
Siena stood by my side, and we examined the Monet masterpiece in silence. The watercolors were breathtaking, and even after all these decades, it was still marvelous. Time hadn’t worn it down, not when it was so meticulously preserved. Most famous artists were penniless and starving, and I always wondered how they would feel about their work being revered—and sold for millions.
Siena was quiet beside me, her black dress stopping above her knees. She wore black stilettos that gave her several inches of extra height. Her posture was always so focused, always so perfect. She seemed like a model rather than an average person. She had more elegance than the Queen herself. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” She was standoffish and cold most of the time, but right now, her sincerity was heavy. It was thick enough to have substance, to feel like a physical object. “I wish I could paint.”
“Why don’t you?”
“Because I’m terrible at it,” she said with a chuckle. “Trust me, I’ve tried. My work looks like a child’s finger painting. To paint something like this, you need to have a special quality. Whether it’s in the hands, in the mind, or the soul…it has to be distinct. It seems like a lot of famous artists have deficits, but those inhibitions somehow give rise to something unique and beautiful.”
I’d never been a conversationalist, but I loved listening to her speak. With other women, I asked as few questions as possible. Getting to know them was never on my to-do list. The less I knew, the better. “There are other forms of art. Pottery, poetry…”
“Being an art buyer is as close as I’m going to get. And it’s the greatest job I ever could have asked for.” Her hands came together at the front of her waist as she stayed several inches away from me. When we weren’t alone in a bedroom together, she kept her distance, keeping it professional between us like we weren’t sleeping together. “What do you think?”
I didn’t think I could leave behind a painting that she admired so much. It made the image more meaningful to me, made me feel like I owned a piece of her. “I’ll take it.”
She turned her head my way, her green eyes beautiful under the art lights. If someone painted a portrait of her, I would buy it in a heartbeat—whatever the price might be. “You’re sure? It’s a big responsibility.”
“Having a painting?” I asked incredulously.
“This isn’t just a painting. It’s a piece of history. Artwork isn’t something you ever truly own. It’s like a home. You keep it for a while, enjoy it for decades. But when you’re finished, you sell it to someone else. It’s never really yours to begin with. You’re just paying to borrow it—for a period of time.”
I hated listening to anyone talk, but I could listen to her talk forever. “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of it.”
“It’ll have to hang on the northern wall so it doesn’t get direct sunlight. As long as no one bumps into it or anything, it should be okay. If any of your clients knows anything about art, they’ll recognize it right away. And that could always be a good conversation starter.”
There wasn’t much talking that took place between my clients and me—except about money. “Let’s make the transfer. Then we’ll have dinner.”
“Of course.” Siena left the hall to handle the deal with the manager of the museum.
I stayed behind and stared at the painting I’d just bought—something that would remind me of Siena every time I looked at it.
The painting would be carefully transported by car the following day, so Siena and I went to dinner at one of my favorite bistros. Giovanni called ahead and told them I was coming, so they set aside their private room just for me and my date.
